Introduction  -  Tide of Destiny – A Trilogy

Part I – Choices.  Those of you who have been reading my stories from the beginning will recognise that some of the plot of this is based on that of my first ever story, Castle by the Sea. (Withdrawn eons ago)However, this is a completely updated and very much improved version. It also includes a new story written from Éomer’s pov that was only alluded to in the first adaptation. This runs alongside Lothíriel’s tale, keeping to the same timeline. Destined to meet and marry, Éomer and Lothíriel have very different upbringings but both have to deal with their share of tragedy and anguish.

Warnings   1. For angst and character death. 

                  2. A very long first chapter

Part 2 –  Drummer.   Also an upgraded version of a story posted a few years ago.  The plot will remain the same but it will be extensively re-written and enhanced. Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth decides he would like to settle down after years of loving and leaving them. But of course, the lady he chooses has issues of her own.

Part 3 –  Swansong.  Completely new. Told by Lothíriel at the end of her life, this story takes the reader through some of the memorable times during her reign as Queen of the Mark. Some good, some bad, the choices made in the past will always have implications for the future.

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This will be a lengthy chronicle but a fair amount is written and the rest, even down to the last line, is in my mind. Barring global catastrophe or personal disaster, I will finish it. If you keep reading and reviewing, I will keep writing.

My grateful thanks to Lia for her unstinting help. LBJ

Tide of Destiny.  Part 1 – Choices

Chapter 1

June 3008  -- Dol Amroth

The forest hummed. The summer buzz of incalculable numbers of insects merged into one continuous drone. In the afternoon heat no bird song rose above the whine, no beat of avian wings broke the still air. Only three things moved: the dog; the pony; the girl.

The girl licked dry lips, and pushed back a few strands of sweat-damp hair behind her ears. She nudged the pony off the track towards a small pool at the base of some jumbled rocks. But the dog reached the water first. Forestalling any chance of being forbidden he straight away waded out, disturbing floating weeds and ousting a striped dragonfly from its chosen leaf. His dislike of getting wet forgotten in the need to cool his taut body, Larca folded lurcher legs and sank gratefully down, only a few languid ripples disturbing the limpid water.  From the long grey snout a pink tongue lapped furiously.

The pony reached the pond a head and neck in front of the girl, his clipped grey coat glistening dark sweat along gently heaving flanks. Whinnying softy, he dropped his head and sucked cool water through yellowing teeth.

“Not too much, Mista.” The girl slithered off the pony’s back, her cotton shift rising to her waist as she reached the ground. Bare legs and feet tanned from the southern sun, her simple dress and loose, uncombed hair spoke the rustic. But at nine years old the fine bone structure and her unusual height belied the claim. Black hair might be common in Dol Amroth, but green eyes set her apart from the general population. So did the pony –  with delicate hooves and well shaped head, it belonged to no peasant’s child.

Lothíriel held onto the reins and let the pony drink for a while before determinedly pulling him away.  “No more,” she said, envying the two animals that could so easily slake their thirst in a sluggish forest pool. She would need to wait until they reached the fast running stream that brought fresh water down from the hills. “Come on, Larca, get out of there. You’ll stink and I won’t have time to bathe you tonight.” She needed to keep moving if she wanted to get back to the palace in time to clean up and change for the feast. Right now she only risked a tearful tut-tut from her cousin and a telling off from her maid. But if she delayed any longer and was not scrubbed and primped to meet the guests at the appointed time, she would have to face her father’s wrath.

The soft mattress of pine needles felt cool beneath her feet as she hurried along the wide forest path. She would drink before climbing back on Mista’s back. “And then we’ll follow the stream down to the beach,” she told the pony aloud. “We can ride home through the surf. Amrothos says it’s good for your legs.” No one knew more about horses than her brother, even though he was only fourteen.

The stream tumbled and chattered through a rocky channel edged with ferns, and Lothíriel had to tie the pony to a tree and climb down, lying on a boulder to scoop up crystal water with her hands. Her thirst slaked, and slightly cleaner, she hauled herself onto Mista’s back, pulling down her dress as best as she could. “It’s a good job we didn’t bother with your saddle, Mista,” she said. “You’d be even hotter.” Kicking the pony into action she called out to her dog, “Come on, Larca, leave that!” The lurcher pulled his nose away from an interesting crevice and loped past the pony, taking up his customary position at the head of the threesome.

Lothíriel slapped her hand hard on her arm, and grimaced as blood oozed. She flicked the body of the squashed horse-fly to the ground with a shudder. The potent mix of cedar and garlic must be wearing off and she needed to reach the beach fast if she wanted to avoid ending up covered in ugly lumps. But it could not be that much farther for they had passed the spot where a side path led to the cave. Soon the stream would turn to the left to run almost parallel to the beach for short while through a ravine, before opening out onto the sand. It would not take her long to get back along the shoreline and she should be in plenty of time to greet her father’s guests. Wouldn’t he be pleased when she welcomed Prince Umar in his own language? Father had no idea how hard she had been practising, not that she found it that difficult. She might have an awful singing voice and be the despair of her music master, and Cousin Eglaneth had given up trying to make her sit still long enough to produce any decent embroidery, but learning to speak different tongues came easily. Thinking how great it was to be good at something, Lothíriel realised that Larca had stopped. The lurcher stood stock still. His whole lean body quivered, ears pricked forward, eyes focused down the trail.

“What is it?” Lothíriel kept her voice to a whisper for maybe a deer was wallowing in the deeper water under the trees, or perhaps had gone down to drink from where the stream hit the beach. Elphir had explained that for some reason they occasionally liked the slightly salted water. She couldn’t imagine why, but her eldest brother was like her father – never wrong. Larca turned his head slightly to acknowledge her words but did not move forward, waiting for the order. “Go on.” Lothíriel squeezed her pony’s sides and urged him forward too. Whatever it was might smell them, but the lurcher trod the ground lightly and the mixture of sand and pine needles muffled any noise made by Mista’s hooves. As the buzz of insects lessened, the gentle roar of the incoming tide took its place and then, above it all, Lothíriel heard the sound of voices. Harsh, unfamiliar voices in a strange language and through the thinning trees a glimpse of something black and red. Tents. Only after a few minutes of listening intently did Lothíriel realise she could recognise many of the words. They were speaking the language of Near Harad –Prince Umar’s men? Her father had said something about them preferring their own camp to staying in the palace, but she had never considered where that camp might be.

Moving Mista forward carefully, she observed the camp through the thinning trees. On the sand the other side of the ravine from her, she glimpsed about a dozen tents, mostly black but with designs of stars and moons in red. The black tents surrounded a much larger one, made of a dark red material; each side of the open door had been emblazoned with a design of a striking serpent. The same design of black serpent adorned the scarlet standard that flew from a tall pole. Lothíriel spotted a guard patrolling the bank opposite her and could see a line of horses. Then she saw a group of men sitting on the ground in some kind of conference.

She hesitated, wanting to get to the beach but knowing they would see her. Would that matter though? Surely she could just greet them, explain who she was, and carry on home. Kicking Mista forward she left the shelter of the trees and trotted out into the open.

Almost immediately a shout rang out as the guard spotted her. The other men looked up and jumped straight to their feet.  It took Lothíriel no more than an instant to pick out their leader. A black serpent displayed on the front of his tunic, he stood with arms folded, staring at her from the opposite bank. She felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny and hesitated in calling out the greeting she had been practising in her head. In her simple dress and with bare feet, who would believe her to be a princess?

The man she assumed to be Prince Umar continued staring at her for a few moments longer and then with a flash of white teeth, his face broke into a leering grin. He barked out a few words that sounded like an order and then some other sentence in a slightly softer, nasty sort of voice. Lothíriel recognised kiz –that meant girl, but yatacak?  Surely that meant bed. Why was he talking about a bed? Something made Lothíriel shiver and then a bolt of terror hit her. Larca felt it too, his hackles were right up but the dog never uttered a sound – lurchers kill swiftly and silently. But these were men not rabbits and fearful he might get himself hurt, Lothíriel stayed the dog with a quiet word.  Three of the men started towards her, looking for a way to cross the ravine.

She had never had any reason to fear men, but something told her to fear these and instinctively she wanted to flee. Yanking on the reins, she turned Mista round on the narrow track. Calling to Larca to come, Lothíriel drove the pony back up towards the woods. A shout followed her but she didn’t look back, frantically urging Mista on. She knew she would not get away: the pony was tired, the hill steep and the men had long legs. They could cut straight up through the trees. Heart thumping wildly she realised she had to make some decision, not now trusting that she could just introduce herself. Why ever had her father invited such horrible men? What could she do? Fifty yards further on, she reached the place where the path went up to the cave. Her only chance! She would have to hide.

Mista did not want to go in. Why should he want to go into a dark, dank cave? Lothíriel knew better than to try and pull him. She forced herself to stay calm; Amroth always said it was the best way to deal with horses. She pushed back the creepers with one hand and holding his reins with the other, put her lips close to his ear and murmured soothing words. Always speak to them in Sindarin, that’s what Amroth had told her. Blessedly, Mista followed Larca inside. With shaking hands, Lothíriel pulled the creepers back over the entrance, desperately thankful that the games she had played with Amroth and his friend Oríon had required the cave to be kept hidden from the outside. But then another thought got her trembling all over - would they track her along the path? It had not rained for weeks but they might be skilled at following trails. She could hear them shouting to one another, looking for her. Cowering as far from the entrance as possible Lothíriel prayed they would get fed up and think she had made her escape through the woods.

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Outside the heat still scorched, but inside the palace servants hurried along cool corridors. Long ago, the city of Dol Amroth had been crafted from huge blocks of stone by ancient skills. Rising from a high cliff above a natural harbour, most of the windows of the palace looked seaward, or north along the magnificent stretch of beach to where the pinewoods touched the sand.

From the city walls one could look down on the harbour and south over the vast salt-meadows of Belfalas.  Sweet lamb from these coastal grasslands would be served at the feast that night, along with the fresh fish and spiced dishes for which Dol Amroth was famous.  Late afternoon and most preparations had been completed. The lavishly decorated hall only awaited its guests before the evening entertainment would begin, but in the family’s private quarters not all was calm….

Hisael let out a deep sigh; she might have guessed Lothíriel’s cooperative demeanour had concealed mischievous intentions. Now wherever had the girl gone? To the woods probably, or to swim in the cove. “I thought she was with you, my lady. She went off clutching that cushion cover she is working on, so I thought she had gone to the solar to find you. Hasn’t Prince Amrothos seen her?”

“No, I have sent Amroth to the stable to see if her pony is missing. He hasn’t set eyes on her since noon.” Lady Eglaneth twisted her handkerchief into a knot around delicate hands and sniffed, her soft features set into a mask of apprehension. “Imrahil will blame me. But I do my best. I only stopped to give my opinion on the seating plan for tonight and when I got to the solar, Lothíriel had gone.” She walked over to the window, craning her neck to look down in the direction of the gates. “I can’t understand why the gatekeepers would let her go out on her own.”

“Ha!” Hisael, rummaging through the huge wardrobe, pulled out the dress that Lothíriel had worn that morning, holding it up for Lady Eglaneth’s inspection. “They probably wouldn’t, my lady. But with all the comings and goings and the princess dressed no better than a peasant, I doubt they realised.”

Lady Eglaneth’s eyes opened wide. “You mean she sneaked back here to change?”

“It looks like it, my lady. But her riding clothes are here. So if she’s gone off on Mista she’s probably bareback and looking like a hoyden.”  And if she knew Lothíriel, she’d told the stable master she was just going to the training ring and organised some distraction to get past the guards. It was about time her father arranged for someone else to take charge of the girl. His cousin, Eglaneth, was kind and loving to the motherless princess but Lothíriel needed a stronger hand. “I shouldn’t worry, my lady, if Prince Amrothos finds the pony gone, he and Oríon will go off looking for her. They will know where she is likely to be.”

“I hope so.” The beleaguered woman looked about to burst into tears. “She will come back a mess and there is barely time to bathe and change now. Imrahil will be mad. This visit is extremely important to us.”

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Imrahil threw the letter back down on his desk and groaned aloud. Important this visit might be, but he certainly wasn’t relishing it. Personally, with what he had heard about Prince Umar, he thought Denethor’s idea of a treaty a waste of time. The man couldn’t stay friends with his own kind. There had been skirmishes between the various Harad tribes for years, so how could they hope for an alliance with any of them. Imrahil had no doubt that Umar would side with whoever could offer him the most, and that was Sauron, not an ailing Gondor. But he would try, as he had always tried his best for his beloved land. The thought of seeing the last stronghold of the men of Númenor overrun by the foul beasts of Barad-dûr made him feel sick to his heart. Sighing despondently, he realised he had better go and change. They would be here soon. Imrahil walked over to the window of his study that looked out on the gates intending to check that the honour guard was in place, and frowned. Blessed Ulmo! What were Amroth and Oríon doing riding out now? And why were a pair of hunting dogs loping along behind them?

Imrahil pushed the window open. “Amrothos!” He could almost hear the curse on his youngest son’s lips when the bellow reached him. But watching the lad, Imrahil had to admire the easy way he halted his horse and stilled the dogs before looking up at his father with his charismatic, charming, smile plastered across his face. His black eyes radiated innocence and Imrahil couldn’t help thinking that his son was likely to break a few hearts later on.

“Father?”

“Where are you going? They will be here soon. You know I want you lined up to greet them with all the formal salutations they seem to expect.”  Although why a bunch of desert riff-raff required more pomp than men of ancient linage, he failed to understand. Stifling a smile, Imrahil watched the conflict of emotions raging over his son’s face. Thankfully, Amroth never could lie.  He hardened his voice. “Amrothos?”

Shoulders sagged in resignation. “It’s Lothíriel, Father. She’s slipped Cousin Eglaneth’s leash and has not been seen since the noon meal. Mista and Larca are missing as well.”

A faint shiver of unease passed through Imrahil. Lothíriel might be wild and difficult to control at times, but it was unlike her to be late for such an important occasion. He hesitated for only a moment. “I’ll call out the guard.”

“No, Father. Let Oríon and me try and find her. We looked from the tower and there’s no sight of her along the beach so she’s probably on her way back through the woods. The dogs will sniff her out. Let’s not make a fuss. Erchi says that Prince Umar’s men are only just about to break camp. He sneaked up on them and they seem to have been delayed.”

Sneaked up on them! Imrahil gritted his teeth. He could only be thankful that his warlike middle son hadn’t challenged them. “Half an hour and then I’ll get Sergion to ride out.”

Oríon raised a brow at the mention of his father, and grinned up at the Prince. “We’ll find her. Don’t you worry, lord, she won’t be far.”

Imrahil nodded. “Amroth, get her home as fast as you can and make sure she tidies up. I will deal with her in the morning.”

Poor Lothy! Amrothos grimaced. He hoped for her sake they found her in time to appear properly dressed at the feast. He raised his hand and urged his mount through the gate, neatly avoiding a cart coming in the opposite direction. As soon as they were clear he dug his heels in and cantered down the road, jumped the fence into the home paddock and took the track that led to the woods.

“Where do you think she went?” Oríon called when he caught up with him.

“Well, we know she’s not along the beach because Erchi would have spotted her. And anyway, she would have seen the Haradrim encampment. She would have avoided that.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t you say she was trying to learn some of their speech?”

“Oh, damn!” No, surely even Lothíriel wouldn’t be that daft. Amrothos shot a helpless look towards his friend. “You don’t really think so, do you?”

Oríon shrugged. “She’s your sister.”

“And you have known her as long as I have.”

“Then yes, I think it’s the sort of thing she’s very likely to do. She wouldn’t see any danger.”

No, she wouldn’t. Lothíriel had lived the whole nine years of her life surrounded by men sworn to protect her. Of course she wouldn’t see any danger. “Then let’s hope she went to the woods.” Amrothos whistled the dogs away and rode on up into the dark of the trees. Normally he loved it up here, but now he took no notice of the evening birdsong or the shadows shifting across the open glades. He kept his eyes fixed on the dogs looking for some sign that they registered another presence. But nothing. And the light would go soon. They would have to get help.

Amrothos was just about to give up when suddenly the dogs disappeared into the trees on their left. He and Oríon exchanged a glance and simultaneously kicked their horses forward. But before they reached the place, a dog appeared back on the main track. In the gloom it took Amrothos a moment to realise that it was Larca. 

“Here boy!”

The lurcher dropped his head, tail wagging in greeting. Amrothos came to a halt and looked down the narrow path. Coming slowly towards them – a pony and rider escorted by two hounds. His heart started beating again. But he had enough sense not to start questioning his sister until he had transferred her to his horse, Mista being bone weary.

“What do you mean you got lost?  You know these woods as well as I do!”  Lothíriel shook her head and muttered something, cuddling herself against him. He damn well knew something had happened. She had lost her sparkle. It couldn’t just be tiredness, Lothíriel always had boundless energy. But she was also very stubborn and making her do something she did not want to do had always been difficult.      She was safe and that was all that mattered for the moment. “Tell me later, then. Right now you have to get dressed up for our Haradrim friends.”

Lothíriel shuddered. She had always been able to tell Amroth anything. But the thought of repeating what that evil man had said made her squirm. She’d worked it out when she had been hiding in the cave for all that time. At first she hadn’t believed it. But even if she had not understood every word, there was no mistake. He’d told his men to catch her because he’d like her in his bed. In his bed? Lothíriel wasn’t completely sure what men and women did in bed, but she did know you didn’t do it at nine years old. She’d been frightened when her mother had died, but hiding in that cave had been an entirely different kind of fear. She’d never been on her own like that, with disgusting men trying to find her. Scared out of her wits that the curtain of vines would be pushed aside and great hands would grab her. A shiver ran through her body.

“What’s the matter?” Amroth asked.

“What will Father say?”  Anything to stop her brother asking questions.

“If you get prettied up quickly, not a lot, I imagine. But, Lothy, you are going to have to apologise to Cousin Eglaneth. She has always been very kind to you and does not deserve to be worried so.”

Lothíriel’s eyes filled with tears. She had never meant to upset Cousin Eglaneth and she loved her really. She just always felt confined in the palace and forever wanted to be doing things. Things other than embroidery or twanging uselessly on her harp. But being prettied up meant coming face to face with that man, and she didn’t know if she could do it.

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From the doorway, Imrahil looked around the vast hall. The huge candelabras had been lit and mellow light filtered up to the vaulted ceiling.  Later the heat would probably be unbearable. They should have eaten earlier and he wondered why he had pandered to the Haradrim who never ate their evening repast until after dark and would not discuss business until after they had shared a meal. His eyes scanned the long tables: polished silver glinted, the enormous centrepieces of intricately fashioned Swan-ships glowing almost gold the candle light. Somewhat proudly, his gaze raked the twenty-two banners that covered the wall behind the dais. All blue and silver, all depicting the Swan and Ship of Dol Amroth but each one, from Galador to his own, slightly different in design. Imrahil let his eyes linger on his father’s, wishing the old man was well enough to deal with all this himself. But he had a nasty feeling that Adrahil, twenty-first Lord of Dol Amroth, would never leave his bed again.   Pushing the thought away he followed the ranks of banners that belonged to the second and third sons – they marched down each side-wall to converge on the small display of ancient heraldry at the end. Treasured and preserved, ragged and fragile – the banners of the last kings of Gondor. Given to his illustrious ancestor, the first lord of this land, to keep safe in case those in Minas Tirith were ever lost. Almost imperceptibly, Imrahil bowed his head

A tap on his shoulder alerted him that the Haradrim had passed through the gates. Bracing himself, he went outside and waited at the top of the steps to greet his guests. Looking around, he sighed, his satisfaction at the splendour of his domain marred by the worry of the continued absence of his daughter. He couldn’t see his captain, so maybe Sergion had started a search. But then a small disturbance to his right drew his attention, and Amroth filtered into the lines of family and senior officers who formed the welcome party. A nod from his youngest son, followed by a slight grin, brought immediate relief from his anxiety. They must have found Lothíriel. Now, would she be here in time?

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“Will you stop dawdling, child. We are in enough trouble with your father already; the least you can do is to make an effort to get there in time.”

Lothíriel didn’t want to get there in time. She didn’t want to get there at all. And if Hisael hadn’t scolded her so much – a maid who had been at one’s birth, tended not to defer to rank – and Cousin Eglaneth not been so unusually forceful, then she certainly wouldn’t be there.

Eglaneth pushed her into the line next to Amroth, just as Prince Umar reached the bottom of the steps. She kept her head down, half hiding herself behind her gangly brother who immediately started whispering under his breath.

“Cheer up, Lothy, it could be worse: I’ve heard that some of them are jet black and have wriggling, red tongues, but these look pretty normal. They’re just a bit darker than us.”

Normal! It wasn’t normal to chase young girls through the woods. Her father’s men were always kind to her. The knights would give her rides on their great, grey chargers and the watchmen had always been happy to lift her up to see over the wall when there was a ship sailing in or raise her on their shoulders to  point out the spouts of whales far out to sea.  Ever since she had been little they had done that and she had always felt safe with them. Now she didn’t think she would ever feel completely safe again.

“My third son, Amrothos.” Her father’s voice broke into her reverie and started her trembling. Despite legs like jelly, Lothíriel managed a creditable curtsey when she heard her name. She didn’t look up though, and saw only polished, pointed boots loaded with wicked spurs before, to her relief, Prince Umar passed on without any comment. Now she just had to get through the meal.

Of course, Amroth noticed something was wrong. Probably because her usual healthy appetite had deserted her and she glumly pushed the food around her plate. 

“What’s up, Lothy? You know you can tell me.”

“Nothing,” she replied shaking her head. “I just don’t like them very much.”

“Well, it’s only for this evening. They will be closeted with Father tomorrow and we won’t be invited to that.”

She made some innocuous comment back and that was when the wrath of Ulmo descended on her. At first she thought she had misheard her father saying how well she had learnt to speak the language of Harad, but when all those around her went quiet, she knew she had not been mistaken.

“Come on, Lothíriel, I know you have been practising.” Her father had a smile in his voice. “Wish Prince Umar welcome in his own language.”

Her mouth went bone dry, and only after Amroth nudged her could she force herself to look up. Cold, she went completely cold as her hesitant gaze met a knowing leering look. He recognised her now, no doubt about it.

“Lothíriel!” Her father’s voice now held impatience but nothing came out of her mouth.

Across the table Prince Umar smiled and leant back in his chair. “She is shy, Imrahil. And that is just as it should be. Do not force your lovely daughter.”   He put his hands together and brought them up to his nose in thought, surveying her over his fingertips. He had not recognised her at first. The tempting child in the ragged dress and with bare legs seemed far removed from this noble child. What luck: a princess of the blood and probably blessed with intelligence as well as that rare elfin beauty. He would have her. Oh yes, whatever the cost he would have her. His men might have been stupid enough to let her get away, but a dedicated hunter such as himself would stalk his prey to the final conclusion. “You know, Imrahil, we have a lot of negotiations to go through, but to start them off in the right way, make a gesture so to speak, I propose that we form a strong alliance between us from the start. Something that shows our faith in one another.”

For some reason Imrahil immediately felt wary, but he deliberately smiled benignly. “What are you suggesting, Umar?”

“A marriage. Between your daughter and me. That would truly seal any bargains that we might make.”

Marriage! With a nine year old child! Imrahil couldn’t answer for a moment but Umar must have guessed at his thoughts because he followed up quickly.

“Oh no, not quite yet. We do not take girls until they are twelve. But your daughter could come to live in my palace a year or so before, to enable her to learn our customs and our ways.”

A low growl travelled around the room, knights and captains shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Compelling himself to stay calm, Imrahil blanched when Elphir start to rise in his chair, fingers reaching for his sword. It took a thunderous look directed at his eldest son to induce him to regain his seat. The hall relapsed into quiet, someone coughed and Imrahil slowly and nonchalantly reached for the flagon of wine, pouring a good measure into Umar’s glass. “I am afraid we Gondorians do not discuss the marriage of our daughters at such an early age, and never do we do so in public.” As he looked across to Lothíriel he saw she had turned chalk-white.

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June 3008 –  East Emnet, The Riddermark.

The horsemen cantered in pairs, taking a track that cut through the tall summer grass and ran parallel to the rocky outcrops of the western edge of the Emyn Muil.  Éomer loved this time of the morning. Later the plains would glow gold, but now, with the mists of dawn still lingering, colour came slowly.

Pride stirred him. It might be a routine patrol and they might have seen nothing more dangerous than a mountain lion, but not many got to ride in an éored at so young an age, and he’d earned his place fairly. Determined to prove himself worthy,  he remained constantly alert, so even though every now and then, in turns and as if by some unobserved signal, one man would rise in his stirrups and gaze ahead and to either side, it was his young eyes that spotted the Rider first.

“Scout returning.” Éomer shouted loud enough for his captain to hear at the front. Visible to all now, the lone horseman closed the distance between himself and the éored at speed. A mumbling of speculation started amongst the patrol as they realised that the man’s early return meant that there must be something to report. As the scout sharply pulled his mount to a halt in front of Elfhelm, Éomer nudged Fireball to the front of the group, wanting to know firsthand what was going on. Good-naturedly, the older men made room for him, for he might be the youngest Rider, but he was still the King’s nephew.

“Orcs!” Elfhelm’s brow furrowed. “How many?”

“A large group: forty to fifty maybe. They must have come down the Wall during the night and made straight for Egbert’s herd.”

“Damn!” Motioning the scout to his side to continue the report, Elfhelm gave the order to move out and the Rohirrim charged down the track toward the camp they had left only a week before. Then the herd, one of the best on the Emnet, had been peacefully grazing and they had shared a merry meal with Egbert and his family before their routine patrol had taken them northwards.

No one said much. Egbert’s herd contained many black horses; he’d been warned that they were coveted by the Lord of Barad-dûr, but with strong sons, the good grazing on the eastern marches had always tempted him.

Riding in the middle of the éored, Éomer pulsed with excitement. At last! He would soon come face to face with his father’s killers. He gripped his sword-hilt: his father’s sword; his father’s horse; his son’s revenge.

Half a league from Egbert’s encampment, they came across the stallion: dark, dappled flanks streaked with congealed blood from a dozen arrow wounds. The orcs had brought him down and then slit his belly, the few remaining entrails spilling onto the grass. Éomer’s stomach leapt into his mouth, the taste of bile making him gag. A noble horse killed and defiled for trying to protect his herd.

“Keep going,” Elfhelm shouted, raising his arm pointing East . “We are not far behind them but they’ll be driving the herd towards the river, trying to separate the blacks. They won’t want to run when the sun gets fully up.”   As one, the whole group of Riders wheeled left, leaving the mutilated body to the birds.

Seeing the thin plume of rising smoke tempered Éomer’s excitement. The camp! In his haste to wreak vengeance on the orcs he had forgotten that the men and women of two families would have stood between the scum of Mordor and their prey.

They could see the destruction from some distance away: every tent had been pulled down and the livestock pens stood open. But it was the dark, still forms that lay about the grass that told of the full horror. Then, when they rode up, the stink - the stench of orc blood mixed with the smell of death and human suffering. Fighting down nausea, Éomer forced himself to look around – a body lay half in the fire, charred down one side. He recognised Egbert’s eldest son. One hand still gripped a knife and nearby lay the corpse of an orc, the good grass stained by its stinking, black blood.  Looking around he saw the bodies of two more of the vile beasts. But for a few dead orcs how many of his kinsman had died? He could see at least a dozen, most with blood and guts spilling from gaping wounds. A cold clammy sweat broke out over Éomer: he had shared a meal with these people; sung with them; listened to their stories.

“Guflaf, Adwine, check for survivors.” Elfhelm picked out two older men experienced in wound care. “Éomer, you stay here and assist them. The rest of us will try and cut the bastards off.”

What! At first, Éomer thought Elfhelm was joking, but then the awful truth dawned: they still thought him too young. “No! You can’t make me stay; I won my place in your éored.” Éomer almost shouted at his captain, his heart beating wildly at the injustice. He would not stay. He had waited nearly six years for this chance, trained every day with sword and spear.

Elfhelm studied him, his eyes narrowing. “And if you want to continue to ride with me, then you will obey my orders without question. Is that understood?”

Chest heaving, hand balled into a fist, Éomer managed to nod, turning his head away to hide a tear of pure rage. Then with a rush of wind and the thunder of hooves the members of the éored swept past him and away across the plain towards the river. Fireball snorted and strained after them; instinctively, Éomer steadied him. The other two men had already dismounted. Adwine straightaway bent over the body of a woman, possibly Egbert’s wife, but Guflaf took a moment to speak to him. “Come on, lad, you’ve plenty of years ahead of you to fight orcs. You’ll get your chance.”

Not answering, Éomer slipped from his horse, looking around at the scene of carnage. Survivors? They were joking. He swallowed. Fighting a dozen orcs single handed would be easier than this. “What do I do?” 

“Check the women first.  The filth haven’t long gone, must have smelt us coming so there’s a chance one may still be alive.” Guflaf answered.

“Why the women?”

“Because they kill the men first; they like to take their time with the women, if you know what I mean. And us coming would have disturbed them.”

Horrified, Éomer rolled over the nearest female body. He didn’t have to look very hard to confirm that she had departed this life — Egbert’s old mother had been slit up the middle much like the stallion. Numbly, he checked two young girls although he knew it was no use: their blonde braids were coated with blood. But luckily—perhaps—the orcs must have panicked when they realised the patrol was returning because they had killed quickly, cutting straight across fragile throats. Then new horror hit him –Bergit! Where was Bergit?  With her being only a few years older than himself, he had spent some time talking to her when the éored had enjoyed her uncle’s hospitality.  She had been so excited because she would be getting married at the end of the summer, living in the village and not out on the plains. Éomer looked at the two little girls at his feet and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, Great Béma, what had Sauron’s spawn done to Bergit?

He didn’t notice her at first, half hidden under a pile of blankets and canvas where the tent had been pulled down around her. She lay on her side, legs drawn up in a ball, an arm covering her face. Éomer stared for a moment: not wanting to touch her; not wanting to intrude. Most of her clothing had been ripped off, her long, yellow plait hacked at the nape of her neck and she had deep scratches down her arms, but it was the small trickle of blood from between her legs that sickened him. Blood! She was still bleeding! Suddenly he shouted, throwing himself on the ground beside her. “Bergit! Bergit! Guflaf, over here, Bergit’s still alive.”

-----------

It took Éomer some few hours’ solid work before he had dragged the last body into line, covering it with a piece of torn tent canvas. Trying to put some order into the camp, salvaging what supplies he could to make a meal, had taken a while. Disposing of the reeking bodies of the orcs had taken nearly as long. He’d stared at the foul things for ages; wanting to ram his sword into already still hearts before eventually he’d dragged them into a pile at the edge of the camp. Using some old sacking as fuel and a dousing of spirit that he’d found in an unbroken crock, he’d pulled some brands from the fire and set the grisly heap alight. Now a rancid cloud hung over them. But his dead kinsmen needed all the respect he could give them and in the heat of a June day he would have to start shovelling earth on his own if the patrol didn’t return soon: Guflaf still tended to Bergit, and Adwine to the only other survivor – a little boy of about four whom they had found hiding under a pile of saddles, unhurt but rigid from terror. He glanced over to where they had rigged up a shelter to give Bergit some privacy. He had not been near since he had discovered she was alive, covered her with his cloak and handed her over to Guflaf. Partly because he had no real idea what to do and partly because he felt embarrassed and angry with himself, acknowledging that when he had first looked on her, in spite of her injuries, he had taken note of the pale curve of her body against her sun tanned arms and legs.

“They’re coming back,” Adwine had kept the boy tucked under one arm for the past hour or more, except when occasionally getting up to stir the large pot of stew. During the few moments the boy had been left he never moved but continued to stare blankly out over the plain; Éomer had not yet heard him speak.

As the returning Riders approached, Éomer stared. There were no empty saddles, but as yet he could not tell if any had met their doom. Some were hurt; he could see by the way they held themselves. How would he have fared, he wondered. Now, in cold blood, admitting that he might have spent every possible moment honing his skill with weapons, but he still lacked experience of  real combat. And although as tall as the men, he needed to fill out. A couple of the orcs he had burned would have been almost twice his weight.

The men rode in quietly, the usual euphoria at the end of a skirmish replaced by sorrow at the harrowing sight that met them. “Three yearlings taken, over half the orcs killed, the rest escaped across the river.” Elfhelm spoke wearily, his eyes hardening as he took in the line of bodies covered with canvas and the boy sitting silently by the fire. Grimacing, he slid off his horse. “Anyone else?”

“Bergit,” Éomer indicated the rough shelter they had built. “Guflaf’s with her. He says she will live.” 

Elfhelm raised his eyebrows in question.

“They must have realised we were coming and didn’t stop to finish her off. But they…”he shook his head, not up to saying it aloud.

Elfhelm swore fluently for a moment, “Next time I will not bother killing the scum, just burn them alive.”

The flap of the makeshift tent opened and Guflaf appeared carrying a bowl of bloodied water. Éomer guessed that Bergit had finally allowed him to wash her.

“Éomer says she will live.” Elfhelm greeted him.

Guflaf nodded. “Only one got to her, found her and tried to keep her for himself. As usual with their kind that caused a fight amongst the brutes, which saved her from worse. But she wants to die, wanted me to kill her and when I wouldn’t, she tried to take my knife.”

Éomer gasped. “Why? Why would she even think that?”

Both men ignored him. “She will have to be watched. Do you think she can travel tomorrow? It will be best we get her to the village as soon as possible.” Elfhelm had showed no surprise at Guflaf’s announcement and for a moment the two men discussed  whether Bergit would be fit enough to sit on a horse and if it would be best if they sent someone ahead to inform  the villagers they were bringing in two survivors. Éomer felt he was missing something— however awful a thing that had happened to her, she was alive and would recover.

“Why should she want to kill herself?” he asked again as soon as the two older men had finished their conversation.

Guflaf pursed his lips. “She has lost most of her family. She has been violated in the worst possible way for a woman. She says her betrothed will not want a wife who is not pure, who has been touched by those filthy…”

“But it’s not her fault,” Éomer exclaimed, interrupting him. “No one will blame her.”

Elfhelm put his hand on his shoulder, “Éomer, how would you react? Would you take a wife who had been abused so?”

Éomer pulled away from his captain’s hand, his ire rising. “If I had made a promise, I would not break it. If her man loves her he will not hold her responsible.”

“Then I suggest you go and tell her that, lad.” Guflaf wandered away to empty the bowl and see to the wounded men who needed him.

Éomer opened his mouth and closed it again, his anger leaving him abruptly to be replaced by panic. “Me tell her?”

“It won’t do any harm, Éomer. She will need all the help she can get. I have seen this before; she may never recover from such an ordeal.” Elfhelm clapped him on his back and went off to organize the burying of the dead.

Éomer stayed where he was, uncertainty rooting him to the spot for a moment. What could he do? True, he had dealt with most of Éowyn’s problems since they lost their parents but she was his sister. His sister! A shudder of horror ran through him at the thought of anything similar happening to Éowyn. What would he say to her if it had?  It was thinking about his sister that made him realise the full extent of Bergit’s suffering – being awoken by the sound of her family being slaughtered and then…. Chastened, but still not having any idea of how he would approach things, he collected a bowl of stew and headed for the tent.

She lay on a pallet, eyes closed, and with a livid purple bruise covering one cheek.  In spite of the heat she had huddled a blanket tightly around herself. Éomer hesitated to disturb her but after a moment she opened her eyes and stared at him. Shaken by the despair he saw there, he could only stutter. “I’ve brought you some food, Bergit.”

“Take it away, Éomer.  I don’t want it.”

“You need to eat to recover.” Her only answer was to close her eyes again. Damn, skirting around the subject wouldn’t get him anywhere. He’d always found it better to be up front with Éowyn. “Guflaf said you tried to take his knife. Why did you do that?”

Her eyes flew open.

 “Why Bergit?” he repeated.

“Isn’t it obvious? I have no life now.”

“Yes, you do. You are alive, and you have to carry on living for your family’s sake. You have a grandmother and cousins in the village, haven’t you? And there is a man waiting to marry you.”

“Are you mad!” She spat at him. “Would you want a woman who had been mauled by those filthy beasts?”

“If I wanted her before then I would still want her afterwards. It’s not your fault, Bergit, and if your man truly loves you he will still love you.”

“Love me?” Tears filled her eyes and she let them flow unheeded. “Edwick did, I know he did…but now? I don’t know if love is that strong.”

Éomer put the bowl on the ground and sat down on the edge of the pallet. “I’m too young to have experienced it for myself, but it was strong between my mother and father. So strong, that my mother let her life slide away after my father died, leaving Éowyn and me alone. I don’t think she had the right to do that. I don’t think you have the right to leave Edwick alone. You are not giving him a chance to show his love for you.”

Her brow creased heavily as she digested his words. Éomer could almost see the conflict going on in her head. Finally, she looked him straight in the eye. “Do you really think he will still want me?”

“I’ll thrash him if he doesn’t.”

 She sniffed, wiping away the tears; a faint glimmer replaced the dullness in her eyes. “He’s twice as big as you.”

To be continued.

Tide of Destiny

Chapter 2

June 3010 Dol Amroth  

Thud! Lothíriel always thought the particular dull thump of her arrows hitting the target to be a very satisfactory noise. And nowadays she heard it a lot. It never ceased to thrill her. One arrow remained, and it was going right in the centre. Concentrating on looking down the shaft, she shut out the noise around her, chanting to herself – you and the arrow are alone in the world. Release the string slowly, no snatching. The twang of the string reverberated in her ear, but as she had been taught she never moved until the arrow had sped halfway to the target – straight and true, she saw, when she lifted her cheek from her thumb.  Yes! The blue fletched arrow thudded straight into the centre of the straw roundel, moved further down the field only the day before. Lothíriel caught her lower lip between her teeth, dancing on her toes with excitement.

“Excellent, Lothíriel; all your hard work is paying off.”

“I have a good teacher,” she said turning around. Her teacher must have crept up when she was concentrating on her shot. Sergion stood with his arms folded watching her. Like her father, he managed to look cool and smart in dark blue even on a hot June afternoon. His silver-tinged hair nudged his shoulders and grey eyes creased in a smooth, tanned face. Like her father in other ways, too – kind, dependable and patient, but with an edge of steel that commanded respect. Friend and Captain to the Lord of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel trusted him as much as she did her brothers. She grinned.   “Between you being so patient with me and Erchi keeping on at me to practise, I am almost bound to do well.” She looked across to the training ring. “I imagine my brothers are still hitting the stuffing out of one another. And in this heat, too”

Sergion laughed. “They are.”

“Thank you.” Lothíriel took the arrows from the lad who had retrieved them and put them back in her quiver. “I suppose Erchi is winning, as usual.”

A faint smile passed over Sergion’s face. “Amroth fights with skill and intelligence but Erchirion has had four more years to practice. Also he has more strength than Amroth, and possibly always will.”

“Amroth says that one day he will beat him.”

“Amroth is sixteen and full of confidence, and when he gains his full weight they will be more evenly matched. He will make a fine warrior because he thinks things out, but with Erchirion it comes naturally; he was born knowing how to fight.”

Lothíriel considered this for a moment, “A bit like Amroth and horses. Erchi rides well and so does Elphir, but Amroth seems to know what his horses are thinking.”

“Hmm, something I see in you, also.”

Lothíriel giggled. “It is not hard; they soon let you know what they want. And Whitewing won’t want to go out again until the cool of the morning but I would like to go for a swim. Do you think those two have finished bruising one another?”

“If you go to the cove the watchmen can keep an eye on you, but if you are not happy to do that I will send a guard with you, Lothíriel.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Amroth will probably like a swim after his exertions. I will see if he will come with me.”  She knew Sergion found it strange that unlike in the past when she had wandered freely; she now hardly left the city unless one of her brothers accompanied her. But that was before she had met the Serpent, now she never knew if he might be out there – or some horrible man like him, one who would look at her with a leering grin and coveting eyes. Her family found it odd too, after all the times she had sneaked out to explore the woods and the coastline with just Mista and Larca for company. They had questioned her on and off, trying to find out why she had changed, but she squirmed inside at the thought of repeating what Umar had said, sure that in someway it must be her fault. In the end they had given up.

Sergion stared hard at her for a moment, eyes thoughtful. But if he intended to question her once more about her reluctance to go to their private beach without a brother in tow, he changed his mind. “Come on, then, let’s go and see if Amroth has survived. And if you can persuade him to go with you, perhaps you will be able to winkle Oríon out of the library. I am sure some fresh air and a swim would do him good.”

“You don’t mind, Sergion, do you that Oríon’s not interested in being a warrior like you?”

A large hand ruffled her hair. “Of course I don’t. There is more than one way to fight the enemy. One day I think we will have cause to thank him.”

Lothíriel nodded. “He showed me some designs this morning: sails that let the ship steer almost into the wind and move from one tack to the other without men needing to pull them. The Corsairs will get a shock when we out-manoeuvre them.”

“They will indeed.”

-------------

Imrahil stared out of the window. Three familiar black heads passed below him, no doubt on their way to the cove. He sighed; fancying going for a swim for the pure pleasure of it himself, but it had been a long time since he had done that. He remembered it though – a magical day, way before he had the responsibility of running Belfalas and trying to treat with damn Southrons –  a day when his wife had still lived and his father had been a strong and shrewd man. But his wife was long dead and back in the spring they had buried his father’s wasted body on a stormy morning when the spume had blown over the mourners like soap suds on washing day. 

He sighed; turned away from the window and looked back across the room to where Elphir studied the document he had been given to read. His son’s thin face looked even more serious than usual and Imrahil waited until he had put the stiff parchment onto the desk and sat back in his chair, thoughtfully flicking his lips with one long finger.   

“Well?”

“They use such flowery language it’s difficult to tell what they mean but I think you are right. He’s not spelling it out but it’s there – a definite condition, a threat even. What did Sergion think?”

“The same, any treaty between us would have to include Lothíriel.” 

“Psst…!” Elphir threw up his hands and jumped from the chair, glaring out the window that looked down on the gates and in the general direction of Harad. “The man’s mad, what does he want with an eleven year old girl?”

“They wed them at twelve out there. And to be fair, most societies use marriage to strengthen alliances.” All the same Imrahil had the distinct impression he had missed something. Ever since Umar had made that ridiculous offer of marriage in the middle of a feast, Lothíriel had behaved strangely. His daughter was not the happy carefree child she had been, in spite of reassuring her he would not let it happen. And for all his efforts to find out the cause of her change of character, he had got nowhere.

Unusually, Elphir never stopped to apply reason to the matter. “Well, he’s not marrying my sister! Neither at twelve nor twenty, if I have anything to do with it.”

“No.” Imrahil chuckled. “You made that plain when he was here before. I thought you were going to challenge him. I usually expect that from Erchi, not you.”

A slight redness tinged Elphir’s cheeks. “There was something about him I didn’t like. To be frank, Father, he made my flesh crawl.”

Imrahil sighed loudly; he was doing that a lot lately. “Even so, I shall have to have him back here sometime in the future, Denethor is convinced we need to try and get him on our side.”

“You wouldn’t!” Elphir’s eyes opened wide and his chin jutted forward.

“No, no!” Imrahil waved his son down. “Surely you know me better than that. But I will have to keep stringing him along; maybe we can offer him something else.”

“A sword in the guts would be best,” Elphir murmured.

-----------------------

Lothíriel had always loved the cove, reached from a steep path just outside the city gates. She skipped along; happy now that Amroth and Oríon were with her. At one time she could always be found with them, a convenient butt for their games. But now, at sixteen, they had other things to occupy them and she had to almost beg for their company. It wouldn’t have mattered before the Serpent, she had liked being on her own before then. But he had changed her life and she would never forgive him.

When they reached the beach the tide was making, the surf claiming bits of sand with unstoppable regularity. The boys tugged off their boots and pulled off their shirts, running headlong into the waves before diving beneath them and emerging almost fifty yards from the shore. Lothíriel followed, diving cleanly and then kicking her legs furiously to keep up. Her first love might be horses but she had conquered the sea in her early years and on such a day as this the exhilaration of plunging through the crests took some beating.

After a while, their first flush of energy satisfied and the heat of the day finally expunged from their flesh, the threesome floated on their backs, looking up at a circle of cornflower blue sky edged with dark rock.

“The tide will be bringing lobsters back into the pools,” Amroth said. “Let’s see if we can get a couple.”

“You two go,” Lothíriel said. “I will sit on the rocks and watch you.” Admittedly she liked the taste of lobster but she felt mean pulling them out of their holes, and then you had to carry them back alive and hand them into the kitchens. She’d stayed to watch once and felt sick when the cook had plunged a big one into boiling water and she’d heard it scream, better not to know about things like that. So when Amroth and Oríon swam over to the pools beneath the cliff she sat on a sunny rock to dry off a bit. Hisael would probably insist that she wash the salt out of her hair and Cousin Eglaneth would tut about her walking back to the palace in a damp shirt and leggings, but nothing much would be said. They had all but given up trying to turn her into a lady. In fact her father had said she did not have to ride side-saddle and could continue to ride properly. With her finally growing out of Mista around her eleventh birthday, Sergion let her ride Whitewing. The mare had belonged to his wife and he’d kept her because he didn’t want to part with his wife’s favourite. Her father said he would look out for something special in a year or two but in the meantime Whitewing suited her fine and allowed her to keep up with Amroth.

Coming out of her reverie, Lothíriel realised that something was wrong. The boys’ voices had changed – she could no longer hear laughter and friendly banter but definite tones of alarm. “What is it?” she called getting up from her rock and looking over to the bottom of the cliff.  

“Oríon slipped and his foot is caught in a crevice,” Amroth shouted. “Come and give a hand, the tide’s coming in fast.”

Lothíriel jumped up, tripping in her haste and snagging her ankle painfully on a sharp edge. She could see the danger immediately: Oríon must have fallen into a deep pool because the water was up to his neck. Before she got there Amroth had already ducked below the surface, and she could see that Oríon was trying to tug his leg free. But by the time she plunged into the pool with them, the water lapped at his chin and Amroth had gone down for a second time. Oríon’s eyes blazed with fear.

“Hold him up, Lothy,” Amroth gasped when he surfaced. “I think I can free him but it will hurt.”

He disappeared again and Lothíriel shoved herself under Oríon’s back, treading water and grasping his neck to keep his head up. Amroth was down ages and she struggled to keep Oríon’s mouth out of the water, he spat and coughed and started to thrash around in panic. Just when she thought Amroth would have to surface for air and she couldn’t hang on any longer, the water erupted and he rose up, pushing Oríon out with him.

Lothíriel took a deep breath as a big wave came crashing over the rocks into the pool swirling white foam around them. They had got him out only just in time. The water washed out again leaving Oríon shaking and Amroth gulping lungfuls of air.

Struggling onto the beach, they threw themselves onto the sand in an exhausted heap. “That was a close one. Are you alright?” Amroth asked when he had got his breath back.

Oríon sucked in air through his teeth. “It damn well hurts now it’s out the water. But that’s nothing. I thought my end had come.”

His foot was cut and scraped from where Amroth had had to pull it out, and now that the effect of the cold water had worn off it had started to bleed profusely. “I’ll use your shirt,” Lothíriel said. She retrieved Amroth’s shirt and tried to rip it but it was more difficult than she thought.

“Here, let me do it. But why my shirt?” Amroth grumbled.

“Because it is Oríon who is injured. He must be kept warm.”

“He’s not going to get cold in this heat, is he?” Amroth shot back.  But he ripped up the shirt anyway, passing a piece to his sister.

Lothíriel tried to bandage it gently, aware that Oríon was desperately trying not to show his pain. She knew it had to be tight to stop the bleeding but she didn’t want to hurt him any more. Without really thinking what she was doing, she stretched her hand out and put it on his head, speaking the same elvish words she used to calm horses and dogs.

“What are you doing?” Amroth asked, staring at her in some bewilderment.

Lothíriel started, and went back to her bandaging. “I always do that with the animals,” she answered. “It seems to help.”

“Well, whatever you did, it worked,” Oríon muttered. “The pain has lessened.”

----------------------------

June 3010 East Emnet – The Riddermark.

Éomer stuck his foot in the middle of the orc’s chest and wrenched out his spear, hearing a loud glug followed by a satisfying gurgle – another one who wouldn’t be stealing horses or harming his kinsmen.  He got the worst of the blood off his spear by wiping it across his victim’s rough leather tunic, noticing a small notch an inch from the point as he did so. That would need fixing soon. Walking back to Fireball, he assessed the slaughter area around him: at least ten of the brutes lay dead and so far without the loss of any Rider. The remaining few were being rounded up and dispatched and he watched dispassionately as one got bowled over by flying hooves only to be speared through the back as he struggled to his feet. The small group had made the mistake of being caught in the open and in the daylight by Elfhelm’s patrol; they stood no chance.

With spear and sword given a perfunctory wipe – he would have time to clean them properly around the fire that evening – he returned to the body of the orc he had just killed. Béma, how ugly they were, and the stink never got any less. This one was huge and had great thick arms. Éomer grabbed his shoulders and pulled him easily across the uneven ground. In the two years he had spent riding the plains his body had changed from that of a boy to one of a man. Other things had changed too, he acknowledged; hotheadedness had been replaced by a cold determination and a vow to rid his homeland of the vile beasts that continually invaded it. He had made that promise almost to the day two years ago when he had watched Bergit, still wrapped in a blanket, throw a handful of earth over the mound where they had buried her family.

Éomer heaved the body of the orc onto the growing pile just as Elfhelm returned from dealing with the remnants. His captain brought his horse to standstill next to him and studied the orc he had just added to the heap. “A big one. How did you finish him off?”

“I rammed my spear into his black heart before he could get near, but he pulled it out of my hands,” Éomer answered, grinning. “It didn’t do him any good, though.”

Elfhelm returned his grin. “You’re getting good at it; you must be going up in the rankings.”

He probably was – they kept a rough score, mostly so they could rag each other – but he would have a long way to go to catch up with the man looking down at him. Elfhelm was a formidable warrior and an inspiring leader of men and with the éored split into patrols to enable them to cover a wider area, Éomer felt privileged to be allowed to ride with him. But those were things you did not say so he just nodded and turned his attention back to the stack of filth. “We will have to camp away from this lot. I can’t bear the stink of them alive, let alone burning.”

Elfhelm mused for a moment. “I think we will head for the village. We are not that far away and our supplies are running short. A bit of relaxation will do us all good, too.”

Éomer concurred with that. The hard ground didn’t particularly worry him but he certainly wouldn’t pass up the chance of a comfortable bed for the night. And he knew he’d be offered one. For some reason Edwick and Bergit felt they owed him. They didn’t, he hadn’t done anything except speak the truth as he saw it. But whatever, Bergit had clung to him when they had buried her parents, and Elfhelm, always quick to pick up on clues like that, had ordered him to lift her onto Fireball when they were ready to depart the camp. Leaving half the éored to deal with the herd, they had made good speed. His father’s great, grey gelding making light of the burden of a half-grown man, a girl and a bundle of possessions retrieved from the ransacked camp. But they were heading into a sinking sun by the time they reached the village. His arm had gone to sleep and Bergit had started to shake uncontrollably, hiding her head under his cloak as soon as the first roofs had been spotted.

“It will be all right,” he whispered, seeing the silent welcome party. They had sent ahead to prepare the villagers for what had happened, and he thought he recognised the woman waiting slightly apart from the main group as Bergit’s grandmother.  Before he got fully into the square a young woman had reached up to take the only other survivor from Adwine. She hugged the little boy to her breast but from what Éomer could see, she got no reaction. A path cleared and he guided Fireball in the direction of the tall grey- haired matron who took a step towards him, but before they were within touching distance a man appeared at Fireball’s side. A giant of a man.

“I’ll take her.”

“Edwick?”  The apprehension in her small voice cut right to Éomer’s heart.

“Come on, lass, I’ll take you home.”

He’d transferred the trembling bundle into a pair of tanned, brawny arms. Edwick gave him a nod of thanks, their eyes meeting for only a fleeting moment which allowed no time for him to gauge any of the man’s sentiments. But reassuringly Edwick had gently arranged the blanket to cover the ends of his betrothed’s cruelly shorn hair. Another nod and with Bergit’s grandmother hurrying behind, he marched off down a side street, leaving Éomer feeling slightly bereft.  

That had been the last he’d seen of either of them until three months later when the patrol had been back in the village. He had been watering Fireball when Edwick approached him. Éomer got the chance to study him this time: five or six years older than himself, he guessed, a few inches taller but almost twice as wide, and all muscle. He sported a neat beard and wore his flaxen hair tied back with a leather thong; his eyes were blue and in them Éomer saw only amity. Yes, a giant, but a gentle one, he concluded.

“Lord, if you think it’s fitting, Bergit and I would be mighty pleased if you would share a meal with us.”

“I will not be a lord until I am eighteen,” he replied, “but I would be as honoured then as I am now.”  

Well, he might be eighteen going on nineteen now, a lord and the king’s nephew, but out on the plains he was just a member of Elfhelm’s patrol who tonight would share a meal with friends and sleep in a narrow bed in the hut across their yard as he had done every time he had stayed in the village during the last two years, and he’d be grateful for it.  Finishing with the orcs, the smoke from their pyre already rising high in the still air, Éomer used some of the water from his water-skin to wash the blood from his hands before remounting Fireball; the rest of him could wait.

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The icy water gushed over him, not a lot of lather but if he scrubbed any more he’d lose a layer of skin. “I think that’ll do.”

Edwick stopped pumping and handed him a cloth. “Have you got a clean shirt?”

Éomer pointed to his saddle bag. The housekeeper at Aldburg still liked to look after him; welcoming his visits – more frequent now that he served the East-mark. She kept him well provided with linen. He started to towel his hair, pulling the shirt over his damp head when it got handed to him. “I’ll have to clean all my stuff, orc blood stinks worse than shit but besides that, it eats into the metal.”

“How many did you get?”

“Over a dozen altogether.” Éomer grinned; “Only two were mine but one was a big bastard.”

Edwick nodded, satisfied. “Come and eat now and I will give you a hand after supper. We’ve got a little surprise we want you to see.”

Something in Edwick’s voice alerted him. “The baby’s come?”

The big man flushed slightly. “Yes, the bairn came a bit early. But he’s fine and so is Bergit”

“He!” Slapping him on the back Éomer pushed him towards the cottage. “Lead on, or won’t that great head of yours get through the door now?” 

A least it was one door where neither of them had to duck. Edwick’s father had evidently been a man of gargantuan proportions and had built his house accordingly. Éomer wondered if father and son had chosen their profession or it had chosen them. Wheelwrights and wagon builders needed to be strong and they didn’t come much stronger than Edwick as he had found out to his cost when he’d been stupid enough and drunk enough to suggest an arm wrestle. Now they did it every time and it wasn’t a matter of whether he could win but how long it took before he lost.

“What’s his name?” Unprepared for the jolt of emotion he felt, Éomer looked down at the little bundle in the cradle; fast asleep with a thumb stuck in his mouth. He remembered Éowyn looking much the same, although then he had only taken a cursory look wanting to get back to his pony. But that had all changed when they had lost their parents and to his surprise he’d suddenly felt totally responsible for her. This little mite had two to care for him and Éomer fervently hoped he always would.

“If you don’t mind, Éomer we thought we would call him Éomund after your father. He was our lord and often came this way. I remember seeing him when I was about twelve. So fine he looked, and fierce, on his great horse, but he laughed a lot and told us children a story.”   Bergit reached down and smoothed her baby’s head. Éomund gave a little sigh and tiny lips sucked furiously on the thumb for a moment before he relaxed into deeper sleep again. “And now we know you…”

“Éomund’s a good name. It will suit him,” Éomer agreed.

“Right, now that’s settled put the food on the table, Woman. Éomer must be starving.”

“You just be careful who you’re ordering about.” Bergit chided her husband, but she went to the stove anyway.

Good fresh bread was something he missed while out on the Emnet for weeks at a time and Bergit made a particularly fine loaf. Éomer used the last of his portion to mop up the tasty gravy, just as the first mews of discontent came from the cradle. Bergit immediately got up, but went to the stove first, picking up a cloth so she could carry the golden-crusted fruit pie to the table. She fetched a jug of cream from the pantry and by that time Éomund had started complaining loudly. “You’ll have to serve it, Edwick or he will start yelling.”

Edwick feasted his eyes on the pie with gleeful anticipation. “The first of the windberries, you were lucky to come today.” He cut a huge wedge and set it down on Éomer’s plate, covering the pastry and oozing purple juice with thick yellow cream. 

Digging his spoon in, Éomer grinned at him. “If you feed me like this I shall soon beat you.” 

Ploughing into his own helping, Edwick laughed. “Young Éomund’s got a mighty appetite too, one day he’ll likely beat me.”

Bergit nursed her son, with a shawl wrapped around both of them. She was crooning softly to the baby, one finger stroking his cheek. Her golden hair must have almost reached its original length, Éomer decided, and thankfully her pretty face had escaped any scaring. She looked up, caught him watching her and met his eyes with a smile. He knew from Edwick that she had suffered from nightmares for quite a while but feeding her child, she looked at peace. Reluctantly drawing his gaze away, he went back to his meal.

Empty plates pushed aside, Edwick rammed his elbow down on the table. “Come on, Warrior, wielding that sword of yours so much lately must count for something. Let’s see what you can do against a wheelwright.”

Not much, the answer to that. Éomer lost the arm wrestle, straining until he thought his bone would split. Although he managed an extra minute or two, which earned him a slap on the shoulder and a good-natured cuff around the ear. Afterwards he brought in his weapons and his mail and companionably he and Edwick cleaned and oiled them. The hour had grown late by the time Edwick lit the lantern that would see him across the yard. Éomer went to take it from him but he shook his head. “I will come with you; there is something I want to show you.”

The room behind Edwick’s workshop only held a bed and a small table, but as always the simple accommodation was spotlessly clean. An earthenware jar stood on the table holding a few blue flowers. “Give me a hand with the bed.” Edwick said.

“You think it’s necessary?” Éomer queried as Edwick showed him the cunningly crafted compartment he’d fashioned under the floor of the room. A trapdoor led to a dug out, wood-lined space, big enough Eomer realised for Bergit and the child to squeeze into.

“You know it’s getting worse and so do I. The herdsmen say they often see orcs travelling down the borders of our land. The talk is that they are going to that evil place they call Mordor. You get a few of them, Éomer but they are many and you cannot be everywhere. It’s no good saying we are not in danger because I wouldn’t believe you. We are the largest village on the Emnet and have rich pickings. We are also the first they come to across the plain. The fortress at Aldburg is too far away for us to reach in any reasonable time, so I am making preparations.”

Éomer couldn’t deny his reasoning. Eastfeld had grown into a prosperous village, a trading station for the herdsmen of the Emnet. But it lay over fifty miles from Aldburg, and when the Entwash ran in flood the fortress could only be reached by using the flat platform-like boats that ran on ropes spanning the river. The number of orcs using their land to reach Mordor, and subsequently looking for sustenance on the way had increased in the two years he had ridden with Elfhelm. They had talked about providing more arms and training the Herdsmen, as well as ways to protect the few villages that lay between the Entwash and the Wall. He looked steadfastly at Edwick, not quite knowing what to say.

“I am showing you so if anything happens you will know where to find them. I’ll never let them near Bergit or the child. I’m not good with a sword but I know the rudiments and I’ve got a strong arm and a long reach.”

No doubt that Edwick would put up a fight. But whether that would be enough if it came to it… Éomer prayed they would never find out.

Alone in the narrow bed, sleep would not come. Éomer tossed and turned as images of Bergit filled his mind: lying curled up amongst torn canvas; feeding the baby, her face soft and relaxed. He tried desperately to shut them out, the hot blood of youth a poor excuse for lusting after another man’s wife. For lusting after the wife of a friend— no excuse existed.

To be continued

Chapter 3   Summer 3012

Dol Amroth.

Lothíriel sank heavily into the saddle, pulling firmly on the reins and hoping she had not overestimated her ability to control her brother’s newly acquired piece of horseflesh. Ease up boy; she passed a mental command and thankfully the big grey slowed to a canter. Exhilarating. Racing along the beach had been absolutely exhilarating, and the best thing she could have done that morning.

Still fresh at that early hour, it looked like being a beautiful day. Already the sunlight danced on the tops the waves as the eastern sky turned slowly from gold to azure. Moments later Erchi caught up with her and they headed to the edge of the surf, trotting through the foam, black hooves kicking a sparkling spray around them.

She knew her brother itched to hear her verdict on his latest purchase but he waited until they headed up the beach away from the roar of the waves breaking on the reef.

“Well?”

“He’s no rocking-chair, Erchi and too hard-mouthed for most.” She grinned at her brother who already looked sheepish. “Although you knew that because Amroth told you.” Erchirion screwed his lips, showing as always what he thought of his little brother giving him advice. Lothíriel laughed at the obstinacy that let him ask her opinion whilst spurning Amroth’s.  But she took pity him, “He’s fast and willing and has a good heart. I am sure he will be forgiving, so should suit you well.”

“Good. If he’s fast, up to my weight and won’t throw any tantrums that will suit me fine. I want him to get me to the front of a battle not prance around a parade ring.”

“I’m sure he will do that, although let’s hope he doesn’t have to…”Lothíriel stopped as she caught sight of a group of riders galloping along the beach in their direction.

“Erchi, let’s go up through the woods.”

Erchirion followed her gaze, his lips tightening as he recognised whom Elphir and Sergion were escorting on a morning ride. Scarlet blazed out amongst the sober dark blue. “Now that’s somebody I would like to war against.”

A rush of affection for her belligerent brother overwhelmed her for a moment. Everyone else had spent the last two days fawning over the man, whilst right from the beginning Erchi had said they would be better off challenging him. She’d be happy to give him a hand, aware that over the last year most of her fear had gone leaving a deep seated anger. And now he was here again, reawakening all her feelings. How could her father think he could ally with this man? Surely he could see the evil under the polished mask. And to arrange dancing and entertainment, treating him as the most honoured guest; Lothíriel shuddered.

Since the first greeting on his arrival Umar had been closeted with her father and eating with the men, so she had seen nothing of him. But she had no wish to risk getting in any kind of conversation with the man and only Erchi’s solid presence and the fact that it would embarrass Elphir stopped her from bolting to the woods.

Keeping on their track took them close enough to wave and when Elphir raised his arm to slow his party, Lothíriel got the chance for a look at the magnificent black stallion Umar rode. The animal strained to be off again and she wondered why the Prince of Harad felt it necessary to use such cruel spurs. Elphir put his hand up to them, the Serpent nodded, his eyes lingering in her direction for only a moment, before with hooves drumming on the hard sand, the group galloped away heading down the long beach.

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Later, after a day spent mostly in the stables, Lothíriel sat in the large window embrasure of her chamber, staring out at a flame-shot sky and swishing her hand about in scented water. It would be lovely on the beach with the tide ebbing, leaving the sand clean and firm. And if it wasn’t for the dinner arranged in honour of the Serpent she could be out there. She sighed; letting her mind wander as her maid scrubbed at dirty nails. At least she had changed since her first encounter with the Prince of Harad. That experience had caused her to spend two years clinging to her brothers and hardly leaving the palace. Now, another two years on, she had not forgotten the dreadful event when she had been forced to hide in the cave, but it did not rule her life.

 “Well, I’ve got them as clean as I can, Princess. You must start taking more care; you are not a child any more.” Hisael picked up a bottle of sweet almond oil and started to massage it into Lothíriel’s hands.

“How am I expected to keep my hands clean and my nails undamaged and still ride and sail?”

Hisael pursed her lips. “You could at least wear gloves. Nothing looks worse than holding out a rough, ill-kemp hand to be kissed.”

Lothíriel didn’t consider that remark even warranted an answer but tried to cooperate when Hisael insisted on plucking some wayward hairs from her eyebrows. Luckily that seemed to satisfy her maid and the dress came next. “Stand still, Princess, I can’t tie the laces when you fidget so.” Lothíriel took a deep breath, and tried to obey her. She hated being gowned in layers of silk, and had got away with much simpler attire until her twelfth birthday. Now at thirteen they expected her to look like a young noblewoman, even if she didn’t act like one most of the time. 

“There, that won’t come undone if you start dancing.” Hisael pulled the bodice straight across her breasts.

Dancing! There was no way she would be dancing, even if Amroth deigned to partner her. Not with that man around. True, he might have barely glanced at her that morning when she’d met him on the beach, but even so, she had no intention of making herself in any way noticeable tonight.

 “They say the talks are going well,” Hisael remarked, picking up a hairbrush. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Good news!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “I don’t think so. And how do you know anyway?”  

Hisael chuckled. “Servants always know, surely you’ve learnt that.”

Of course she had, but how much they knew still surprised her. However, this time she hoped they had got it wrong. She might have lost her immediate fear of Prince Umar – after all sense told her that he wouldn’t actually harm a princess of Gondor – and both her father and Elphir had reassured her that his stupid suggestion of marriage would not even be considered. But that did not mean she wanted him around. She knew he had a black heart even if her father didn’t.

“There, your hair looks very pretty. It goes into lovely soft waves naturally, even though it’s so long.” Hisael picked up the glass so that Lothíriel could see.

Lothíriel studied her reflection for a moment, wondering for the umpteenth time why she had green eyes in a land where most had grey or black. Her hair shone almost blue and fell past her shoulders in a cloak of long dark curls. Perhaps it did look nice. “I suppose, but it would plait easier if it were straight and that would make it better for riding and swimming.”

“You’ll think differently when you are little older,” her maid chuckled.

Would she? Maybe she would. At the moment she did not care much what she looked like. Horses didn’t notice, neither did dogs, and you didn’t need to look pretty to fire an arrow straight or read an interesting book. But some of the girls in the palace seemed to think of nothing else, especially if Amroth happened to be around. In fact, now she thought of it, not only the daughters of various Swan Knights came to watch and comment when her brothers were in the training ring, the regular bouts had become a magnet for many of the wives as well.

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Colour filled the hall, dresses swaying gently like summer flowers in a meadow as the ladies searched for their places, and amongst them straight spikes of dark delphiniums raised their heads over the common crowd. Leaning against a pillar, Amrothos chuckled to himself, not sure the Swan-Knights, resplendent in dress blue and silver, would appreciate being compared to flowers, however tall and stately.

The talks must be going well for his father to put on such a lavish show for their Haradric guests and most, including himself, relished the chance to put the huge hall to its intended use. Not that he liked Umar much; he agreed with Elphir there – the man exuded malevolence. Erchi wanted to ram his sword down the prince’s throat, but since his older brother expressed interest in doing that to anyone who wasn’t from Dol Amroth and many who were, he discounted it. It was Lothíriel’s reaction that bothered him. She hated the man. He had never managed to find out quite why, and of course there might be no real reason other than her gut feeling. No, not gut feelings with Lothíriel, but some uncanny intuition she seemed to possess. The realisation that she might be slightly fey had grown on him slowly, ever since the incident a couple of years ago when Oríon had nearly drowned and she had instinctively put her hand on his head. Not long after that he had caught her doing something similar to his horse when it had thrown a splint and then she had announced one evening at supper that Aunt Ivriniel would be arriving soon with some interesting news.

His aunt had indeed arrived as predicted, bringing with her a large man with a red beard whom she intended to marry. They had all been surprised: firstly because of her age and then because she had always sworn no one could take the place of her first dearly beloved husband. On the other hand, Aunt Ivriniel had not been at all surprised when Amrothos had confided in her his concerns about Lothíriel: evidently it ran in the family. The gift, if that’s what it was, had originated with the Elven-lady Mithrellas, mother of Galador, and reappeared every few generations. Amrothos hadn’t told his sister yet, but he supposed he would. He glanced around, noting that Lothíriel hadn’t appeared. She didn’t like this sort of thing. Too young, probably, but after being excluded on the previous evenings the other ladies welcomed the chance of showing off their finery and themselves.

“Sizing up what’s on offer?” 

Amrothos grinned, turning around and punching his friend on his arm. “You sidled up pretty craftily. The thought of all the lovely beauties must have persuaded you away from those plans.”

Rubbing his arm, Oríon smirked. “You know, all work and no play, and all that.”

“Hmm…” Amrothos raked his eyes over the wives and daughters of his father’s officers and the local nobility. “Well, unless we want to be sent to the garrison on Tolfolas, I think we had better go and play down at the port when all this is over. Touch one of these and that rusty sword of yours will see some action.”

Oríon laughed but then went still, staring across to the door. “And I think your sword will need to be kept sharpened when your sister grows up a bit. I’ve never noticed before, but she’s quite beautiful.”

Amrothos followed his gaze to where Lothíriel had come in with Cousin Eglaneth, and sharply drew in his breath. What had Hisael done to her? Only that morning he had met her in the stables, wearing grubby breeches and with her hair scraped back. She had looked like one of the lads. Now she … Amroth’s thought got cut short when to his horror he saw a passing squire swivel his eyes to take a second look at her. His hand clenched; she might be tall, and the dress she wore did show her emerging womanhood but she still had over half a year to go before her fourteenth birthday. Oríon was right. He’d known she was a pretty one, of course, but wrapped in his own affairs must have missed the transformation from appealing child to the striking young woman who walked towards him. To be fair, Lothíriel seemed oblivious of it, chattering to Cousin Eglaneth and taking no notice of the surprised looks she was getting from some of the younger men and the benevolent smiles from the older ones.

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The red globe just touched the horizon as Imrahil led his principal guest to his seat. Some light would remain in the sky for a good while but at least by the time they ate the sun would have officially set. Thank the Valar they didn’t have to wait until actual dark. But Imrahil didn’t mind pandering to them tonight as the talks had gone far better than he could possibly have hoped and judging by the remarks made today he felt quite convinced they would reach complete agreement on the morrow. Originally he had thought Denethor a little rash, authorizing him to offer a slice of South Gondor with access to the sea, but with the power of the Black Land growing they did not have a lot of choice. They needed men, good fighting men, and those Umar had in plenty. Three days of negotiations and it looked as though the bait was about to be taken. And not one mention of Lothíriel; either they had misread the extravagant language the Haradrim used or more likely the man had come to his senses.

All rose as they reached the top table. He just hoped his sons would behave themselves. He could count on Elphir: his eldest might dislike the prince but the last couple of years had taught him to hide his feelings under the essential disguise of diplomacy. Amroth was too intelligent to risk spoiling something he knew to be of such importance, and Erchi? Imrahil pursed his lips; he’d sat Sergion next to his middle son with instructions for his captain to distract him from reacting to any perceived slight on the part of his guest by discussing the deployment of their troops along the costal towns.

On the surface Umar certainly gave the impression of being in a gracious and sociable mood. The serpent on his chest looked far from friendly, but he himself smiled at all as he took his seat. Lothíriel sat almost opposite but the prince hardly glanced at her, Imrahil noted with relief. Only a couple of years older than Elphir, Umar emanated confidence. Probably could have been called handsome too, he decided, with his neat pointed beard and deep-set dark eyes, if it were not for the thinness of his lips. But it was the occasional flash of venom he saw in those eyes that worried him and gave him doubts as to their owner’s trustworthiness. Still, the man had intimated he would be willing to sign the treaty the next day and   there was nothing in it about the protagonists having to like each other.

The first course arrived – huge prawns with hot spicy sauce. These were mostly devoured in silence, the necessity of licking fingers and wiping mouths precluding much conversation, but during the next course – saddle of lamb stuffed with herbs and juniper berries – the background buzz of chatter around the hall gradually increased. Imrahil signalled to the musicians to start strumming. Personally he had talked enough in the last few days and would be content to eat and listen but as he thought it, his guest put down his knife.

“Our talks are going well, eh Imrahil?”

Stifling a sigh, Imrahil put on his best diplomatic face. “Yes, very well. Hopefully we can reach agreement tomorrow.”

“Of course, I am confident we can. There is only one thing left to discuss and I am sure we will come to an understanding. With Sauron’s power growing daily and his shadow creeping ever closer to Gondor’s borders, I would hate to leave here with us being enemies.”

Imrahil froze; the threat in the man’s voice evident in spite of the smile on his face. Why? In the past three days he had made no threats, and had only held out for more land, for the good of his people, he had repeated often enough. Umar turned his face away, deliberately looking across the table to where Lothíriel sat next to Amroth, and in a horrifying moment of enlightenment Imrahil understood: Umar had been playing them along all the time. Three days of talks so they all realised just what he could offer as an ally or what a powerful adversary he would make, and now came the real demand. He didn’t care about the land at all; the bloody man still wanted Lothíriel. 

As Umar stared, Lothíriel must have realised eyes were on her because she broke from her conversation with her brother and looked straight at him. Her face blanched and a tell-tell pulse started to throb in her neck, but for a moment neither moved, continuing to lock gazes. Realising something was going on, one by one the others around the table stopped talking and glanced up expectantly.

Having successfully gained everyone’s attention, Umar’s lip curled in what Imrahil could only liken to a cross between a smirk and snarl.

Umar continued to stare at Lothíriel, twirling the stem of his goblet with his long manicured fingers. He held on to his words for as long as possible to keep the fools wondering what was coming. Did they really think he would side with them for just a piece of land? If he valued it that much he would take it. As he would take their little princess. But he knew these Gondorians, all the talk of friendship when really they looked on him and his people as some lesser breed. Let them prove how much they needed this alliance. And if they didn’t, he would join with Sauron and have Imrahil’s daughter, the land and anything else he desired anyway. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. “If you and Denethor want me to help save Gondor, Imrahil, then I think at the very least I am owed its fairest princess.”

Lothíriel straightaway stood up, her green eyes flashing and her mouth compressed with rage. No brushing it off this time with soothing words, Imrahil realised as she angrily shook off Amroth’s restraining hand. But somehow he felt strangely reluctant to stop whatever was about to happen. He’d lost patience with the man and knew now that no agreement would ever be reached or in fact was ever likely to have been.

“You filthy beast!” Lothíriel shouted. “You will never, ever, lay a finger on me.”

Before he could even begin to reprimand her, his daughter grabbed her brother’s goblet and threw wine all over Umar, splashing him in the process. Without waiting to see any reaction she picked up her skirts and fled to the door.

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Halfway to her room, the enormity of what she had done hit Lothiriel like a blow to the stomach. She had destroyed all that her father had worked for in one moment by her display of temper. She felt sick. Sick and scared. And what would happen when her Uncle Denethor found out?  Her father would make her apologise to Umar but wanting the treaty so badly, her uncle might try to force her into marriage with the Prince of Harad. She was not altogether sure if even the Steward could gainsay her father in such a matter, but it seemed highly likely. She should have left it to Father. If she had kept quiet he would have probably sorted it out with a few well chosen words, such was his way. What had she done?

Lothíriel started to shake. She wouldn’t! She couldn’t! Not even for Gondor could she marry that vile man. She only had one choice: she would have to run away.

Reaching her apartments she opened the door and quickly scanned around the large room: empty! The door to the dressing chamber stood open but she could see no sign of Hisael. That was lucky; her maid must have gone for her own supper. Lothíriel threw open the wardrobe door and rummaged around the shelf at the bottom, bringing out a pair of breeches and a shirt. She would need a disguise to get out of the gates and had better get into it fast before Hisael returned. Drat the silly dress! Forcing herself to remain calm, Lothíriel pulled the last lace free and silk slithered to her feet. Her shift came off next, one strap ripping in her haste.

Breeches and shirt donned in record time, she went back to the wardrobe and found a leather jerkin and a pair of boots. Her hair!  A ribbon hanging from her mouth Lothíriel scraped it back and held it tight. Letting go with one hand she retrieved the ribbon and managed to get most of the mass of hair securely bound. Pinning it under an old felt hat completed the disguise. A few essentials packed in a small bag and she was ready. Getting out of the palace into the courtyard unobserved would not be a problem; she knew every back stair and deserted passage.

Lothíriel kept in the shadow of the wall until she reached the open courtyard just inside the gates. Unless alerted, the guards were there to stop people entering the palace not leaving it, but she did not want them taking a close look and recognising her. At that moment the guards had nothing to do and were chatting amongst themselves. Not the time to try and leave.

Lothíriel tried to push down the panic that had started to rise. By now, her father had probably sent Cousin Eglaneth to her chamber to fetch her to apologise. How long before they started searching?

Just when she was about to brave it out and walk straight out through the gate she heard the rattle of wheels on the cobbles. Two loaded carts came clattering from the direction of the kitchens, the smell of shellfish growing stronger as they approached. Straining her eyes in the dim light she discerned piles of baskets loaded on the carts, but what? Ugh, she realised that the baskets must have originally contained the prawns they had eaten at dinner, now they held all the remains going back to the harbour for disposal. But the best thing was that a couple of urchins walked alongside the first wagon.

That made it easy. She waited until the second cart passed her and then with the hat pulled down over her face, her bag pushed out of sight, she held on to the back corner. With any luck the guards would take her for a simpleton.

After ribbing the carters about the awful smell, they did just that. “You keep pushing lad, the horse will thank- ee, if no-one else will.”

Lothíriel, touched her hat, mumbled a goodnight and kept her head down, petrified one of the urchins would look around and see her but the noise of wheels rumbling on the worn ruts in the gateway must have made them deaf to the guard’s voice. Heart thumping, Lothíriel passed through the gate and out onto the road that led down to the city gates. The populace moved freely between port and city all day and into the night when festivities were taking place, and they passed through with barely a glance from the gatekeepers.

Most of the light had gone from the sky and she used the darker shadow of a large clump of hibiscus to slip through the fence into the home paddock. Mista would be somewhere, along with a few other old favourites. Almost immediately the huge form of her father’s retired charger, Warlord, materialized out of the gloom. She would get a lot farther, a lot quicker on him but baulked at riding a warhorse without bridle and saddle, even if she managed to get on his back. “It’s all right, boy,” she whispered, stroking a scarred velvet nose. “Do you know where Mista is?”  A whinny to her left gave her the answer. She swivelled around, picking out the little pony as the faint light from one of the torches that lined top of the city wall fell on his light grey coat.

Lothíriel pulled out the apple she had stowed away in her bag. She guessed Mista would follow her anyway but had wanted to be sure. “Come on Mista, we have to get through the gate before I can ride you.” Lothíriel headed towards where she thought the top gate would be, the one that opened near to the main way to Edhellond.  She had decided where to go: only one person she knew would be able to stand up against her uncle Denethor. Aunt Ivriniel would give her shelter until her father forgave her. It took her a while to locate the gate, screwing up her eyes and looking for an irregularity in the dark shape of the fence – this would have been better happening on a night with a full moon, but Mista patiently trotted behind her, rewarded by the apple when she had him out on the road.

Lothíriel cradled her arms around his neck as he munched. “It’s just you and me, Mista

I didn’t have time to fetch Larca; he will be sad when he finds out.”  She gave the pony another hug, grabbed his mane and sprang easily onto his back. Her legs might be long but her slim figure meant he could still carry her easily.

A mile further on, Lothíriel scrabbled in her bag and got out the thin cloak she had brought, the summer night cooler now. Darker too – she had never been out completely on her own in the middle of the night before and now they had entered a wooded area. She shivered, trees that looked friendly in the sunlight seemed menacing with their big limbs reaching across the road, clutching for one another. Every little night-time noise made her jump and grasp the pony’s mane more securely. Telling herself there was nothing different here than in daytime, Lothíriel distracted scary thoughts by trying to work out how long it would take to reach her aunt’s house. Hopefully by morning, she decided as Aunt Ivriniel lived about halfway to Edhellond, in a small castle amongst the pinewoods overlooking the beach. She should be able to find it from the road. Mista would need a drink so she would have to find a stream somewhere and they both would be hungry by the time they arrived, but that wouldn’t matter. She had done the right thing, her family would not have expected her to run away and that would convince them she was serious about not having anything to do with the Serpent. In fact….Her deliberations were cut short by the sound of horses clip-clopping along the road towards her. Her mouth instantly dried. She had no idea what to do, or who it was likely to be, but she knew she couldn’t stay on the road. Desperately trying to pierce the darkness around her she thought she could see a gap between the trees on her right?  Lothíriel guided Mista to where the black lessened slightly, and managed to get out of sight of the road as the hoof beats came closer. Whoever was out riding this time of night should not have been aware of them as with Mista not being shod, she had kept to the verge.

Lothíriel peered out from between the trees as the riders went past, and caught the faintest glint of a steel helmet. Oh, how could she have been such a fool!  These roads were patrolled by her father’s men; she had no chance of getting to her aunt’s castle unobserved. Nervous in the black of the woods and uncertain what do for a moment, she clung to Mista’s mane, laying her head down on the pony’s warm neck. “What shall we do Mista? Can you see where to go?” Mista, gave a soft whicker, stepped purposely forward, and headed to where the trees looked thinnest. There did appear to be some kind of track running almost parallel to the road. So with no choice other than to go back to the palace Lothíriel let the pony pick his own way, finding that if she crouched low over him hugging his warm body, the night did not feel so frightening.

Twice she had to force her eyes open, stopping herself from falling asleep. But Mista kept on going and when they came out of the woods onto an open heath Lothíriel saw that they had climbed far above the road, for way below her the ramparts of the City stood black against the lighter hue of the ocean. Edhellond must lay leagues to her right where the mouth of River Ringlo gleamed pale. Mista appeared unconcerned by thoughts of missing breakfast in her aunt’s fine stables and with only the light of the stars and the quarter moon to guide him, plodded gamely along on a track that bent around a rocky outcrop. Lothíriel took one last look back at her home by the sea, before some strange inner conviction that the pony knew exactly where he was going made her once again lie down over his shoulders, put her arms around his neck and bury her face in his silky mane.

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Aldburg – The Riddermark

The hall at Aldburg thronged with warriors. Except for one patrol still on the Emnet virtually all the rest of the East-mark Riders lounged around with mugs in their hands, catching up on news and generally enjoying the opportunity to meet with comrades and friends.

To the side of the hall, Éomer sat alone, reading the letter he had been given when he had arrived at the fortress. His sister did not waste words, and those she used generally referred to her horse or her progress with the sword, so to have such a long missive from her had to be counted unusual. After the first paragraph, he realised why – she felt lonely. Their cousin Théodred no longer resided at Meduseld having been given command of the garrison at Helm’s Deep and control over the West-mark. That the king’s son had been made second Marshall did not surprise Éomer, his right after all, but that Théoden King had a new chief advisor who had suggested it, did.

 Gríma? Éomer tried to recall him and could only remember a sly looking man who had arrived in Edoras from the northern borders of the Riddermark some years before. By the sound of it he had wormed his way into the king’s favour. Éowyn didn’t sound too thrilled about it. Éomer decided he would have to try and find the time to ride to Edoras to see her.

“What do you reckon is going on?”

Éothain’s voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see his two closest friends towering over him, Déor holding out a brimming mug. Éomer grinned and tucked the letter away in his pocket. Aldburg might be his base now and not his home but coming back had enabled him to renew friendships he had made as a child. Éothain, two years older than himself, blunt, beefy and down to earth, had felt it his duty to bloody the nose of the Marshall’s young son at every opportunity. In the end, on his father’s advice, Éomer had relentlessly pounded into him. They had been friends ever since.  Déor, very fair, neat, and a year younger than Éomer but almost as tall, preferred to use his head before his sword or his fists but could be deadly with all three. Éomer took the mug and downed a long draught, looking to the far corner of the hall as he did so. Elfhelm sat at a table, along with a couple of senior Riders, one of whom was Déor’s father, Eorllic. The group had been in deep conversation ever since Éomer had arrived and he’d noticed that every now and then Elfhelm wrote something down, but then Éowyn’s letter had taken his interest.

“I am not sure, but Éowyn writes to say that Théodred has moved to Helm’s Deep. It may be connected,” Éomer replied.

The two Rohirrim played with that thought for a moment, Déor scrutinising the men at the table. “I imagine Théodred is being given the opportunity to show his abilities away from the influence of his father, but Edoras will be short of commanders.”

Éomer nodded. “I agree, Théoden King has not taken direct control of the éoreds for some time. Théodred will need to be replaced.”

They discussed the consequences of Théodred’s relocation for a while, until Éomer felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to find one of the serving lads standing behind him.

“Marshall Elfhelm wants to speak to you, lord.”

Marshall Elfhelm? The three men exchanged looks. Éomer gave the other two a wink and strode off to see what the new Marshall wanted.

Talking quietly with the small group of men, Elfhelm wore his serious look. Éomer waited for them to finish their conversation, studying his commander as he did so. Only a year or two older than Théodred, tall, fair and with the deep blue eyes typical of their race, his strong face had started to show the ravages of his years riding the plains. But Éomer still considered him to be a good-looking man and wondered why he had never remarried after his young wife had died in childbirth years before. But perhaps women did not always welcome being wed to a warrior. Pondering on this for a moment, remembering how his mother had worried so when his father has ridden out, he didn’t realise the group had started to break up until he heard Elfhelm’s voice.

“Sit down, Éomer.”

Éomer sat, nodding to Eorllic who remained sitting next to Elfhelm. Déor’s father and Éomer’s had been good friends and comrades in arms. But like his son, Eorllic used his head as well as his sword arm, whereas Éomund had often rushed headlong to battle any intruders, sometimes with too small a force. A trait that had cost him his life. Éomer had sworn not to be so rash in his dealings with the enemy, but acknowledged that when the blood ran like fire in his veins, he was a lot like his father. “I hear congratulations are in order, Marshall Elfhelm,” he said letting a smile break out over his face.

Elfhelm’s lips twitched, “News travels fast as always. But that is why I have got everybody here; we have to do some reorganising.”

“Do I take it you are leaving us, Marshall? I understand that Théodred has moved to the West-mark, so the éoreds at Edoras will need a new commander.”

“Yes, Éomer, you are right,” Elfhelm replied. “Théoden King has given me charge of his own forces. I have to be at Edoras within three days, which is why I am talking to you now.”

Éomer said nothing but studied the two older men who sat opposite him, wondering where this was leading. They both seemed to be watching him intently

“Eorllic and I have been talking over the changes needed here and we think it is time you were given a patrol to lead,” Elfhelm said keeping his gaze on Éomer.

Lead a patrol! His heart pounded with excitement but he tried hard not to show it on his face. However, some hint of the thrill Elfhelm’s words had caused must have escaped because the Marshall raised one eyebrow.

“So you think you are up to it?”

Regaining his composure, Éomer tried for professionalism. “I have taken control a few times, as you know, Marshall. But you must think I will do a good job or you would not consider promoting me.”

Elfhelm nodded, a smile appearing for a moment but passing swiftly. “You are in a unique position as one of my Riders, Éomer – the king’s nephew and second in line to the throne. But I think you know that your rank does not weigh with me when it comes to your job. However, because of your position and your possible future duties I have given you the opportunity to show your qualities of leadership. You are an excellent and proficient warrior. You can still be a little hot-headed, but mostly you control your natural impulsiveness well. It has not escaped me that in spite of your youth the men tend to turn to you for direction. That is the sign of a natural leader.”  

Éomer shifted in his seat, slightly embarrassed by his commander’s assessment of him but Elfhelm had not finished.

“My move to Edoras has brought your promotion forward a bit, Éomer. I would have done it by the end of the year, anyway. I can only be thankful that in a few years you should be able to take up your rightful position in the hierarchy of the Riddermark on your own abilities and not just because of your birth.”

Éomer did not know what to say; to praise others profusely was not the way of the Rohirrim although Elfhelm did always comment on a job well done and was ever firm, fair and intuitive in all his dealings with the men he controlled. Éomer valued an opinion on his abilities from him more than he would from any other. “I will do my best to repay your faith in me, Marshall. You have taught me much in the last four years and for that I thank you.” Feeling enough had been said, Éomer went back to practicalities. “Am I to take over our patrol, or are you organising things differently?”

“I am changing you all around a bit. You will keep Éothain and Guflaf, but the rest will be new to you. I have found it works better that way.”

“What about Déor,” Éomer asked, “is there any chance he could be with me?”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Déor is coming to Edoras with me. I am taking a core of East-mark men. Besides, Eorllic will now have overall command here and although there is no doubt he would be fair in his dealings with his son, it is better that Déor serves a different captain.”

Disappointed, but seeing the sense of the decision, Éomer nodded, turning his questions to those concerning his new duties.

Later, in the privacy of his bed he mulled over the day’s events. He would need to write to Éowyn in the morning, she would be thrilled by his news. Hopefully he could find a few days later in the year to visit her. The day after tomorrow he would be riding out leading his first patrol: a gripping but intimidating prospect as some of the men Elfhelm had assigned to him were veteran Riders. They would be heading directly for Eastfeld, which meant Edwick and Bergit would soon hear of his promotion. Éomer knew they would be excited for him. Their friendship had continued, although when he had first acknowledged his feelings for Bergit he had tried to stay away. But that had only hurt and puzzled them, so he had gone back to sleeping in their outhouse every time he stayed in the village. Dealing with loneliness was something a Rider got used to, dealing with desire: inherently more difficult.

To be continued.

Author’s note – fromUnfinished Tales by J. R. R. Tolkien

In the days of Théoden there was no man appointed to the office of First Marshal. He came to the throne as a young man (at the age of thirty-two), vigorous and of martial spirit, and a great horseman. If war came, he would himself command the Muster of Edoras; but his kingdom was at peace for many years, and he rode with his knights and his Muster only on exercises and in displays; though the shadow of Mordor reawakened grew ever greater from his childhood to his old age. In this peace the Riders and other armed men of the garrison of Edoras were governed by an officer of the rank of mar­shal (in the years 3012-19 this was Elfhelm).

Chapter 4

Summer 3012

Dol Amroth

“In my country, Imrahil, if a woman insults a man she would be bound to him as his slave. However, because of the circumstances of our agreement if Princess Lothíriel is handed over to me I will still accept her as my wife.”

Hand his daughter over to this piece of dung! Elphir was right, the man was mad. Imrahil stared at the Prince of Harad, wondering how he could keep that banal smile on his face whilst uttering such rubbish. “I think I have made it plain, Umar, that my daughter is not part of this agreement. She is far too young to be used as a bargaining tool. I am sorry for her behaviour and that she is not available to apologise, but I did warn you when you were here before that we do not discuss our womenfolk in public and certainly not at dinner.”

Umar curled the corner of his lip, his eyes narrowing. Not at all handsome now, Imrahil noted, just an evil looking brute. He wondered what would come next and momentarily sympathised with Erchirion’s continuing desire to ram his sword down that slimy throat.

“You Gondorians are far too lenient towards your women, Imrahil. In my country they do not eat with us and those present are only there to entertain the men.” With that he imperiously swept his red cloak around him, barked an order to his unfortunate lackey, and turned his back on his host. With spurs jangling he bounded down the steps to his waiting horse.

Good riddance! Imrahil knew that if the man had stayed around any longer his normal patient manner would have been seriously compromised. What an evening! What an error of judgement – thinking that the talks had been going well and they were near to reaching a compromise. As a rule he read men much better and could only put it down to trying to conform to Denethor’s wishes against his own inclinations. But that was not the issue now. More important than anything else – where had Lothíriel gone? Going back inside Imrahil met Elphir coming down the stairs.

His son shook his head. “Nowhere. We have searched the entire palace. Amroth has gone to the stables to see if Whitewing is missing, but it’s unlikely. They would not let her go out alone after dark. Erchi is questioning the gatekeepers, but there was a lot of coming and going tonight with the feast.”

Hmm…, and they knew from experience that Lothíriel could be resourceful if she wanted to make herself scarce. Imrahil sighed, knowing he should have sent Eglaneth straight away, but he had wanted to give his daughter time to compose herself. Bad mistake, another thing he should have known.

“Whitewing’s still here,” Amroth called even before he reached them. That was a relief; wherever she had gone it couldn’t be far.

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Just before dawn, after Erchi and Elphir had taken a score of men to search the port and the ships in harbour and he had even sent Sergion to the Harad camp, causing Umar to spit blood with indignation, Imrahil felt helpless. It crossed his mind that Lothíriel could have gone to Ivriniel, but the patrols had reported nothing and she would have surely not have walked along the beach past the Harad camp. Of course if she’d gone along the road she could have dodged into the trees if she’d heard anyone coming, so even though he thought it unlikely given the distance, he made a decision.

“Amroth, get the dogs out.” 

His youngest son turned from staring out of the window, his face showing his worry with his normally sparkling eyes dull and lifeless. “There’s lightening flashing over the sea. A storm’s coming; I doubt the dogs will be any use soon.”

Damn! He should have done this earlier. Another mistake, but it had never occurred to him that Lothíriel would actually run away. Who or what was she so afraid of? Surely she knew he would not sacrifice her for some flimsy treaty. Again he wondered if he had missed something. Why was Umar so insistent on having her and why had Lothíriel hated him from the very first moment? Imrahil looked out of the other window, gazing down on the gates. “The stable master must think it’s blowing up, too. They’re just going to get the horses in.”

Amroth suddenly opened his mouth, his eyes widening. “Mista! Mista’s kept outside in the paddock. Once through the gates Lothíriel could have taken him without even bothering to tack him up.”

-----------------------------------

Her hand had gone to sleep. How long had she been clutching Mista’s mane? How long had she slept? Pushing herself into a sitting position, Lothíriel looked nervously around, unsure what she would see. A grey landscape – it couldn’t be long after dawn. She could just make out that they were traversing the western side of a wide valley as ahead and to her left night still ruled the sky. But to her right streaks of fiery red rose above the ridge. Somewhere below she could hear the sound of fast flowing water, and make out the dark tops of pines. As the sky continued to lighten, it became clear that the stony track sloped gradually down, disappearing amongst some scrubby trees along the top of an escarpment. 

Uncertainty claimed her; they must be leagues from the road, somewhere in the Tarnost Hills. Should she turn around? But looking back showed dark clouds gathering in the distance and hearing a far off rumble of thunder, she dismissed that idea. Anyway, Mista had quickened his step and she guessed he needed a drink. Food too, for both of them. Hopefully Mista would find some grazing on the valley floor but the pickings would be poor for her. Wild strawberries, perhaps?  Or maybe she could find a farmstead lower down … what? Lothíriel sniffed, and sniffed again. Bacon – her stomach grumbled in response – the unmistakable smell of frying bacon.

Could there be a dwelling nestled into the bottom of the rock face? But she could glimpse the stream through the trees now and no track ran along its bank; the area looked uninhabited. Then she spotted a thin wisp of smoke spiraling upwards in the still air. More likely to be a camp. Outlaws? Goatherds? But she could neither see nor hear any animals. Sense told her she should be wary but some other instinct made her kick Mista on, taking a path that led steeply down the side of the crag. “Slowly Mista,” she whispered. But the little pony, surefooted as ever even in his tiredness, carried her safely. They ended up on a flat plateau still some way above the stream and the ground beneath Mista’s hooves grew soft with a carpet of pine needles. Lothíriel stared: halfway along the bottom of the escarpment, in front of what looked like an opening to a cave, a grey-garbed figure sat next to a small fire. He – yes he, she could see a long grey beard as she got closer – poked a stick around a pan which he held over the flames. Saliva filled her mouth at the aroma of breakfast. Mista took a few more steps forwards, stopped and whickered softly. The man looked up, piercing eyes under bushy brows surveyed pony and girl, lips quivered into a smile.

“Ah, here you are, just in time. It is ready.”

Surprise silenced her for a moment, until the old man cocked his head to one side as though inviting her to join him. “You were expecting me?” She asked, bewildered.

“What date is it?”

“Date?” Lothíriel repeated stupidity.

“Yes of course, the date. If I know that, then I will know if I was expecting you.”

Not understanding at all she thought she had better humour him. “June the twenty-third.”

“Ah…. but what year?”

“The sixteenth in the stewardship of Denethor, son of Ecthelion,” she answered.

He gave a sharp nod. “Then, yes. I was expecting you. Now come and eat while it’s hot.”

For some reason accepting this, Lothíriel hopped from Mista’s back. “My pony needs a drink and some grazing,”

“I had not forgotten!” He looked slightly indignant and, stick still in hand, got to his feet. Tall, now she could see him standing, and the litheness of his movements belied his ancient looks. A gnarled hand stroked Mista’s forehead. “If you follow that path there,” the stick pointed to narrow track through the trees as he addressed the pony, “you will find Háran. He will show you the most succulent grass that grows by the stream and the safest place to drink.”

Mista shook his head and blew through splayed nostrils before he trotted happily off in the direction of the water. “Whose is Háran?” Lothíriel asked watching Mista’s tail disappear amongst the pines.

Bushy eyebrows drew together. “My horse. You did not think I walked, did you? No, much too far.”

“I don’t know where you have come from.” Lothíriel felt obliged to point out.

“Don’t you? No, of course you don’t. I, on the other hand, know where you have come from and where you are going.”

“I think I have to go home,” she said, feeling a bit lost and dejected. But she sat on the blanket the old man indicated, her eyes fixed on the piece of flatbread onto which he piled crisp bacon. “I am never going to find my way to my aunt’s now.”

“Not quite what I meant,” the old man muttered into his beard. Folding the bread in half, he handed it to her. “Do you need to go to your aunt’s? I rather wanted to talk to you.”

Lothíriel ignored this, her woes coming pouring out. “I thought she could save me from marrying the Prince of Harad. She doesn’t like Uncle Denethor. But I realize that was foolish and I should trust my father more.” Holding the oozing bread in both hands, Lothíriel knew she was about to cry. Not something she normally did. She sniffed, trying to stop the tears from coming. “I don’t think my father will insist on me marrying him, he doesn’t really like him.”

Her companion, his mouth full of bacon, stared at her puzzled. “Your father does not like Denethor, but he is trying to make you marry him?”

“No! Not Uncle Denethor.  It is he who wants the treaty with Umar and Umar wants to marry me as part of it. I won’t! He’s horrible and evil and I can’t do it. Not even for Gondor. So I ran away but now I am lost. I will never get to my aunt’s so I will have to go home. My father will be so angry.” She sniffed and gulped a bit before continuing, “But hopefully he will realize I am serious about not marrying that evil man.”

Munching on his food throughout this tirade the old man appeared thoughtful. He swallowed and then he looked skywards, twisting his lips as though trying to remember something. “This Umar, what color hair does he have?”

“Hair?” Lothíriel blurted out, hunger and confusion making her slightly irritable. “Black of course.”

“Hmm, as I thought, just like his father. So you have no need to worry at all.  Apart from the fact that you appear too young to marry, you are not destined to wed anyone with black hair.” He attacked his bacon and bread again, dribbling juice down his chin. A large spotted handkerchief materialized from somewhere and he proceeded to clean up his beard.

“Not marry anyone with black hair,” she repeated, wondering if he were slightly mad.

“No, I definitely remember that your husband is to have fair hair.”

“Are you telling me I don’t have to worry because of the color of Umar’s hair?”

For a moment the old man gazed away his eyes becoming slightly vacant, before he turned back and winked at her. A wink looked so funny coming from those deep creased eyes but his words astonished her even more. “You must not fear, child, for no dark haired man will have you. For from the North the fair-haired warrior will come, riding over the plain toward you, claiming what is his.”

Lothíriel gaped. “Fair-haired warrior?”

“Yes, so now you know that, why don’t you just eat and we can talk about something more interesting.”

Suddenly feeling lighthearted, Lothíriel started eating. Grinning when juice ran down her own chin and gratefully accepting the loan of the handkerchief.

Hunger satisfied, she felt much more comfortable. It was obvious that the old man was harmless, although there was certainly something strange about him. But a nice sort of strange. Not anything nasty.

“I am going to have to go if I want to get back home before this evening,” she said when she had finished every morsel and emptied a large tin mug of sweet tea. “Thank you for feeding me and looking after my pony.” She started to get to her feet but the old man frowned, looking towards the gathering clouds in the south.

“You will get very wet if you go home. And anyway, didn’t I say I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think I came all this way just to give you breakfast, do you?”

Startled, Lothíriel stared at him. “You came to talk to me?” He’d already said he had been expecting her. She should have taken more notice of that. “You sound as if you arranged for me to be here.”

“Well of course I did. Otherwise I might have missed you.” His eyes twinkled and he looked to be waiting for her reaction.

“How could you…” He raised one eyebrow and she gave up on that. She should be worried but something about him reassured her. “Alright, who are you? I don’t even know your name.”

“My name? Let me think.” He scratched his ear, pulled his beard and then smiled. “You can call me Seron. That will do nicely.”

Lothíriel started laughing, she knew her ancient languages. “That just means ‘friend’.”

“Very good! Your education has not been neglected.”

“Are you an elf?” He had spoken Sindarin from the first, but then her family mostly spoke it when together. It stopped the servants from knowing quite everything.

“Goodness me! Do I look like an elf?”

Lothíriel shrugged. The drawings in the old tomes showed them shining, fair-faced and young. “You could be a very old elf, I suppose. But I have never seen one, so I don’t really know.”

He put his head on one side in a gesture of astonishment. “You only have to look at your father to get the general idea, and that brother of yours. Hmm…, which one, though?” He gave the matter some serious thought for a moment. Ah, yes, the youngest one.”

Lothíriel had been shocked into silence but she managed to regain her wits when he hesitated. “Are you saying my father and Amrothos look like elves?”

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps look is too strong a word. But anyway, don’t they have mirrors in the palace at Dol Amroth?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth in surprise wanting to ask how he knew her family and where she came from. But then she realized that if he had arranged for her to be there he must know, which made her ask the other intriguing question. “Do you mean that I look like an elf?”

“Not every elf, but you look like one particular elf. At least you will when you grow up.”

Wrapped in a blanket and lying on a bed of bracken that night, Lothíriel decided that it had been the most extraordinary day of her life. She had learnt so much but found out so little. Still having no idea who her new friend really was, except that he was obviously a very learned man. Man? Not sure about that. But sometime during the day she had decided it did not really matter. Settling down to sleep, she could still hear thunder rolling in the distance. Luckily the storm must have stayed near the coast but she hoped her family would not be out looking for her in the rain. Guilt washed over her for a moment. But if she had been meant to come here then she had been meant to run away and they had been meant to spend time looking for her. She didn’t want them to be sad and she would have to go home soon, but Seron had said there was so much to tell her. The first clear night she was to learn the names of all the stars and….

East Emnet – The Riddermark

Leaving Aldburg at the head of his first patrol, Éomer tried to hide the pride that rode with him. But after a few dry comments fromÉothain he realized he had not quite succeeded. He would need to be careful. With all the rest of the men reserving judgment on his leadership, he didn’t want to give them anything to flail him with. Not so arrogant that he dismissed the years of experience that surrounded him, he would be a fool if he did not ask for advice when needed, but any decision was his. And away from his hearing each one he made, good or ill, would be chewed over and digested. Or possibly spat out in disgust.  Nothing to be done about that, it came with the position and he just had to get on with it and not let it bother him.

Looking ahead he picked out the glinting silver ribbon that marked where the Entwash wound through the tall summer grasses. Good.  Nigh on eight leagues from the Fortress to the river, and they had made it in fine time. His scout had reported the water down so they would be able to wade across, leaving the ponderous rafts for the carts and wagons that converged on the ford. The lower crossing was not used as frequently as the Entwade, but to those who lived and traded on the south-eastern borders of the Mark, it provided a direct line from Aldburg to Eastfeld.

They reached the crossing as the day waned, and after a few quick words with a family driving a flock of sheep to the market at Aldburg, Éomer urged Fireball down into the cool water. He took it slowly, walking the stony bed with care to avoid splashing. At need they would gallop through, but wet boots and harness were better avoided when time allowed. Climbing out, the bank was rutted and chewed; clay spit into deep fissures from the summer sun; imprints of a thousand horses persevered until the rains would return them to mud. Moving a little way onto the soft grass Éomer relaxed comfortably into his saddle, waiting for the remaining members of his patrol to cross the river. As he watched their easy progress, listened to their ribald banter, a shaft of awareness hit him – however much he was the same as these men, he also differed from them.  The blood of Eorl ran strongin his veins, his mother – the daughter and sister of a king. Sired by one of the Riddermark’s most consummate warriors, adopted by its sovereign, duty would always call him. Yet duty aside, he loved this land with a fierce love that brooked no counsel and heeded no care. He shifted slightly in his saddle. Only now, when coming up to his twenty-second year, did his father’s armor fit him well - pauldrons sat snuggly on his shoulders; the straps on his cuirass no longer needed extra holes. He might rue the rashness that led to his father’s death but knew that like him he would defend the Mark and its people until his sword shattered in his hand and his blood stained the good green grass.

“Where do you want to make camp? I presume we will head straight for Eastfeld tomorrow,” Éothain said, joining him on the bank and ending his cogitation.

Éomer nodded. His first patrol would take them from Eastfeld down to the marshes of the Entwash and then along the border to the Falls of Rauros. On the way back they would traverse the plain to check on the men and women who lived in the canvas villages set up within sight of the grazing herds. He pointed away to the right. “We’ll camp in the dell by the Nǽdre; it’s only about a league away. The meandering tributary of the Entwash ran through a shallow wooded valley, one of their favorite stopovers. “Make sure everyone is ready to move out, would you.”  He had noticed a couple of his younger Riders still chatting to the daughter of the shepherd. Éothain grinned, and trotted away to round everyone up.

Sleeping in the wild had its own charm, but he looked forward to the following night in Eastfeld and probably so did his men. Most would sleep in the stables but he was unlikely to be the only one offered a bed and not all the beds would be as lonely as his. But if he could have nothing else other than a taste of Bergit’s cooking and some conversation with Edwick, he would take it and be thankful. Friendship transcended rank, and Bergit and Edwick had their own nobility. They, and others like them, were the strength and the heart of the Riddermark. He hadn’t seen them for nearly two months but knew that by now Bergit would be heavy with her second child and Edwick consequently strutting around with a swollen head. He grinned to himself, envying the love the two shared but acknowledging that he had no wish for the responsibility of a wife and a child.  Riding at the head of a group of some of the Mark’s finest warriors brought its own satisfaction.

Twenty-four hours later and he spotted the first roof of Eastfeld. The plain gave way to fenced paddocks and cultivated fields and as they passed, those still working raised their hand or called out in greeting. A patrol arriving meant business for the inn and the shopkeepers as well as the reassurance of continued protection for the villagers. They clattered up the main street, followed by the inevitable gaggle of children and dogs.

The others dismounted in the square but Éomer stayed on his horse. “Are you coming for a mug of ale?” Éothain asked, stretching to ease the stiffness of the day’s ride.

“I’ll see to Fireball and then I will be along.”  He felt it important to spend time with his men, especially as the patrol had been newly formed and needed bonding together into one unit. But he had got into the habit of putting Fireball in Edwick’s spare stable as he liked to be near his horse. Éothain nodded and led his mount away behind the Inn. Éomer took the side street that led to the yard where Edwick ran his business and had his home.

Strange, the gate was closed. Normally Edwick would still be working, and even if he had gone to do a job somewhere, the gate stayed open during working hours. Éomer dismounted. The bars weren’t up so he pushed the heavy gate open, scattering a few pecking chickens.

“Hi, Gárbald where is everyone?” he said, immediately noticing that the doors to Edwick’s workshop were shut fast. The collie, already on his belly, crawled towards him, reaching as far as he could on the end of his chain before rolling onto his back. Éomer bent down to fondle his black ears, and tickle his stomach. They were old friends. Still with one hand on Gárbald’s belly and one holding on to Fireball, Éomer looked around. At the far end of the yard three lines of washing hung limply and two baskets loaded with more sat on the cobbles to the side. It seemed an extraordinary amount for two people and a child. And where was Éomund? The little boy usually toddled out to meet him, arms outstretched to be lifted on top of Fireball. Éomer straightened up and looked over to the stable: the piebald carthorse gazed mournfully out, watching him with doleful eyes. “What’s the matter, Flyhte? You look fed up.”

The manger was full and he had water, so it couldn’t be that. Éomer quickly unsaddled Fireball and installed him in the other stable; he’d come and groom him properly when he had found out what was going on. Sure now that all was not well, he hurried across the yard to the door of the house and lifted his hand to knock. But then something stopped him and he quietly pushed the door open. For a moment all looked as usual: a neat and tidy kitchen; a pot of something simmering on the stove, but slumped over the scrubbed wooden table, head on arms and fast asleep, he saw Bergit.

Unsure what to do for a moment, he hesitated and with that her eyes opened. She lifted her head and stared at him, tiredness dulling her gaze, her pretty features masked by misery. “Oh, Éomer, it’s you.”

“Bergit, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“Shh…!” She put her finger to her lips and waved him outside before struggling to her feet, her advanced pregnancy making her ungainly.

“What is it?” He repeated as soon as the kitchen door shut behind them. She didn’t answer but looked so forlorn that he couldn’t help himself: he put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. She sank gratefully against him, ignoring the hard leather amour and closing her eyes again. He let her lie like that for a few moments, remembering the time before when he had held her in her pain and anguish. Putting his lips against her hair he murmured, “Tell me, Bergit.”

She didn’t lift her head but talked into his chest as if not looking at him would make it easier to bear or at least easier to say. “Edwick had an accident. A cart turned over just outside the village and a young lad got trapped underneath. Edwick lifted it. He put his back under it and they got the boy out. But…” She looked up at him then and from something in her eyes Éomer knew what was coming. His heart lurched with horror. He felt sick. “It came down on top of him. He can’t walk. He can’t move his legs.” She started sobbing. Deep wrenching sobs that tore at him.

To be continued.

Chapter 5

Summer 3012

Eastfeld – The Riddermark.

“We could cope, Éomer. If he would do something we could manage. I’ve worked it all out. But he does nothing. He just lies there. He won’t even watch Éomund while I get on with the chores. I’ve been taking in washing. The herdsmen often look for someone to do it when they stop over in the village and they always bring goods to barter. It’s something I can do with the child around, but it’s getting too heavy for me and with everything else I am so tired.”

Éomer let her talk on for a moment, not saying that he could understand Edwick’s reaction. For such a strong man to face being looked after like a child would come hard. But his life needn’t be that bad, they had warriors at Aldburg with similar injuries and after time most adapted. The thought made him flinch, and he knew that if the same happened to him he would be devastated and would probably react just like Edwick: burying his head and trying to hide. But admitting that would not help Bergit. And she needed help.

“He hates it that I have to see to him, but he doesn’t want anyone else. I’ve told him I still love him and always will, but he doesn’t believe me. I think that if he would accept that I do, he might better come to terms with his misfortune.”

She turned away, put her arms down on the stable door and sobbed into them. Fireball looked up from his manger, wisps of hay protruding from his mouth. But the big horse seeing his master there carried on eating unperturbed. Éomer waited a moment and then gently put his hands on her shoulders. They felt so frail; surely she should not be getting thinner at this time.

Her sobs gradually lessened as he held her and eventually she lifted her head slightly and wiped her sleeve across her eyes. 

“Bergit. You said you’ve worked it all out. What exactly do you mean?” Sniffing a bit, she turned back around; tears had made little furrows down her soft cheeks. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She looked so woebegone that Éomer’s heart went totally out to her. Great Béma! Why did this have to happen when she had already been through so much?

“Well, I have been cleaning out Edwick’s workshop. I thought I could make pies and sell them from there. There are many that don’t bake as good as me and they would go well on market days when the herdsmen bring their families in.”

In spite of his anxiety for her, Éomer couldn’t help smiling. He could believe that.

She took a deep breath. “I have thought of something Edwick could do, yet he won’t hear of it. But it’s a really good scheme.”

He waited, seeing her eyes light up as she expanded on her ideas.

“Willow Baskets! He’s got such strong fingers and arms and they aren’t affected. He could sit in the kitchen to make them. It would do him good to get out of that bed. And we could sell those on market days, too.”

Baskets? Éomer was not sure about that. “Would you sell enough?”

“I think so. We’ve got the biggest market on the Emnet and there is not a really good basket maker. Sedgwick could drive the cart to collect the willows. We had to let him go, but he would willingly come back if I had work for him.” 

“Would that pay enough to keep Sedgwick on?” Éomer asked. Edwick’s young helper was a kinsman and a nice lad, but he could not work for nothing.

She nodded. “He could cut the willows. They grow down by the marshes, half a day away. Rushes, too, not everyone can get their own. It would mean we could keep Flyhte. When we are not using him I could hire him and the cart out with Sedgwick driving.  He’s good enough with the woodwork to keep the cart running, and we’ve got wheels a plenty. He doesn’t mind what he does and would dig the ground for me and help me with the lifting. I could grow more vegetables and fruit for the pies and Edwick’s got an uncle who keeps sheep. Everyone likes my mutton pasties,” she finished, sounding brighter. “We’d manage fine. I’m doing the washing so I don’t have to touch the savings. It means we’ve got enough to start us off.” Her face fell again. “But Edwick won’t even discuss it.”

Éomer felt humbled. Bergit had seen her family butchered, been violated by their filthy killers and now with another baby about to arrive, had a crippled husband to look after. But still she came up fighting. The strength and the heart of the Riddermark, indeed.

“I will talk to him. You go and rest.”

She shook her head. “I’ll have to get the washing in. I can’t leave it out much longer. Then I get you some supper. And it will soon be Éomund’s bedtime.”

No wonder she looked totally exhausted. “Where is Éomund, by the way?” He asked looking round, although he would have soon known if the lively toddler was in the vicinity.

“He’s with my grandmother. But she’s getting old and he tires her out.  We’ve got to keep going for him, and the new babe.” She put her hand on his arm and looked up, her eyes pleading. “Make him listen, Éomer. He respects you. .He’ll take notice.”

Would he? Éomer was not sure he would. But he had to try for Edwick’s sake as well as Bergit. He couldn’t let such a fine man sink into total despair. She looked so desperate and so troubled that Éomer raised his hands to her face. Putting his thumbs against the corner of each eye, he gently wiped away the glistening tears. “Don’t worry, it’s early days. He’ll sort himself out.”

Éomer caught her gaze and for a long moment he held it, seeing reflected in her eyes the horror of what had happened. But then she nodded and as he dropped his hands she turned away. Shoulders sagging she walked towards the washing lines. Éomer watched her for a moment. From behind she still looked slim and girl-like, but her feet dragged with every weary footstep. Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. “Bergit,” he called, “leave that. Don’t get the washing in yet. I will give you a hand in a moment.”

Half turning back to face him, she smiled. “You Éomer? You will help me bring the washing in?”

“Yes, I just want a quick word with Edwick first. Don’t touch it until I come back out.” He left her openmouthed and marched into the house.

Éomer rapped on the door once and then pushed it open. “Can I come in?” He didn’t wait but stepped into the room.  A pair of dull blue eyes greeted him, Edwick’s normally tanned healthy face grey and lifeless. But he still took up an enormous amount of the large bed. A quick look around the room showed that Bergit had not let her housekeeping slacken. The simple furniture shone and on the window ledge a bunch of mixed flowers had been put in a pottery jar. His legs covered by a blanket, Edwick lay half propped, half slumped, but Éomer could see he looked well groomed. A clean woolen shirt, not night attire covered his top half and his hair, as normal, had been combed into a tidy ponytail. Making sure he kept a distance away so as not to tower over the prone man, he held out his hand. “I always thought you would be a brave man when it came to it, Edwick.”

Edwick took it but could hardly meet his eyes. “A fool, you mean,” he said turning his head away.

“I understand you saved a young boy’s life. You can hardly be called a fool for that.”

“No? Then what do you call it? A fool’s no use to anyone and neither am I”.

“I will come back and argue that one later, Edwick. I just came in to say hello. Bergit needs a hand getting the washing in, so if you could just undo my cuirass, I will go and help her.”

Eyes flew to his face, shocked.  “Get the washing in? You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Before Edwick could answer he took a step closer and sat down on the edge of the bed, removing his pauldrons and then lifting his arm to expose the straps on his cuirass. “It’s really difficult to reach them myself.”

 Strong fingers tugged at the leather straps. “You are a lord and a warrior. Washing is women’s work.”

“Normally, maybe. But Bergit’s having to take in extra. And it’s too heavy for her in the condition she’s in. I imagine you would give her a hand if you could. But since you can’t, I will. I certainly don’t consider it beneath me.” He stood up; removing the hard leather breastplate before picking up his pauldrons from the floor. Silence from the bed. Had he got through at all? If he could just put the idea in Edwick’s head that the things Bergit wanted him to do would not demean him further.

“I’ll be back to keep you company soon.” Just as he put his hand on the door, Éomer heard a growling noise from behind him.

Edwick had pushed himself up from the bed a bit, but dropped back, defeated. “It’s because of me she has to do it.”

Thunderous eyes met his, but placidly, Éomer nodded. “Yes, there must be better ways for the two of you to make a living. It just needs thinking about.” With that he quickly exited the door.

Letting out a long sigh of relief he put his armor down in a corner of the kitchen. When he got back in the yard, he saw Éomund had returned. Bergit had him on her hip and they were looking into Fireball’s stall. Her grandmother, Dáwyn caught sight of him, immediately dropping her head in a gesture of respect. It had been four years since he’d brought Bergit back to the village, but the old woman had never lost her awe of him. Éomund, realizing entertainment had arrived, stretched out his arms to be transferred.

“I’ve got to help your mummy a moment,” Éomer said, catching his little nose between two fingers and wiggling it. Éomund immediately dissolved into giggles but amongst them Éomer could make out the word ‘horse’.

“You can have a ride in the morning,” he said. “Right now you can come and help us with the washing.” He heard a shocked gasp from Dáwyn. “Bergit needs help. Isn’t there anyone who could come in?”

“Byrde has offered, but she wouldn’t take anything.” Bergit answered him. “She’s the mother of the lad Edwick saved. But he won’t hear of it. Says he doesn’t want any charity.”

“My other granddaughter will help when the babe comes,” Dáwyn proffered. “He’ll have to accept that. Also there’s a cousin of Edwick’s who wouldn’t mind learning the wheelwright’s skills from him. He’d be happy to pay and give Edwick a percentage, but we daren’t mention it yet. ”

Bergit shook her head. “I’m not sure if he will ever do that. Although the village needs a wheelwright as the nearest one is at Aldburg now.”

--------------------------------

Éomer walked over to the chair in front of the window, sat down the wrong way wrapping his long legs around it and resting arms and chin on the high back. He fixed his gaze on the man in the bed, making it clear he wanted to talk. This time Edwick had obviously pulled himself up in the bed a bit, but apprehension clearly showed in the tightness of his lips.

“Can you sit in a chair?” Éomer asked. “If you can, I’ll carry you through when the meal is ready and you can eat with us.”

“You carry me! I’d like to see that.” Edwick spluttered. The reaction Éomer had intended.

“Well, I suppose you are a bit bigger than the orcs, but I’ll manage.”

 “You don’t have to. I could drag myself if I wanted, but I’d rather eat off a tray.” Edwick’s look challenged any opposition.

But ignoring the scowl he had already provoked, Éomer carried on. “So, with all Bergit has got to do, you’ll let her wait on you.”

Anger now, but also a conflict of emotions as Edwick sought what to say. “I don’t want her seeing me crawling around. It’s bad enough she has to see me at all.”

“Ah…so that’s it, Edwick, you think it would be better if you weren’t here?”

“It would have been better if the cart had crushed my head rather than just my back, if that’s what you mean. What use is half a man to a woman, tell me that!” he snarled, turning his head away again.

“And you think Bergit would have wanted that?” Éomer raised his voice slightly to get some reaction, knowing that although he was trying to bolster his friend up, most men would feel the same. Possibly the worse thing the crippled had to come to terms with. But none of that would help Edwick or Bergit. “All she wants is for you to survive as a family. And what about Éomund? You can still play with him. Tell him stories. Do you think he would rather have no father?”

Edwick looked lost for a moment not knowing how to reply. Éomer drove in again, “Well?”

“I’ve had her love. I don’t want anything less. I can’t live with just her sympathy.”

“Is that what you had for Bergit, sympathy?

“What do you mean?” Edwick replied, dropping his eyes.

Éomer was sure he knew very well and was just stalling for time. But he expounded so that there was no mistake. “When I brought her back to you, was it only sympathy you felt?”

Edwick shook his head, swallowing before he answered. “I loved her, I’ll always love her.”

“I know that. She doubted it, though. Did she tell you she wanted to kill herself?”

“What!”

Well, that got a reaction. “After the attack she wanted to die. When Guflaf wouldn’t do it she tried to take his knife.” 

Edwick opened his mouth, shaking his head in denial. “No…”

“He’s at the Inn; I can get him here if you don’t believe me.”

But Edwick’s face showed he did, even if he was not yet admitting it. “Why should she do that?”

“Have you ever seen an orc, Edwick, or smelt one?”

Edwick opened his mouth again but nothing came out, his already pale face graying even further. Having got him where he wanted, Éomer thrust home. “She thought you wouldn’t want her any more. That you’d not love her because of what happened to her.”

“But it wasn’t her fault…..”  He broke off when he realized what he was saying, dropping his head in his hands.

Éomer waited for the similarities between the two situations to sink in a bit more before he said, “What did you do after I handed her over to you?”

“What do you mean?” Edwick looked back up, eyes hardly meeting his antagonist.

“How did you show her you still loved her?”

His brow furrowed as he decided what to say. “I wed her a few days later. I didn’t want anyone looking at her and speculating. “But….” he paused, reddening slightly, “I knew she wouldn’t be ready to be a wife, so I just kept telling her how much I loved her. Every night I would hold her in my arms until the shaking stopped and she fell asleep.” He shook his head, staring vacantly across the room remembering, “Sometimes she’d wake up screaming and she didn’t want even me near her. It took a few months before she settled properly….but it was worth it.”

Éomer nodded. “I told Bergit she had no right to leave you alone. That she owed you the chance to prove your love for her.” 

“I appreciate whatever you said to her. She always said you helped her but what’s that got to do with this?”

Everything to do with it and Éomer was sure that deep down Edwick knew that. “She’s alone now. You’ve shut her out. She still loves you Edwick, but you’re not giving her the chance to show it. Things will be different but you will still have each other, and the children.” A whole load of emotions passed across the big man’s face. Éomer waited, knowing he could say no more. If he hadn’t got through now then he never would.But just as he was about to give up, Edwick let out a deep sigh and then, looking slightly embarrassed, threw him a rueful smile.

 “She wants me to chop vegetables. She wants me to make baskets.”

Éomer swallowed with relief. “Edwick, there’s a man at Aldburg who was one of our best warriors. He got set upon by three of the brutes and before we got to him they had cleaved him almost in two. Now he sits propped in a chair and makes arrows. But everyone wants them. They are the best arrows in the East-mark.” He grinned, pushing himself up from the chair.  “Bergit will make the best pies; you just make sure you make the best baskets.”

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Tarnost Hills – Gondor

No stargazing tonight. The unseasonable weather had returned and Lothíriel wrapped her thin cloak around herself tightly as the wind tore up the valley, bending the trees and swirling a few dried leaves and sticks into a boisterous heap. An owl hooted mournfully, doubtless bemoaning the prospect of a poor night’s hunting. She probably wouldn’t see or hear the nightjars either. Alerted by their churring song the evening before, she had spent a fascinating hour watching the pair of slim-winged birds hawking for moths at the edge of the trees, while a blood-red sun slowly slipped down behind her.

Another gust of wind, and it looked as if the fire would at last go out. Lothíriel gazed dubiously at it, half wishing a pot of stew bubbled contentedly on the stones. Not that she was really hungry, but after the bacon and one meal of bread and cheese, they had been eating a special kind of journey-bread. If fact, she had her suspicions that the bacon had only been provided to lure her to his camp, Seron seemed much more attuned to the elvish waybread he had been feeding her. And although tasty enough, she admitted, it didn’t fill one’s stomach or keep you warm. In fact, it made her feel amazingly light. Almost as if she could stretch her arms up and let the wind take her sailing over the treetops and up towards the stars. She shivered; what a foolish thought.

“Are you cold?”

Lothíriel  nodded. “A bit.”

Stretching out a long, grey-garbed arm, Seron stirred up the fire with a stick. It blazed into life. She gasped as flames shot upwards, almost singeing his bushy eyebrows, jerking back in amazement when suddenly he seemed to grow in stature. For a moment it was as if some mighty lord had joined her to warm himself by the crackling logs. As she stared mesmerized, from one hand she saw a flash of brilliant red. But then the vision, if that what it was, receded, shrinking him back to being just an old man; her companion of the last few days. She blinked and looked again, expecting to see a vivid gemstone on his finger, but nothing. As she thought, his hands were bare of ornament, the only red now coming from the dancing flames reflected in his eyes. How strange, but no stranger than the extraordinary way she had been brought to this place.

Who was he? Where did he come from? That he could keep the fire going with hardly any fuel, only one odd thing about her friend. Lothíriel knew she was not going to get answers, as so far he had neatly turned every question. But then he tended to talk in riddles anyway.  Except when he told her stories.

Seron sat back from the fire, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “One never sees the whole of everything, and sometimes it is the parts we don’t see that are the most interesting.”

Lothíriel burst out laughing; just as she had been thinking – riddles! She stopped laughing as intense eyes fixed on her. Suddenly she felt as if he could see right inside her, discern her every thought and secret longing. But as she lifted her eyes to meet his, she realised she had nothing to fear. “What story are you going to tell me tonight?”

She had heard tales of the Sea-kings of old; of Eärendil sailing across the sky, determined to go West; of the love between Beren and Lúthien; the sadness of Amroth and Nimrodel. He brought the stories to life far better than the old books in the library at Dol Amroth.

But most interesting to her: the story of her supposed ancestor, the Elven lady Mithrellas, companion to Nimrodel. She had born two children to Imrazór the Númenórean, their son Galador being the First Lord of Dol Amroth. 

 “Ah,” he smiled and the twinkle returned to his eyes. “What did I tell you last night?”

“That I truly have an Elven ancestor.” The legend was steeped in the lore of her land, but he had confirmed it and somehow she totally believed him.

“And you doubt it no longer?”

She shook her head. Now why did he look like that, sort of satisfied. “Is it important that I do not doubt it?”

“Only in that you need to recognise that you have a choice as to whether you deny your gift or use it.”

Her mouth went dry. “I don’t get a choice. I see things and I cannot stop them. And I don’t always like what I see.” Sometimes she saw disturbing things like a few years ago when she had seen an image of one of their ships floundering and then bumped into the master’s wife in the courtyard, all bright and cheerful. She had woken that night to the sound of the great bell tolling and buried her head under the pillow.

“Ah…of course. But I didn’t actually mean that particular gift. If gift it is. You will learn to manage that. It is something I can help you with.” He smiled; the warmth in his eyes clothing her in reassurance. “No, I meant the other thing, the connection you have with animals,” he paused … “and people. When are you going to accept that?”

He could read her secret thoughts. She squirmed, shifting on her log. “I want to, but…. My family, they already think it odd. I am not sure they will understand.”

“No they probably won’t. But that should not stop you. They may feel uncomfortable, but you, my child will feel considerably more comfortable. Refuting a truth can make one greatly troubled. Besides that, withholding a skill that could be used to help others could be counted as dishonest.”

“Do you really think I could help people? I have only tried it on animals and once on Oríon. But whatever it is only calms them. It does not actually heal them.”

“No, because you have had no tuition. But combine your gift with proper instruction and you will be of real use in the times to come. The healers of Dol Amroth are without equal, their knowledge and your natural ability…”

 “You are saying that I should use the gift I have been given to help others. To work with the healers?” She couldn’t imagine what her father would say. A princess of Gondor working with blooded bandages and dealing with sickness and fevers. Help, yes she could imagine that. Cutting and rolling clean bandages perhaps, but tending wounded men…? Times to come, what did he mean by that?

“I am not saying you should, Lothíriel. It is not easy to put aside the privileges of your birth and walk a different path. But I am saying you have the choice. Give freely now, build on the capability you have been given and you will gain strength and skill. If you do this, then one day in your utmost need you will be given the power to save the one you love above all others.” He looked skywards, his brows creasing and his gaze somewhere far away. “But even then you will have to decide, and it will not be an easy choice.”

None of this was easy. Somewhere deep inside her Lothíriel knew she could not spend her life as an idle noblewoman. She had always fought against it, but she had never thought that she would be expected to be a healer. Or had she? But calming animals had to be different from setting bones and stitching torn flesh. Save the one she loved? What did he mean by that?  “You really think I will be able to do this?”

“I think you need to. Sometimes in life we know not what we seek, but when we find it we wonder how we missed it.”

She wished he would talk more plainly. He had said such strange things over the previous days. “You think that this is something I can choose to do or not. That once I start to use the gift I have it will grow and develop and if I follow this path I will have earned the right to heal someone I love.”

He shrugged. “It may not happen. Nothing is certain. But I have to make provision in case all we hope comes to pass. I can’t take care of the big things at the moment, it is far too soon. So I am taking care of the little things. If one does that, then the bigger things tend to take care of themselves.”

So her affairs were a little thing. She could believe that. She yawned. It must be very late the sun had gone down ages ago. A thought struck her: If her affairs were so little, why had he come from wherever to talk to her, trying to persuade her to train as a healer to save someone she loved. “Why is it important for me to save this person? It must be or you would not have gone to all this trouble to find me.”

“Ah, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? I thought you said you arranged for me to arrive here.”

“Exactly,” he said, beaming, “you found me.”

Lothíriel shook her head with exasperation. She had never met anyone like him. She grinned. “You still haven’t told me why this person is important. The one I am supposed to heal.

“Oh, didn’t I? Well, kings are important. Middle-earth does not have many. I’m hoping we will have another, but of course we may not end up with any at all. But if we do, I want to make sure we don’t lose another one.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth. Closed it again and then opened it slowly. “You said I would marry a warrior.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“But now you are saying that the person I love will be a king and I will need to save his life.”

“Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.  Don’t look so surprised, princesses and kings go well together.”

He laughed, probably at her gaping at him again. “Well, now we have got that straight I suggest that it’s time for bed.”

To be continued

Chapter 6 – Summer 3012

Dol Amroth

The new dawn brought no hope to the four men who had gathered in the book-lined room. Already linked by kinship and friendship, despair now joined them in a futile alliance. This was probably why, with no prior agreement and after only a few hours contact with starched linen, they had independently made their way to Imrahil’s study.

Leaning with one hand on each window mullion, Sergion, commander of Swan-knights, watched a black-backed gull chasing a guillemot low over the top of the waves. Weaving and darting, the little bird fought desperately to shake off its pursuer. Diving though a crest, it emerged far beyond the foaming top only to be snatched by another gull sweeping down from above. Sergion sighed audibly, dropping his hands and turning back to face the other occupants of the room.

Erchirion, hand on sword hilt, paced back and forth by the door. Every heavy step reverberating on wooden boards. His brother Elphir, heir to the Princedom, sat to one side of the desk. Face pinched with misery, he repeatedly picked up a small glass paperweight between thumb and forefinger, dropping it back down on the leather-topped wood in time to the thump of booted feet.  Also at that desk, shoulders slumped, head in hands, and ignoring the persistent jarring made by his two eldest sons, sat the Lord of Belfalas. To those who knew him he appeared a parody of his former self: a broken man, just holding on to hope.

Deep in self recrimination, Imrahil tried to tell himself that although every barren day lessened the chance, they would find his daughter. But if he were honest, they had run out of options. Wearily he ran through the steps they had already taken, searching for something they had missed. Elphir and Sergion had taken fifty men and ridden as far as Edhellond, checking every farmhouse and cottage. Nobody had any news of Lothíriel. But even if she had managed to dodge the patrols she would have had to find food somewhere. And shelter. Two days of atrocious weather had obliterated any possibility of picking up Mista’s tracks and even the keen-nosed hounds had no chance of fixing on a scent after the unseasonable deluge. Amroth and Oríon had taken men and dogs out as soon as the storm had abated, scouring the countryside around the city for days, but nothing. Erchirion had twice pulled every ship and every house along the nearby coast apart in the hunt for his sister. But at least they knew that with the tide out that fateful night, nothing had sailed from the harbour before they had searched it. And anyway, with Mista gone it was much more likely that Lothíriel had taken off somewhere on her own. But a trawl along the beaches produced no sign, and the only result from his visit to Ivriniel had been a dressing down for exposing his daughter to the machinations of politics.

The tramping stopped suddenly. “I’ll go after him.”  Erchirion took a deep breath, his already massive chest swelling with intention.

Imrahil dropped his hands and lifted his head, seeing his own desolation mirrored in his son’s grey eyes. Blessed Eru, and he must look like Erchirion, sunken cheeks and grey, pasty skin. “Go after whom?” he asked, although he had a pretty good idea.

“That Haradric scum. He must have taken her. I’ll take a fast barque and a few men, hire horses in Umbar.” Erchirion’s hand tightened even more on his sword hilt. Drawing his gaze away from his father, his eyes flicked about the room looking for reaction.

The words bit through the apathy around him. Elphir pushed the paperweight away and stood up, but at the window Sergion shook his head. “You would never catch him before he reached his own lands. And anyway, he could not have done it, Erchi. A score of men escorted them to their ship. A ship you searched twice”.

“They could have taken her in a rowing boat and met the ship out past the reef.” Erchi argued.

“We would have known; they had nowhere to hide her.” His measured tones spoke logic.”

Imrahil agreed. “And, I swear he was as surprised as us. That would have taken planning.”

“Well, I can’t stay here doing nothing. I will take a company along the road to Linhir, search the villages, somebody must have news of her.”

His father very much doubted it: errand-riders had ridden out in every direction. He could not really believe that anyone would hide or restrain their princess – the consequences for doing so would be immensely harsh, against the reward for succouring her which would be great. But before any further discussion could take place the door flew open. Documents let loose by the misappropriated glass weight fluttered on the desk, and Amrothos launched himself into the room. He banged the door behind him, and the documents wafted to the floor. For the first time in a week Imrahil saw hope on his son’s face.

“I’m riding out. Larca got me up. He wants me to follow him.” Amrothos’s voice rose well above his normal tones. He stepped up to face his father across the desk, trampling papers and parchment under his feet.

Imrahil sighed. “Amroth, you tried that before. You took Larca into the paddock and asked him to find Mista. But he’s not a trail dog.”

Amrothos shook his head impatiently. “No, don’t you see. A week ago he just sat there, refusing to move. It wasn’t the right time. Now he wants to go, and it’s got nothing to do with following a trail. He and Mista have some other connection. With Lothíriel, too. You know she’s fey, and the three of them have a special relationship. He’s been scratching at my door trying to get me to go with him.”  Dropping his hands to support himself on the desktop he leant over towards his father, eyes pleading.  “We’ve got to take the chance, Father. It might be our only hope.”

“What utter rubbish!” Snarling at his brother Erchirion threw his arms up in the air in disgust. “Are you telling me we will waste time following a mangy old dog, goodness knows where, because of some connection it has with a horse?”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Amrothos rounded on him. “Just because you cannot understand anything more subtle than a sword through the guts, does not mean that such things don’t exist. Lothíriel has something strange about her whether you acknowledge it or not, and I don’t care what it is if it helps us to find her. I shall go alone if necessary. I only came here because I have no idea how far we shall have to follow him.”

“Not far, the nearest rabbit warren, most likely.” Erchirion scoffed. “We should not have let those damn Southrons go. They must have taken her.”

Amrothos tossed his head in scorn. “You think they rolled her in a tent and threw her into the hold? And I suppose they roasted and ate Mista!”

Erchirion took a step towards Amrothos, hand balled into a fist, but before Imrahil could react strong fingers closed around Erchirion’s arm. “Leave it, Erchi. This is not the time to quarrel.” Sergion held on to him until he relaxed.

“You do what you like; I am going to search the villages towards Linhir,” Erchirion retorted, shrugging off the older man. The door slammed behind him, sending the documents in all directions

Amrothos, as though he had never been interrupted, immediately renewed his plea. “Father, are you coming, or shall I go alone?”

Elphir stretched, and then bent down to gather up the wayward paperwork. “I’ll come with you, Amroth. We have nothing to loose, and it’s better than sitting around here wrangling.” He dumped documents on the desk in an untidy pile. “It’s worth a try, Father. The three of them were always going off together, and Amroth’s right about Lothíriel, she certainly is a bit fey.”

True, and they had nothing else to go on. Imrahil knew he would go mad if he stayed sitting around doing nothing. He sympathised with Erchi there. “I will come but someone has to stay. If there is news from anywhere else decisions may have to be made.” He looked directly at Sergion.

Sergion nodded. “I will stay here. You will be better doing something.”

Imrahil stood up.  “I am grateful, my friend. I know you feel this as much as we do.” He went around the desk, and clasped Sergion’s arm. “As always your support is unstinting.”

The small group: Imrahil; six of his guard; Elphir; Amrothos and Oríon, who insisted on being included, assembled in the space in front of the gates, waiting for provisions to arrive from the kitchens. None, except perhaps Larca, had any idea where this would lead. Waiting in the entranceway to the city, ignoring the curious stares of the gatekeepers, the lurcher stood poised for departure. His customary bored expression replaced by one of controlled impatience, holding his narrow head swivelled back towards the group of men, ears pricked.

Somehow, seeing the dog obviously prepared to lead them gave Imrahil a surge of hope. Not everything could be explained rationally, and Amroth and Lothíriel, out of them all, showed the most understanding of both dogs and horses.  “We’re ready, Father.” His son’s voice broke into his reverie.

Imrahil nodded. “Right, you lead, Amroth. It’s you the dog relates to.” A few citizens hung around, some offering quiet words of support, and some looking downright surprised at the prospect of their lord and his sons following a lurcher. But Imrahil had no intention of explaining his actions.

Once out under the stone arch, Larca immediately dodged below the rails into the home paddock. But Amroth must have been expecting that because a guard stood ready to open the bottom gate.  A lively canter up through the field, accompanied by much head tossing and bucking from the permanent residents –  Warlord, Imrahil was pleased to see could still manage a good turn of speed – brought them out  on the main way that ran from the port to Edhellond.

Amroth leaned down from his horse to open the top gate, and with no hesitation Larca turned left. The way they had all expected Lothíriel to have gone. The way they had searched thoroughly. The dog, not heeding any doubts, trotted along the edge of the beaten way. Amroth kept his mount close but did not push the pace. He had no idea how far they would be, and the dog was getting on in years. Being born almost the same time as Lothíriel, they had grown up together. Maybe that counted for something.  But maybe not, and he was a fool to think the dog could find her. But fool or not, he’d take any chance at all to get his sister back. His father had aged ten years in the past week, and … Where was Larca going? With no warning the dog had disappeared into the trees on the right.

“We’ve been up there,” Oríon said coming to his side. “There’s a track that runs parallel to the road for a good way. The hounds didn’t pick up anything. Even though we searched for a good distance.”

“Yes, but any scent would have been washed away. And she could have taken the track to dodge the patrols.” But where would she have gone then, the track joined the road again after a league. If she’d left it she could only have gone inland. Not wanting to imagine what could happen to his sister lost in the wilds of the Tarnost Hills, Amroth kicked his horse and followed Larca through a stand of beech, their leaves glowing bright green in the morning sun. 

Tarnost Hills

Lothíriel dipped one toe in the water, but drew it out rather hurriedly. Did she really say she would bathe in the stream? Chiding herself for being a coward, she gingerly lowered herself into the water. Great Ulmo! She would freeze to death; the sea was never as cold as this. Teeth chattering, she rubbed herself over quickly with the small bar of soap and ducked again before scrambling out onto the bank and wrapping her cloak tightly around her. Struggling into her clothes, she thought longingly of her own chamber, the hot baths that were available at need and the endless supply of clean clothes. A week in the wild with only one spare shirt to her name had made her appreciate the luxuries of her home. Food too, she grinned. No doubt it would be waybread for breakfast.

When she got back to the cave, Seron held out a mug of steaming tea. It appeared to be one thing he had in plenty. Gratefully she cradled it in both hands. She should have waited until after noon to take her bath, it would at least have been warm when she got out.

“Do you feel better?” Seron asked her.

“Colder,” she replied grinning. “I always wanted to live in the wilds but now I am not so sure. When I’ve been camping with Amroth on the islands I could wash in the sea. And we cooked fish over the fire.” She took the small piece of waybread he passed her and pulled a face, remembering other pleasures. “The cook used to give us pasties to put on the hot stones.”

“Being concerned about one’s stomach is a sign of youth. At my age you have no time to eat. Too much time is spent thinking and when one remembers one is hungry, the appetite has gone.”

Lothíriel was not sure she followed that, but had got so used to his strange manner of speech that she didn’t bother to query it. She usually worked it out later. Now what was he doing? Seron had his head on one side and appeared to be listening. All of a sudden he stood up and put two fingers to his mouth, letting out a soft whistle. “What is it?” she asked.

“You have to go.”

“Go? Now.?” She scrambled to her feet, but Seron was already heading for the cave, tossing his answer over his shoulder.

“Yes, come on. Get your things together.” As he spoke he disappeared into the cave, coming back out with her bag even before she could get there. “Hurry, you need to be at the appointed place.”

Lothíriel started to feel a bit anxious, wondering why she should have to leave in such haste. “Where? Where am I going?”

“Home of course. Your family will be worried. I suppose I should not have kept you so long, but I will justify it to your father one day.”

“One day. Not now?”  Somehow she had assumed he would be coming back with her.

“No, no. I have to be…”He put his finger to his forehead. “Let me think, where do I have to be? He shook his head, “No matter; when I get there I will know.”

In spite of her apprehension Lothíriel couldn’t help giggling. That made his eyes sparkle and his lips quiver. “Ah, here’s your pony. Come along now.”

Mista appeared from the direction of the stream, whickering softly when he saw his mistress. Before she even thought about it she was on his back, but after feeling disconcerted at the abrupt way she was being sent home, she suddenly found she was eager to be off. Seron put his hand on Mista’s head, talking quietly to him. “There, he knows where to go. Let him find his own way.”

“Will I see you again?” she asked, feeling a bit sad about leaving him in such a hurry but wanting to see her family.

Seron took hold of her hand, rubbing a long finger over her knuckles. “That, my child, is something I cannot answer. If all goes well we will meet again. But nothing is certain and we must just do our best and hope. Now off with you”. He squeezed her hand. “It is time.”

Eyes moist with unshed tears, Lothíriel nudged against Mista’s flanks. But as the pony moved forward Seron unexpectedly snaked out a hand from his loose, grey sleeve and grabbed its mane. Mista backed, letting out a whinny of protest. Clutching Lothíriel’s arm, Seron stared deep into her wet eyes, his own darkening.  “Your bow,” he whispered feverishly. “You must keep it with you whenever you leave the palace. You will not wed him, but that does not mean you have nothing to fear. Promise me!”

Swallowing hard, a jolt of terror rushed through her. But she nodded and although thoroughly uneasy now, when his face relaxed into a smile, she managed one back.

“Good girl, you will come through. The horse will look after you.”

“Horse? What horse, Seron?”

“Your horse, of course. Now go on, there is no time to waste hanging around here.” A last squeeze of her hand, before he patted Mista’s rump and the little pony took off towards the track that climbed up the side of the escarpment. Lothíriel looked back and saw her friend leaning on his stick watching her. She waved, and he raised his hand. His last warning had turned the pleasure of going home into apprehension; she would have to hang on to all the other things he had told her. But from what he had said the world would change and no-one would be completely safe. She swivelled her head once more, but the overhang of the rock hid him from her sight. Would she ever see him again?

------------------------------------

Amroth couldn’t believe it: for three hours Larca had been right in front of him, but now the dog had disappeared.

“Where did he go?” Oríon looked around, mystified.

“I am not sure. He must have dodged into the trees.” They had halted on the edge of an extensive area of scrubby woodland criss-crossed by animal tracks; the trees were not dense but too thick to see very far.

“What’s happening?” Imrahil called, catching up with them.

“He’s gone. Somewhere that way.” Amroth pointed. “But there is no true path just a lot of tracks.”

“The habited areas are way to the south; these upland regions are pretty desolate. I am beginning to think Erchi was right.”

His father’s initial optimism had waned. Amroth desperately wanted to keep hope alive, for all their sakes. “I’m not so sure. Larca has not faltered up to now. We’d better spilt into twos and search around.  More ground will get covered that way.”

Imrahil sighed, still sounding despondent. “I suppose we mustn’t give up now. Use your horns to keep in touch.” He looked up at the sun, just starting to disappear behind a bank of cloud. “We’ll give it a couple of hours and meet back here.”

Half an hour threading down through the trees brought Amroth and Oríon onto a grassy plateau on the steep side of a narrow vale.  Someway below them a stream chattered over jumbled rocks. They stopped, eyes scanning up and down the hillside and along the valley floor.   Nothing!

But then, as the sun emerged from behind a cloud and the opposite slope threw off it shadow, Oríon shouted.  “Mighty Eru, look!” 

Amroth’s eyes searched in the direction of his friend’s outstretched arm. It couldn’t be! He blinked; desperately wanting to believe what he was seeing. The image was still there – just below the ridge on the other side of the valley a pony and rider moved along a narrow track. And trotting in front of them, immediately recognisable, the slim form of Larca.

Blessed Elbereth! Amroth put his horn to his lips and blew loud and clear. Kicking his horse hard and paying no heed to the rough ground, he took off down the hillside, thoughts centred only on the need to reach his sister.

 ---------------------------------

The clear notes of the horn ripped through the trees, the high staccato of the call for quarry sighted piercing the still air. Imrahil and Elphir stared at each other, hope chasing away the increasing despair that had been bearing down on them. As Imrahil listened, a cold sweat broke over him. Only then did he admit how much, since they had started to range over this wild land, he had been expecting to hear the mournful drone of the Mort.

“That way!” Elphir pointed, and they took off in the direction from which the sound had come. Some minutes later they heard the horn again, this time the call of ‘to me’. Following the soundthey headed more to the left and a better defined track opened up through the trees allowing them to race along. Now joined by the other members of the party who had answered the insistent notes, Imrahil urged his horse ahead, heedless of the twigs whipping against his face. Down into a stream gulley and up the other side, he at last emerged into the open. The narrow track continued along the hillside, but he reined his mount to a halt. Praise the Valar, the relief made him feel physically sick. He closed his eyes and opened them again, as Elphir reined his horse in alongside him.

“Great Ulmo, he’s got her,” Elphir whispered, his voice cracking.

“Yes.” Imrahil couldn’t get anything more out. Amroth had his sister huddled against him, looking like he would never let her go. Mista trotted along behind with Larca at his heels. The dog had done it, and Imrahil vowed it would live off venison for the rest of its life. Holding on to his patience he backed his horse into the trees, the track too narrow to allow a meeting. But moments later, having jumped down to the soft forest floor, he was holding up his arms to catch his daughter.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she mumbled as he crushed her against him.

Elphir caught Amroth’s eye, and mouthed, “Where has she been?”

Amroth shrugged. “Evidently an old man gave her shelter. In the next valley there’s a cave. Oríon’s gone to look for him.”

Elphir frowned, and signalled to the men behind him. “We’ll go and find this old man.”

He took off along the track. Lothíriel, safe in her father’s arms, realised what her brother was doing.  But she didn’t worry, somehow knowing that her friend Seron would be long gone.

East Emnet – The Riddermark.

Gradually the camp settled, a few men already wrapping their cloaks around them and bedding down until their turn to watch. But then the wind got up suddenly, as it so often did on the plains, setting the grasses rustling and disturbing the horses. A Rider left the fire making to where they were tethered, his soft voice already crooning words of reassurance.  Éomer didn’t move, continuing to stare into the fire, seeing not the bright dancing flames but rather a tear streaked face and haunted desperate eyes.

“Here, take a gulp of this. You look as though you need it.”

Éothain passed him a horn containing a dark liquid. He sniffed. “Bema, Éothain. What is it?”

“Something my old mother distils from the cider apples. It’s a bit sweet but packs a mighty kick.” He took a glug from his own horn. “Ahh..,” he said wiping his hand across his mouth. “It gets worse the longer it’s made.”

Not to be outdone, Éomer tipped up the horn, taking a big swallow. Bad mistake, he realised as he started coughing, his throat on fire. At least it left a warm glow. He coughed again –  make that a hot blaze.

“Good?” Éothain inquired, sounding deceptively innocent. When Éomer didn’t answer he sat down next to him, sipping at his drink. “We could have stayed for a few days, the men would have understood.”

He’d not deny he’d been tempted; leaving his friends in such circumstances had come hard to him. But in a similar situation none of his men could have chosen to stay. The safety of the Riddermark came higher than two good people and even the king’s nephew. He shook his head, holding out the drinking horn for another measure – the stuff wasn’t too bad when you got used to it – “At least I left Edwick propped at the table and not in the bed. And there is family around to give help, he just wouldn’t let them near to begin with.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, giving a quick squeeze before being withdrawn. Éothain not one to show too much emotion. “A bad call. And after all the lass has been though. She didn’t deserve this.”

Éomer sighed. No, she didn’t and neither did an honest and true man like Edwick.

To be continued

Chapter 7

Dol Amroth  Summer 3012

The gallop had been wonderful, and as soon as her feet touched the ground, Lothíriel flung her arms around Whitewing’s warm neck. “Oh, I enjoyed that.” The mare disdained to reply, merely shaking her head and half dragging her rider towards the stable. Lothíriel laughed. “Oh, all right, we will go and get your breakfast.”

Sergion dismounted from Thunderer, handing him over to his groom, but Lothíriel waved hers away. She wanted to see to Whitewing herself and led the mare into her stall to remove bridle and saddle. With a whicker of pleasure Whitewing plunged her head into the open feedbag. Grinning at the sound of the horse’s contented chomping, Lothíriel removed the saddlecloth and grabbed a handful of straw to rub her down.  Halfway through one flank she felt eyes upon her and knew Sergion was watching her. Nothing surprising in that – they had all been watching her since she had returned, but not one word of reproach from any of them. Her atrocious conduct ignored in the joy of having her home.

Saying nothing, she continued the long smooth strokes, trying to put off the inevitable questions. The whole ride they had talked commonplaces and pleasantries, but she was under no illusion that Sergion’s offer of an escort for a long fast gallop had been aimed at putting her at her ease and getting her to talk. She could just imagine her father suggesting it, too. Not that she blamed him, as so far she had found it difficult to say much at all. They knew where she had been – Elphir had found the cave – burnt wood still warm – but they wanted to know more about Seron, and so far she had been unable to share her experiences. Worse though, they wanted to know exactly why she had run away. Twice, when her father had cuddled her close, she had wanted to tell him. But deep down she still felt ashamed that Umar desired her. She’d almost told Amroth when he’d walked with her to check on Mista, but somehow the moment had passed and they had just discussed the miracle of Larca finding her. Taking a deep breath, she looked up to see Sergion smiling at her.

“As much as I like to see you riding Whitewing, you are going to need a more challenging mount very soon, Lothíriel.”

“I love her, Sergion, and I am really grateful you did not sell her,” she said, knowing that having the horse around must constantly bring back memories of his wife, who had also loved to gallop on the beach. “But you are right, and Father promised he would look for something really special …” She stopped. Firstly because the mention of a new horse brought Seron’s words to mind – ‘the horse will look after you.’ Did he mean Whitewing or another? Whitewing was a kindly horse, but she didn’t strike one as noble or brave, and besides, she wasn’t really hers. But secondly, with her recent very un-princesslike behavior, punishment seemed more likely than the present of a new horse.

“Your father is not angry with you, Lothíriel. He is worried and confused.”

Lothíriel felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Trust Sergion to know what she was thinking. Her guess had been correct: get her on her own and then pounce. Feeling cornered with nowhere to run she dropped her eyes, stirring the straw with the toe of her boot.

“We are all confused, and think there is something you are not telling us. Your father hoped you would confide in him. But if you can’t tell your father, Lothíriel, can you tell me? In the past I have been honored with your confidences.” Sergion smiled, twinkling grey eyes at her. “Remember the time you poured soap into the fountain, who did you come running to then?”

“That’s not fair,” she blurted out. “And you know I didn’t realize the water from the fountain fed grandfather’s carp pond. I would never…”

A large hand landed on her shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t. Just as I know who put you up to such a trick, even though you refused to say. You have always kept your own counsel, but this is not the same, Lothíriel. Your father needs to know why you behaved so outrageously and put yourself in such danger. Surely you can’t really believe he would promise you to that man. Send you to live in a remote country when you are not yet fourteen! Do you trust him so little that you had to run away?”

Silence, except for her own breathing. It competed with Whitewing’s pleasurable munching to fill the stall with sound. Lothíriel couldn’t raise her eyes and dug her teeth into her lip until it hurt. Releasing the flesh, she ran her tongue around her lips, and deliberately swallowed before speaking. “It’s Umar I don’t trust. He is evil. I don’t want anything to do with him. I don’t want us to have anything to do with him. Father mustn’t believe one word he says.”

Sergion sighed. “I admit I can’t take to the man. But we have no reason to think he wouldn’t keep his word if we made a treaty. And although it upset you, and we would never agree to it, through the ages treaties have been strengthened by marriage ties. And it may seem strange to us, but they do wed very young girls in Harad.”

“Not girls of nine!” she retorted angrily, glaring up at him. “Even there, surely they don’t do that.”

 “No…,” he said frowning, “but Umar made no such suggestion. He said their customs allowed marriage at twelve. Far too young for us, I know, but they have different ways…” Her expression must have alerted him that something more lay behind her outburst than simple dislike because he paused, hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. Kind eyes studied her, “What is it, Lothíriel? What’s this all about?”

Lothíriel pulled her head away, breaking the contact and staring down at the floor. But that wasn’t enough so she closed her eyes, the only way she could get the words out. Even then her voice sounded a monotone to her own ears. “I saw him. That first time he came. Before he came to the palace that night. I went for a ride in the forest and came down onto the beach. I didn’t realize they were camping there. He took one look at me and sent his men after me. Sergion, he wanted to .. he…he  wanted to take me to his bed,” she got out at last. “I had to hide in the cave. I was so frightened….”  She gulped frantically, a great sob welling up, but before it even left her throat, Sergion had pulled her against him.  With the relief of finally telling someone, the tears flowed and Lothíriel buried her head deep into blue wool, powerless to stop them.

--------------------

            Imrahil stood at his window, gazing down into the courtyard, wondering how long it would take his daughter to actually enter the Healing-house. Kicking her feet in the dust, she looked so childish and innocent. A wave of hot anger shot through him: if he ever came face to face with that pervert Umar again, he would tear him into small pieces and throw the bits to the dogs. Hunting a nine-year old child for his pleasure: the man was deranged. As Imrahil watched, his daughter reached up to pick a leaf from the bay-tree that shaded the doorway. She crushed it between her fingers before putting it to her nose.  Then, the leaf discarded, her hand dropped to her side. But still she lingered at the entrance, knowing perhaps that once she stepped across the threshold her life would be changed forever.  “Go on,” he said aloud, although she could not hear, and did not move. A rap on the door made him draw away from the window, calling the command to enter. 

“She told you?” Sergion asked as he closed the door behind him.

“Everything, I think.” Imrahil confirmed. “Once she started she could not stop. Mind you a lot of it sounded very muddled. Evidently she thought him to be some kind of soothsayer. He told her she would never marry Umar, something about the wrong color hair. He said she would marry a king.”

Sergion raised his eyebrows at this.  “Don’t fortune-tellers tell one what one wants to hear?”

Imrahil shrugged. “Probably, but I am not sure this Seron is an ordinary mystic. Not from some of the things Lothíriel told me. And the strange way Larca found her; I cannot get my head around that.”

“No, I agree, but we may never find out the truth. Where is Lothíriel now?”

Imrahil looked back out the window; the bay-tree had been abandoned. “Gone to talk to the Master, she wants to train as a healer. That’s another thing her mentor advised, but she had been dreading asking me for permission...however, I have no objection.”  A faint smile appeared on Sergion’s face. “You don’t look surprised,” Imrahil said.

Sergion shook his head. “Not really. Lothíriel has always had an empathy with injured creatures; it’s only a whisker away from treating people. What surprises me more is that you have condoned such an unusual step.”

“I see no harm. To be honest, Sergion, I feel it may be a way of keeping her occupied and safe for the time being. She cannot be allowed to roam the countryside alone ever again. Which is something we have to discuss: I want her to have her own guard.”

“You think she is in danger?

Imrahil nodded silently.

 “From Umar?” Sergion asked with a frown.

“You heard what he said before he left — by his law she now belongs to him. He expected us to give her up when we found her.  I would not have taken much notice if we had not discovered his true character, but it’s obvious he desires Lothíriel, as wife or slave. With the Corsairs becoming increasingly active, I will take no chances with her safety. The bastards kidnap anyone for a price and Umar would well be able to pay.  I can’t lock her in the city, Sergion, she will want to ride and swim.” Maybe he was overreacting, but after nearly losing his daughter he would make no excuses to his friend for such anxieties.

But Sergion gripped his arm, supportive as always. “It seems bizarre that he would attempt to kidnap her, but I agree we cannot be complacent. Do you want me to find volunteers; we will need a reliable captain.”

“Yes, I want a first-rate guard. Men I can trust with my daughter.”

“Imrahil, if you are set on this, then I will captain Lothíriel’s guard myself. I will keep her safe.”

“You, my friend. You, who command all my troops, would give that up to look after my daughter?”

“There are others fiercely loyal to their lord, younger men who are looking for promotion and can take my place. But we are talking about a protector for Lothíriel, and I owe my son’s life to her.”

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Cool and dark, the ante-chamber provided relief from the bright heat of the day. The clerk looked up, smiling as he recognized her. “Hello, Princess, what can I do for you?” He stretched his thin neck towards her, eyes seeking a burden. “Have you brought an injured creature for us to mend?”

“No, not today, Cullas. I wanted to see the Master.”

Cullas looked surprised but did not question her. “I’ll go and tell him, he’s in his office. We are very quiet, it being summer and with no raids lately.”

A few minutes later Lothíriel stood in front of a plain wooden desk. A pile of massive leather-bound tomes nearly hid the man sitting behind it. He poked his head around the obstruction, quill still in hand.  Lothíriel bit her lip, he always reminded her of a grey stork – a small head and beaky nose set upon a lanky body.

“Cullas said you wanted to talk to me, Princess.”

Now she felt really nervous. He would not be expecting this. “I want to train as a healer, Master. My father has given me permission. I just need your agreement and he will sort the details with you.” Lothíriel held her breath, so much depended on his answer, as even her father would find it difficult to force him to take her. If he said no then all Seron’s prophecies would be worthless, a mere sham. And she knew she would be extraordinarily disappointed if that proved the case. But Nemir didn’t even look surprised, in fact a slow smile spread over his face. Carefully he returned the quill to its holder and leaned back in his chair, placing his fingers together and surveying her over the top of them. Lothíriel tried not to fidget, returning his gaze boldly. It seemed ages before he answered her.

“I wondered how long it would take before you asked me that.”

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Edoras, The Riddermark – Autumn 3012.

Éomer finished rubbing down his horse, admiring the shine he had achieved on the dappled coat. He tickled a soft, velvet nose. “You’ll be comfy here: the Royal Stables are the finest stables in the Mark. Good wheat straw and no draughts. Nothing but the best for you, and I hope you appreciate it.” The horse ignored his homily, eyes fixed on the bowl of oats Éomer had left on the ledge outside the stall. Laughing, Éomer retrieved it and held it out, content to patiently wait while his horse snaffled up the offering. The bowl clanged as teeth and tongue searched out every last grain. “No, there’s no more,” Éomer said, pulling the bowl away before it was snatched from his fingers. “I don’t want you too lively.” The big grey blew through his nostrils in disgust and turned his attention to the manger of fresh hay. Éomer patted his neck. “You’re a greedy one; I’m going to have to watch you.”

“Éomer! They said you’d arrived.”

Éowyn! No one else screeched at him like that! Éomer turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of bright blue eyes and flying blond hair before his sister hurtled into him. “Whoa, Éowyn,” he hugged her to him, dropping a kiss on her head. “I thought you promised that when you reached seventeen you’d act like lady.”

Éowyn giggled. “I do. I am very good at it now. But only in the hall, I’m not going to bother in the stables…Oh, you’ve got him!” Impatiently, she wriggled out of his grasp and pushed him aside – so much for sisterly love. A big grin covering her face, she hung over the door to the stall, studying the occupant. “What have you called him?”

“Firefoot. He’s related to Fireball through their grand-dam, Firefly, but his sire is the Mearas stallion, Wingfoot.”

“Wow! He’s a big one, Éomer. Great bone, and powerful haunches.”

Éomer cast his eyes over his new acquisition, something he couldn’t stop doing.  Such a magnificent animal, he thought, with an unusually dark dappled-grey coat and black hocks. Even when his coat lightened with age the black mane and tail would keep him looking good. Firefoot momentarily pulled his head out of the manger; dark, inquisitive eyes scrutinized his audience.

Éowyn pulled a piece of carrot from her pocket and held it out. “Here, make friends with me.” Stretching out his long neck, Firefoot deftly plucked the treat from Éowyn’s outspread hand, a quick crunch and he snuffled against her fingers for more. Chuckling, she scratched him under his chin. “A proud head, and you haven’t had him gelded. I bet he’s a handful.”

Éomer grinned. “We’ve had some run-ins, but I think he knows who is boss now. I like them to have plenty of spirit.”

“Yes,” she said stepping back as Firefoot started to investigate her neckline, “but it might have been better not to have taken on a stallion to train, since you are so committed to the Emnet.”

Éomer didn’t agree. He thought the extra effort involved in keeping on top of a stallion well worth it, as the Riddermark was going to be in need of all the fighting power it could muster, but he didn’t want to tell his sister that. “He will keep me on my toes; stop me getting complacent on the endless patrols. Now, come on, you can get to know him later. I must pay my respects to our uncle.”

Walking along the path from the stables gave them time to talk, and for him to study his sister. Only a few months since he had seen her, but in spite of her exuberant greeting of him, she did look more grown-up. For a start she wore a white dress, whereas in the past dresses had been kept for special occasions. Her hair had changed, too: the plaits had gone. Now, only the front tresses of her long fine hair had been pulled to form a braid down her back, the rest she wore loose. Éowyn looked up, eyes wide and still innocent, smiling at him. Her fair face made him think of Bergit and a shadow passed over him for a moment — they had failed her and her kin. Pray he could always keep Éowyn safe from harm.

“What is it, Éomer? You look really grim.”

He took her arm, pulling it through his and forcing a smile. “Nothing, tell me about uncle. Is he well?”

 “Yes, he’s in good health. But mind you, he doesn’t ride out so much anymore. Now Elfhelm is here he lets him get on with it. I suppose it’s because he’s getting older.”

“Hmm,” Éomer thought for a moment.  “He must be about sixty- four, but he’s always kept up his skills.”

“Not now.” Éowyn replied. “He’s almost given up going to the training ring.”

Éomer didn’t like the sound of that. “He seemed pretty hale and hearty last time I was here. In fact we had a bout together.”

 “His trusted counselor says that he must give the younger commanders a chance. But I don’t see why that should stop him from sparring to keep fit.”

“Neither do I.” Éomer remembered Éowyn had not sounded too pleased about the new advisor. “You wrote to me about this Grima. What’s he like?”

Éowyn screwed up her nose. “I don’t like him. I think he’s slimy. In fact, not many do like him, but Uncle won’t hear a word against him. And to be honest, he does mostly give sound counsel. Take Théodred for instance, sending him to the Westfold was Grima’s suggestion. Things were getting a bit strained between him and his father.”

“Yes, I agree that Théodred needs to command in his own right. After all, he will be king someday. The time was certainly ripe for it and I am surprised Uncle did not do it before.  With Erkenbrand to support him, the West-mark is a good training ground for our future king.  It means he can make his own decisions without feeling someone is always watching him.”

Éowyn nodded, “That’s what Grima told our uncle.”

“So, I will withhold judgment on this new advisor until I get to know him better. I can barely remember him.”

“Well, he also supported your promotion. I overheard him saying that you needed to be given responsibility as well, seeing as you are second in line to the throne.”

“Did he now. Well let’s go and see what he has to say.”

They reached the bottom of the steps that led up to the great doors of Meduseld. Éomer wondered why they were closed on such a fine afternoon, but keen to see his uncle bounded up the steps, forgetting Éowyn for a moment in his eagerness. His long-legged sister was not far behind him though, but their progress was halted by the bulk of a tall, smiling man, wearing the uniform of the king’s personal guard.

“Ferthu Éomer hál,” he said holding out his arm for a warrior’s clasp.

“Háma!” Éomer grasped the older man’s arm with one hand, hitting him on the other with his free one. “It’s good to see you; I have missed our nightly chess games.”

Dropping his voice Háma stepped closer. “You have had other games to play, I understand. Games where we are the pawns in some plan hatched in the East, I fear.”

He might have guessed: Háma always did see the bigger picture and had no doubt been discussing the deteriorating situation with Elfhelm.  Éomer glanced at his sister. “Not now, we will talk later, I must see my uncle.” Letting go of Háma’s arm Éomer took a step to go through the door, but Háma held him back.

“I will have to announce you and gain permission for you to enter.”

Immediately angry, Éomer shook off his hold. “Announce me? Since when do I need an invitation to enter my home?”

“Grima thinks we do not show our king enough respect.” Háma’s lip twisted in disgust. “He has persuaded Théoden that Meduseld needs to become more formalised and everyone has to be announced. I am afraid there are no exceptions.” 

Not show their king respect! What rubbish was this? Éomer opened his mouth to argue but then realised it was not Háma’s fault. “I presume this new rule does not apply to my sister,” he snapped instead.

Éowyn grabbed his arm. “No, of course it doesn’t, Éomer, and please don’t cause a fuss.  Grima has a way of turning things. You don’t want to upset him.”

“Not upset him! Why not? What’s wrong with you, Éowyn? I wouldn’t upset my King, or the commanders I respect, but from what I’ve heard this counsellor is a nobody.”

“But he has Théoden King’s ear, Éomer. Your sister is right,” Háma said. “Keep your peace and your eyes open. One learns more that way.”

Éomer chuckled, humour restored. “Háma you have spent years telling me to watch my temper. Sometimes it is worth losing it for the satisfaction of regaining it. Lead on, I will be on my best behaviour. Take me to meet this Grima.”

Háma nodded and signalled to the Doorwards to swing the heavy doors. Éowyn slipped inside and Háma took a few steps and turned. “Wait there, Éomer, will you? It will only be a formality.”

Éomer clenched his teeth, telling himself to keep his temper. “Get on with it before I march up there in front of you.”

Waiting, and letting his eyes adjust to the dark interior, he stared at the tapestry depicting Eorl the Young. Light from one of the high windows fell on the flying yellow hair. The famous warrior, astride his equally famous steed, had the great battle horn of the Eorlingas pressed to his lips. Éomer mused that if only they had a few more of his ilk they might actually see off the scavenging filth of Mordor, and retain the whole of the Emnet for their herds. If it got any worse out there he was afraid they would have to completely give up the grazing near to the Anduin, which limited the number of horses they could run on the plain. He agreed with Háma: probably there was more behind the constant raids than had been realised. But Eorllic had already communicated that intelligence to Théoden. And while Éomer had every intention of repeating it, he was really here to see his sister, hopefully share a jug with Déor and generally have a few days off.  But he also wanted to see Elfhelm and find out how things were going on their Western border. From what he had heard Théodred was being kept busy dealing with incursions from the Dunlendings. They, by all accounts, had been joined by groups of orcs. Deep in his deliberations, he didn’t realise Háma had come back.

“Éomer, Théoden King bids you welcome. You don’t’ have to remove your sword.”

Éomer didn’t even deign to answer that, but marched down the centre of the Hall towards the dais, boots clacking on the tiles. Passing the huge hearth, he wondered how much time his uncle spent in here; the warmth was already making him wish he had removed some outer clothing. He spotted the man, Grima, sitting on the steps at Théoden’s feet, but as he approached the throne he deliberately kept his eyes on his uncle, studiously ignoring his counsellor.

“Hail, Théoden King.” Éomer came to a halt, bowing in front of his uncle.

“It is customary to kneel in front of the King…”

Éomer turned his head slowly and dropped his eyes to the figure on the steps. Not a pleasant sight, he decided. Dark, lank hair fell to the man’s shoulders, and deep hooded eyes were set in a pasty-pale face. He looked as though he rarely saw the full light of day.

“…But of course you being his nephew puts you in a unique position, so I imagine you can be excused your oversight.” Grima carried on.

“Imagination does not come into it, my friend. Théoden King has given me permission not to kneel in his presence except on formal occasions. I do not consider this to be one of them.”

“Of course not, Éomer, sister-son.” Théoden had risen and started down the few steps towards him, arms outstretched. “You must excuse Grima, he guards my dignity zealously.”

At least his uncle did not look much different: creased, blue eyes sparkling in a tanned face. Perhaps slightly more grey in his hair, but he still wore it plaited into warrior braids. “Your dignity is under no threat, lord. It rides on your shoulders with its head held high.” Éomer clasped his uncle’s arm and grinned as he was pulled hard against the royal chest in a hug.

“Always one with fair words, Éomer. And I have been hearing good things about you from Elfhelm. Come, let us call for ale and find somewhere more comfortable to sit and talk about your deeds.”  

Théoden took his arm and guided him to the nearest table. As he sat Éomer caught sight of Grima. The man was staring at him, a look of pure malevolence on his face. Éomer stared back, holding those deeply lidded eyes locked to his until they slowly withdrew from his deliberately fierce gaze. He had been in Edoras less than an hour, but he knew he had already made an enemy.

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Dol Amroth – Autumn 3012.

Amrothos hurried down to the harbour, having no idea what to expect. The message had been garbled – ‘a horse had arrived from Harad, somebody from the palace needs to collect it.’ Except for a few local fishing boats, only one vessel lay against the quay: a high-prowed trader from Umbar, already being unloaded.  With the tide still high, she moved gently on the swell that rounded the breakwater when the prevailing westerly backed to the south. Men swarmed up and down the gangway, and the smell of spices wafted over as sacks were dumped on a waiting wagon.  Amroth jumped a pile of ropes and narrowly missed bumping a sailor hauling a sack over each shoulder. Grinning at the tirade of foul language that came his way, he waved a hand in apology and turned to the groom trying to keep up with him. “I hope they got the horse off first, it will be smelling the land and becoming fractious otherwise.” Generally horses took sea passages in their stride, but once they arrived it was prudent to unload them with no delay. The groom nodded and then lifted up his hand, pointing an arm, over which hung a head collar and rope, towards a pile of wooden crates on the dockside.

Amroth came to a halt and stared. Tied to one of the crates was a horse. A Harad war- mare, to be exact. He had admired them when Umar had visited in the summer, and this one was a beaut.  Now he knew she was off the ship he didn’t hurry, scrutinizing the mare as he walked towards her. Head held high, her large ears flicked back and forwards, taking in the frenzied activity around her, but not bothered by it.  He chuckled as a porter got too close, pulling back in fright when the mare stamped lethal hooves and blew a long woof of warning though splayed nostrils. Amroth, knowing the foolishness of getting too close before she had accepted him – a snap from those teeth would be painful –studied her avidly. A light clouded-grey, the soft hair and thin skin almost translucent in the sunshine, and from where he stood she looked un-scarred. A long, low whistle of appreciation left his lips. “That is some horse,” he muttered aloud, as she kicked out at another unfortunate porter.

“Don’t often see the like,” the groom agreed. “Although I prefer something taller myself. Broader on the back than ours too, but those Southrons seem to breed them like that.”

“Yes, they make wonderful warhorses, well capable of carrying a man and full armour. But they normally guard their breeding stock jealously,” Amroth said. “I wonder what she’s doing here.” He looked around for a sign of an attendant. She must have one, as her coat shone and her neat hooves gleamed with oil. No one in their right mind would send a horse to sea without one, anyway. Then he noticed a man sitting crossed-legged on the ground, just out of kicking distance. But swathed in black, it was only when the man stood up, and Amroth saw that the red square on the front of his kaftan was adorned by the black-snake motif, that it all made sense. Bloody Umar! He clenched his fist, what was the swine up to now!

“My lord, I bring greetings from my master, Prince of the Black-serpent.” He bowed low at this and only the fact that he looked quite elderly stopped Amroth from attempting to strangle him.  Unaware of his brush with death –and if Erchirion had been with him the messenger would definitely be gasping his last – the man continued. “I have a letter for the Lord of this Land and have been charged with delivering it, and this magnificent gift,” he made a graceful gesture towards the mare with a long-fingered hand, “to him personally.”

If the gift had been anything other than a living animal, Amroth would have thrown it over the harbour wall, but the horse couldn’t help where it came from. They would rest it for a few days and send it back. He nodded. “Prince Imrahil will receive the letter, and decide what do with the horse. For now, we will take her to the palace stables.” There was no need for the head collar they had brought; the mare wore a soft leather halter, richly embroidered in red and black.

The Southron bowed again. “My master has seen fit to part with this wondrous animal.” The curl of his lip showed Amroth that the servant did possibly not share his master’s generosity. “To return this mighty gift unwanted would cause unnecessary pain.”

Pain to whom? The horse or the messenger? Not prepared to discuss it with a servant, Amroth  took a few steps towards the mare. The man said nothing and Amroth wondered if he hoped she would attack him, but already having met a few of her kin, he kept a good distance. Huge, fiercely intelligent eyes him stared at him, daring him to approach without permission. “My, you’re a beautiful one,” he said, producing a piece of carrot. He offered it to the mare but did not move forward. Her ears twitched, and she shook her head, but then she dropped her muzzle inviting him closer. The carrot snaffled, she nuzzled into his tunic, snuffling at the pockets. Fearful of hearing the material tear, Amroth quickly pushed the pocket up from underneath, so that another piece of carrot popped into her mouth. “What’s her name,” he asked, expecting something unpronounceable, but he got the translation.

“She is called, “Splendour of a Summer Morning, lord.”

“Dawn, will cover it, then.”

Concentrating on the horse, Amroth had forgotten his dour groom and stifled a laugh. “Right, let’s get her to the palace. My father will be surprised.”

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Imrahil stared at the words on the sheet, unable to believe what he was reading. He’d thought the man mad, now he was sure.

“What does it say?”

Wordlessly, Imrahil passed the letter to his eldest son and turned to Sergion. “I am even more convinced that Lothíriel needs protection. Thank the Valar we took the precaution of setting up a guard.”

Four pairs of eyes questioned him, and his answer instigated a mighty gasp of astonishment. “The horse is not for me, it is for her.

 “He’s given Lothíriel a horse! A war-mare? An equine warrior?” Sergion drew his brows together in disbelief.

“He saw her riding on the beach and thinks Whitewing not worthy of her. We have not provided a suitable horse for his future wife, so he will do so.” Imrahil shook his head in disgust.

“Apart from the ridiculousness of considering her bound to him, if this mare is anything like the ones they had with them last time, then I would not call it suitable. One cannot get near them unless they allow it.” Sergion replied.

“But they are fiercely loyal,” Amroth chipped in, “and will protect their owner even unto death.”

“It says here that the horse is un-proven in battle, but comes from a proven line,” Elphir said reading from the letter.

“I suppose we should be grateful he’s not sent an accomplished battle-horse,” Amroth quipped. “But from what I understand, they do not let their women ride these horses. So why would he send Lothíriel one, especially after she insulted him?”

Imrahil flung his arms up in exasperation. “Because he is obsessed with her. Because he cannot entertain the idea of not getting exactly what he desires. Because he wants to prove to us that he means well by her….because he means to have her…” he stopped, what had been niggling him suddenly became clear – someone must have told Umar that Lothíriel had returned. He tried to quickly work out the timescales of a message getting to Harad, but his middle son interrupted his thoughts.

“Send it back!”

“We can’t, Erchi. You heard what his servant said: the brute would destroy the messenger and the gift. We cannot have that on our conscience.” The thought of the horse being sacrificed appalled Amroth.

“No,” said Imrahil. “We will have to keep it. We will hold onto the horse but make it clear we will not agree to any union. I imagine Lothíriel would love it, although I doubt she will go anywhere near it when she knows where it comes from.”

“Good job,” said Erchi. “The bad-tempered nag tried to kick me.”

Amroth sighed. “I did tell you not to go straight up to her. You have to ask before you can approach them.”

“What rubbish!” Erchi snapped. “You tell a horse what to do, not ask it.”

“That’s why you are a lousy horseman, Brother.”

The argument came to an end as the door opened and Lothíriel bounded through. “Father, where did that mare come from? She looks like a desert-bred horse.” Lothíriel stopped and looked around her father’s study, surprised to see it full.

“We were just discussing the mare, Lothíriel. I take it you’ve met her.”

“Yes, I went to the stable to see Whitewing and found her. She’s lovely, so friendly. We got on famously. Who does she belong to?”

To be continued.

Many thanks to Sulriel for all the great information on Arab war-mares.

Also, Sulriel and ErinRua run a wonderful website where you will find superb horses to use in your stories, plus distances and travel times for Middle-earth journeys by horse, pony or wagon. A resource not to be missed. LBJ

http://www.theoriginalseries.com/traveltimes.htm

Chapter 8

Dol Amroth Winter 3013

First noticeable only as a trail of dust, the column barely seemed to move; a slithering snake, winding slowly towards the city.

Lothíriel stared, eyes seeking for a reassuring glimpse of her brothers’ standards, but all she could see was a long ribbon of grey on the road, with the occasional flash as shield or spear caught the light. Sergion came to stand beside her, shading his eyes from the glare of the low winter sun as he searched the approaching line of soldiers and survivors. He watched for a while before keen eyes separated the individual figures. “There are many walking, some pushing handcarts and a line of wains. The messenger said we would be dealing with a large number of wounded. You will be needed, I think.”

Lothíriel nodded. She had already been up since before dawn preparing trays of spirit, wadding and sutures, before scrubbing tables and boiling instruments in preparation for the expected influx. Over a year of training, one half of which seemed to have been spent cleaning, the other studying the great annals of anatomy lodged in the book-room attached to the Healing-house. With no allowances made for her rank, she studied and slaved with the other apprentices who had been lucky enough to be accepted into the most prestigious curative establishment in the land. Soon, when the wounded arrived, she would be holding bowls and removing soiled dressings, assisting those trained to save. Watch and learn, the Master’s motto. A year of hard work; but it had stopped her chafing at the restrictions imposed on her after her father had received threats from the Prince of Harad. Only a daily swim, archery practice and a ride on the beach with Sergion and her guard, punctuated a restricted life that now kept her close to the city. But Lothíriel couldn’t stop a smile as she thought of beautiful Amaurea and the incredible bond she shared with her horse; the feisty mare being the only good thing to have come from her disastrous dealings with Umar.

Fixing her eyes on the line and squinting, she could make out Elphir’s standard and behind it another; it would be Erchirion’s. She swallowed hard. Thank the Valar, both her brothers were safe. But now she could see the long trail of refugees following behind the soldiers and a shaft of shame pierced her heart. “I should have sent Amaurea back,” she muttered only half aloud.

“What?” Sergion had been concentrating on trying to see.

“Amaurea. I should have sent her back. He might not have been so angry.”

“Lothíriel.” His hand landed on her shoulder. “Sending her back would have made no difference. Refusing the gift would have been to insult him more. He would have killed her.”

“No, I can’t believe that. The mares are so precious to them. Maybe he made the threat, but surely he would not have carried it out.” Sensing his hesitation Lothíriel turned to face him and saw the look of revulsion on his face. “Sergion, what are you not telling me?”

“I am afraid he would have killed her, my dear, and the servant, if the man had returned without delivering the gift. It’s all a matter of pride. I won’t tell you what the manner of death it is for a man that displeases Umar, but Amaurea, valuable as she is, would have been put out to take her chances with the desert lions.”

Lothíriel gasped. “He’s evil. She could not defend herself against a whole family of lions.”

“No, so don’t chastise yourself for enjoying her.”

Nonetheless she did, and even though she had fallen in love with the mare from the first moment she had become acquainted with her, had it not been for Seron’s words she would never have kept her for her own. Now though, Amaurea was part of her and she could not imagine life without the extraordinary horse. Trained for desert warfare, she accepted only those she considered worthy of her friendship. Amroth she liked and would allow to tickle and caress her. She had some feeling for Sergion because he accompanied them on the gallops she enjoyed, and likewise the groom who often fed her. But Amaurea only tolerated the others who regularly used the stables and Erchirion she downright disliked, woofing angrily at him through her big nostrils whenever he appeared.

Sergion suddenly laughed. “She’d have taken down a few. I have never seen a horse more able to defend itself.”

“Yes.” Lothíriel certainly agreed with that. “With her and you and my guard, no one could be safer than me.”

But as she said it another shaft of remorse shot through her: she might be safe but those that lived along the coast or ploughed the seas to earn their living certainly weren’t. And from the accounts they had received so far, this raid had been the worst as it had been unexpected because of the threat of winter gales. So unexpected that her father and had been sojourning in Minas Tirith when the call had come for aid. It was only by a stroke of luck – a trader passing warning that a fleet of Corsairs were on the sea – that a full scale disaster had been avoided. Elphir and Erchirion had already ridden out with their companies to support the coastal defenders, but they had not known where the raiders would strike first.

They were close enough now for her to see the extent of the horror: wains full of women and children clutching a few possessions. Those that managed to evade the raiders invariably came back to smouldering ruins. And in some wagons, bandaged figures sat hunched or lay inert – protecting their coastline came at a price. Lothíriel grasped the top of the wall, digging her fingers into the rough stone until they hurt. Her fault. All this pain and misery was her fault. If she had not ridden down onto the beach on that fateful day none of this would have happened. Umar would have probably hardly noticed her at the banquet, but by her hoydenish behaviour she had brought herself to his attention, and now their people suffered.

“Lothíriel are you all right?” Her father asked, softly coming up behind her. He had only returned the night before, too late to do anything other than wait, trusting his sons to have beaten off the latest threat. Before answering she looked along the road, seeing what she had missed before – Elphir, at the front, had a woman cradled against him, her light hair showing over the folds of his cloak. Lothíriel ran her eyes swiftly over the ranks of horsemen: many had a burden, mostly children. She searched out Erchirion. He rode holding the reins in one hand; the other clasped a small boy, who had a bandage round his head.

Her stomach lurched and almost unheeded, the tears started to fall. “Father, this can’t go on,” she whimpered, turning to him. “You must tell Umar I will go to him. If he wants me so badly he will not hurt me. I cannot bear this any longer.”

“Lothíriel … Lothíriel.” her father hugged her to his chest as she sobbed her heart out. “This is not down to you. We have had raids for years; they have just got more frequent lately.”

“No,” she muttered. “I know he is helping them. Everyone is saying so. He gives them men, trained fighting men.”

Imrahil caught Sergion’s eye over her head. They knew it to be true but had hoped she did not. Only three months after he had sent a definite refusal to Umar, the first reports had come of the sign of the Black Serpent rife amongst the crews of the Corsairs ships. But to think of sacrificing his daughter…even Denethor had given up on that idea. “Lothíriel, there is no way I would allow that. No one expects it, not even your uncle. We now do not think there is any way Umar would have sided with us and suspect that the raids are part of some bigger plan. You must put it out of your mind.” Suddenly a wave of apprehension passed over him, and he grabbed hold of her shoulder causing her to wince. “Lothíriel, promise me you will not do anything stupid like trying to get to the Prince.” Clutching her chin with his other hand, he forced her to look into his face. “Promise me!”

Slowly she nodded, eyes still full of tears. “I won’t. Of course, I won’t.”

Reassured, Imrahil released her, smoothing a stray hair back from her face. Even with her hair in such a severe style, and the loose grey dress disguising her figure, her burgeoning beauty could not be hidden. Damn Umar! It was appalling, that he had to conceal his lovely daughter from the world to stop her being used as a bargaining tool. And Umar might not be the only one who would not hesitate to use an innocent girl to try and threaten Gondor’s rulers. Showing none of his fears he put his arm lightly around her shoulders. “Come, let us go and meet Elphir, and then you will have to report for duty, I imagine.”

As they descended the stone steps from the wall Sergion surged ahead, summoning a few soldiers to his side. The huge open square by the city gates thronged with people. Amrothos was already there; impatiently ordering everyone to stand back as he tried to clear a space for all the mounted troops to enter and their riders to dismount. But the citizens of Dol Amroth were not easily moved and many on the look out for injured relatives, refused to give way, straining their necks to peer through the gate and down the road. Although some, like the warden of the orphanage and a small group of healers, stood quietly to one side, knowing they would be needed soon. A few moments later, with Sergion’s help, the crowd moved to the sides of the square and Imrahil and Lothíriel joined Amroth just inside the gates. Imrahil knew it had galled his youngest son to stay behind when Elphir and Erchirion had left, but with himself in Minas Tirith it had fallen to Amroth to remain in the city. Imrahil could not help being glad, Amroth was on his way to being a fine warrior, but he had not yet reached his twentieth birthday and had plenty of time to prove himself. Now, in spite of the serious situation, he grinned at his father.

“It looks as if Elphir has stolen a march on Erchi and nabbed the girl!”

Imrahil chuckled. Lothíriel only managed a half-smile, which caused Amroth to look intently at her and at his father questionably when he must have noticed her red eyes. But Imrahil shook his head, silently telling him to leave the matter alone.

Amroth didn’t stop to argue as at that moment his elder brother rode through the archway. Immediately he went to the head of Elphir’s horse, holding the gelding’s bridle so his brother could drop the reins. “You all right?”

Elphir gave him a rather distracted nod, drawing his eyes away from Amroth and softly saying something to the woman in his arms before his gaze sought out his father.

Imrahil stepped up to the side of his son’s horse, instinctively reaching his arms up to relieve Elphir of his burden. Elphir hesitated passing her down, which gave Imrahil the chance to glimpse apprehensive hazel eyes peeping out from a pale but pretty face. Her light brown curls were tangled and matted and as the folds of the cloak fell aside he saw that her dress had been torn and the top of one arm bandaged. Imrahil smiled encouragingly. “Come, I won’t drop you.”

But Elphir did not release her, and something in his son’s face – tension, and uncharacteristic belligerence perhaps – gave him a moment to school his features before the startling announcement came.

“Father, this is Meren. She is the sweetest, bravest woman I have ever met and she’s going to be my wife.”

Beside him, Imrahil heard his daughter gasp. Amroth merely opened his black eyes wide, clamping his lips together to stop whatever retort had come to mind. Covering his shock, Imrahil met his son’s determined gaze. Not prepared to argue in the middle of the square and give the surrounding crowd anything more to gape at, he turned to Lothíriel. “Before you go to the Healing-house, run to the palace and organise a chamber to be prepared for Lady Meren, please.”

Elphir’s face relaxed and Lothíriel glanced fleetingly between her father and her brother, before she picked up her grey skirt and hurried off. Imrahil turned his attention back to his son. “Is Lady Meren badly hurt?”

“No, I will be fine,” the girl answered in a soft melodious voice. She pushed herself away from Elphir’s chest and made ready to allow Imrahil to lift her down.

“A whip caught her,” Elphir said, wooden faced. “The thong cut through her dress and seared the skin from her arm. It will need dressing properly.”

Carefully avoiding the bandaged arm, Imrahil set his prospective new daughter on her dainty feet.

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Spring 3014

The Riddermark

Éomer dug in his heels, urging Firefoot on. Branches whipped at his face and small chunks of mud kicked up by Starkhorn’s hooves, spattered him with black splodges. The two horses emerged from the dark of the wood, surging down a track that crossed the edge of the plain to an outcrop of rock: the finishing post. Ah, a slight stumble told him the horse in front of him was beginning to tire. He grinned: now he would get him – the open grassland more suited to the bulk of his stallion than the confines of weaving through the trees. Gradually Firefoot caught up with the smaller horse, but Éothain yanked his mount to the right forcing Éomer to either pull Firefoot off the smooth sward and onto the rough edge, or drop back. Not wanting to risk an injury to his horse, he did just that, sweeping right to the other side of the track to try and get past Starkhorn. Firefoot tried his best, and if they’d had another 100 yards to run they would have done it, but when they reached the rock that marked the winning post, they were a neck behind.

“Damn you, Éothain! You didn’t give me room!” Éomer shouted as they pulled up past the rocks. Pleased that although Firefoot’s flanks heaved, Starkhorn blew much harder, he tweaked the grey’s ears. They had both enjoyed the run and the time spent cooling him and rubbing him down would be worth it.

“Giving quarter is a sign of weakness – isn’t that what we have been taught? Drop your guard and your opponent will have you!” His face covered by a big smirk, Éothain shrugged his shoulders. “With a wager at stake, anything goes.”

Éomer wiped the back of his hand over a bloodied cheek. Next time he’d get in front at the start. “I suppose. But if you think that short-backed nag of yours will beat Firefoot over the jumps, you will be in for a shock.”

“Starkhorn jumps lighter and always will, so you’ve no hope of trouncing me. Resign yourself to years of cleaning up after him as long as you keep that clumsy greatbrute.”

What! Éomer didn’t mind anyone insulting him but he wasn’t going to have his horse castigated without retaliating. Completely discounting that he had previously insulted his friend’s mount, he shot back a remark accusing Starkhorn of having flat shoulders and weak hocks, which instigated a lively argument lasting until they reached the rest of the patrol waiting under the trees.

Barking an order to move out, Éomer effectively put an end to the good-natured ribbing from his men. He didn’t mind providing some entertainment for his Riders, but shovelling up Starkhorn’s droppings in the camp that evening would be enough.

Making sure he kept well away from Éothain- he couldn’t stomach the self-satisfied grin on his face – Éomer led the patrol towards the bank of the Nǽdre; they would camp in their favorite glade. He sniffed as they passed through the open woodland – spring had truly come. Ramsons clothed the ground between the trees, the smell of wild garlic permeating the air and, amongst them, bluebells just showed a promise of the glorious colorful carpet to come. Everywhere he looked small birds busied to and fro, pieces of dried grass protruding from their beaks. A blackbird scolded them for disturbing the peace, and from the other side of the valley Éomer heard the distinctive call of the cuckoo. But with the coming of spring to the Riddermark the threat of raids increased tenfold. Winter had given them respite. Not that the Riders of the East-mark had been idle: wrapped in their furs, scouts had kept vigil on the plains. But the snowmelt had made the Anduin virtually impossible to cross and only now, when the icy waters coming down from the northern ranges of the Misty Mountains had started to recede, could the orcs threaten the herds. This was the first patrol for some time that would be away for weeks.

Éomer welcomed it. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the time available to further Firefoot’s battle-training. Or the Yule celebrations at Edoras, where the irritation of having Grima watch his every move was compensated by the dawning realization that Elfhelm was besotted with Hama’s middle daughter. Amusement at watching the normally phlegmatic Marshal enthusiastically squiring a young lady at the festivities had enlivened his visit. It also led to numerous whispered conversations with his sister, who relished filling him in on all the Court gossip. But now, after the inactivity of winter, he wanted to get back to the job of protecting his beloved homeland from its persistent invaders, and he wanted to see how Bergit and Edwick fared. The last time he had been in Eastfeld he’d noticed a marked deterioration in his friend, Edwick’s once powerful body shrinking and wasting from forced immobility. True, his fingers were still strong from weaving and plaiting the hard willow to make baskets and the creels used to collect the mussels and crayfish that thrived in the local streams, but although he tried to stay positive, mind and body had weakened. Bergit, her spirit not cowed by the misfortune visited upon them, had made light of the problems of providing for the family, but Éomer hated that she needed to work so hard. Tomorrow he would see her. He both looked forward to it, and dreaded it.

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Dol Amroth

Hisael stood with comb in hand, a determined look on her round face. “It’s your brother’s wedding, Princess, you owe it to him to look your best. And what about me? What will everyone think if I let you appear looking like a dowd?”

“I don’t see why I can’t wear my hair in a plait,” Lothíriel argued. “I do so every other day.”

“This is not every other day, and if you were a few years younger it would be acceptable, but you are fifteen now and cannot appear in front of all the distinguished guests looking like a child. Now come on,” Hisael coaxed when Lothíriel said nothing. “You have to stand next to Lady Meren and hold her posy. Everyone will be watching and she is so pretty you will not want to be outshone.”

She didn’t care if the whole world outshone her! And as for everyone watching – well, she didn’t want everyone watching. But knowing further protest was useless, Lothíriel submitted to having her hair brushed and combed until it gleamed with a blue sheen and fell into long curls down her back. Happy with the hairstyle, Hisael fixed a silver circlet around her head. Positioning the pearl swan that decorated it in the middle of Lothíriel’s forehead, she pinned it at the back to stop it slipping. Lothíriel stood up, examining herself in the glass. She must have grown over the winter – now she stood almost a head above her maid. Critically she examined her reflection – blue had always suited her. Meren had helped her choose the dress but now she thought it was cut too low and hugged her slim figure too tightly. She hesitated; if she stopped to change she would be late. Sighing, she nodded at Hisael, “All right, I am ready. It’s just my necklace.”

The maid took the row of beautiful creamy pearls from their silk-lined case and reached up to fasten them around her neck. “They are just the thing for a young girl; your father gave them to you at the right time.”

Lothíriel patted the pearls into place. “He said I could have my mother’s jewellery when I turned eighteen, but I will have to share it with Meren now.”

Hisael pursed her lips considering. “I imagine he may give some to Lady Meren, but most will be yours. Prince Elphir will want to give his wife her own.”

“I suppose he will,” Lothíriel replied. “But if my mother was still alive she would have wanted Meren to have some of her things. She would have liked Elphir’s choice of wife.”

“Everyone likes Lady Meren.” Hisael agreed. “She’s so sweet and nice it’s difficult to imagine her standing up to those wicked men.” The maid shuddered. “Not giving away where the children were hidden, even though they put a whip across her.”

Lothíriel did not want to be reminded what men were capable of. Others might think it romantic that Elphir got there in time to run his sword through the Corsair captain, but no one had said exactly what Meren had suffered, at least not to her. And the thought of Meren or any other woman being at the mercy of such vileness, sickened and frightened her. But Hisael chattered on.

“Well, we might not have been expecting to have a new princess here, but with Lady Eglaneth gone back to her family, Lady Meren will be a good companion for you. More your age as well. She will be able to accompany you on all sorts of outings.”

Outings! Lothíriel wondered if Hisael lived in the past. The only outings she got now were taken in the company of her guard. Even a trip to the port called for major organization. Meren didn’t ride, and Lothíriel doubted she would be allowed to drive her new sister anywhere without considerable protection. Maybe something would happen to change her life – preferably Erchi coming across that pig Umar on a dark night! But for now the important thing was to see her brother married. “I had better go. Thank you, Hisael. Don’t you be late, will you? Make sure you take your seat.”

“I’ll be there, Princess. All the palace staff are really looking forward to it.”

Lothíriel hurried to the courtyard, where already many of the guests stood around talking. A quick glance told her that most were the ones who had stayed in the guest-house the night before; others were arriving at the big gates showing their invitations to Ephrem, her father’s steward. Seeing everyone so splendidly dressed, she was suddenly glad she had listened to Hisael. The ladies in particular had used the occasion, and the spring weather, to show off their finery. But when she spotted Amroth and Oríon standing under the Cedar tree in the corner by the gate, she saw it was not just the ladies who had made a real effort. Amroth might be her brother, but she recognized how attractive he must be to others: fine sculpted features, shoulder length straight black hair, lively black eyes and tanned skin always evoked interest from the ladies young and old, and in the blue and silver uniform of a Swan-knight, he looked magnificent. Oríon, too! Equally as dark as Amroth, standing next to anyone but her brother, he would be considered extremely handsome. She was used to seeing him pouring over plans in ink-stained brown serge, but today he wore a dark red embroidered tunic and must have polished up his sword for the occasion. Grinning, she headed in their direction but then stopped as she saw both their heads turn in unison, eyes following a young woman with fair curls who clung to the arm of a overly dressed man twice her width and old enough to be her father. Amroth leaned towards Oríon and said something that caused him to laugh. Men were awful! Thank goodness she couldn’t hear the conversation.

Amroth set his gaze on the girl’s behind. A very nice behind: firm and rounded. A few yards past them she twisted her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Told you,” Amroth said. “I said she’d look if I winked at her. That’s one mug you owe me. And I wager I get a kiss before the night is out.”

“She’s married to him.” Oríon hissed.

“A mug says I can get a kiss and if they stay more than a night it will be something more. Pretty women married to ugly old men are the easiest to seduce. You ought to try it.” Amroth cocked one eyebrow at his friend, enjoying his discomfiture.

“And risk being challenged?” Oríon flashed back. “No thank you! I haven’t your skill with a sword.”

“That’s the beauty of it – that lump of lard could no more wield a sword than I could jump over the bell tower. All he has in his favour are his riches.”

Orion pulled a face. “Even so, he could pay someone to run you through. Surely there are plenty of unmarried ones to play around with.”

“And end up tying the knot? Not likely! Wives and widows are safer game…”Amroth closed his mouth with a snap as he realized his sister was within earshot.

“You two look guilty. You must be planning something.”

Amroth grinned. “Nothing you want to know about, sweet sister.” Casting an appreciative eye over her, he took her arm. “You look lovely, I was worried you were going to appear in that awful, grey smock thing. You’ve scarcely worn anything else lately.”

“You’d hardly expect her to, would you, working in the Healing-house.” Oríon remarked, all practicality.

“Precisely.” Lothíriel agreed before subjecting the pair to scrutiny. “And you both look mighty dashing. Are you out to break some hearts?”

Oríon smothered a laugh. Amroth glared at him to shut him up. The trouble was with Lothíriel – you never knew quite what she saw. “Oops,” He squeezed her arm, relieved to be able to change the subject. “Father is beckoning us from the top of the steps. I think we are meant to take our places.” He looked across and raised a hand to his father.

Satisfied he had got Amroth’s attention and his son would steer the lingerers in, Imrahil returned inside and joined Elphir, Erchi and Faramir. Elphir did not appear at all nervous and apart from occasionally fingering his sword, waited quietly for his bride to appear. The guests had started filing into their seats and the oohs and ahhs coming from their lips repaid Imrahil for the enormous cost of decking out the Hall. Tradition in the Palace was for weddings to take place in the afternoon, so as one couldn’t rely on candles to soften the solid stone of the Great Hall, the tables had been covered with swathes of blue silk. Masses of bluebells stood in the centre of the tables, held tall in silver vases, and more filled every window ledge. An army of foresters had collected them from the woods that clothed the southern slopes of the Tarnost Hills and although they would only last one day, the spectacle made the effort worthwhile. Then sensing stiffening in Elphir’s posture, Imrahil looked over to the door that led from the East-wing. Sure enough, a guard held it open and he could just glimpse Meren and her father and brother. She entered head held high, but a tell-tale blush stained her cheeks. In pale yellow silk, her delicate features framed by soft curls, she reminded him of a shyly opening primrose.

Seeing the joy on his son’s face when the blue and yellow ribbons were wound around their hands made Imrahil glad he had agreed to the match. Not that he could fault Meren, a pretty little thing who had behaved with bravery and dignity when her brother’s house had been stormed by hordes of raiding corsairs. But it was not the marriage he’d planned for his eldest son. The daughter of a minor-lord she might be, but she brought no land with her and no benefit to Dol Amroth. However, Elphir had proved intractable and as he did not wish to be at odds with his first-born, he had accepted the situation gracefully. Denethor had accepted it less gracefully, but the Steward’s opposition had fuelled his own determination to be master in his own house. He’d had enough of Denethor’s meddling over the Umar debacle. But as often the case, standing firm had caused Denethor to relent, and at least he had allowed Faramir to attend the wedding, not being able to spare both his sons from the Eastern front. As Imrahil saw it, fate had taken Meren to her brother’s house on the coast to help look after her nieces and nephews while their parents visited away, and fate had taken Elphir there is time to save her from rape and slavery. Who was he, a mere Prince of Gondor, to argue with fate?

Weddings were always joyful, and those held in the Palace famed for their magnificence. And if they appreciated the adornments made to the Hall for their pleasure, the guests couldn’t complain about the food either. The feast as good as any served up in Merethrond. The music too, the harpers of Dol Amroth were reckoned to be the best in the land, but he decided that the woman playing at that moment excelled anything he had ever heard. Of course, even though she lived in the mountains she hailed from the coast, not far from Dol Amroth. Her origins apparent from the lyre she played so skilfully: it had been made from the shell of a large sea-turtle. Her stirring voice filled the Hall with melody as she sang a ballad of two lovers shipwrecked on a lonely shore. Imrahil sat back in his chair studying her – Duinhir was a lucky man: rich chestnut hair fell in waves down her back and her skin, white and creamy, looked untouched by the harsh mountain winds. It looked as if that daughter of his, sitting at her mother’s feet, would grow up to be a beauty, too. Still scrawny, and a year or two younger than Lothíriel, she had her mother’s burnished hair and fine bone structure. A nudge in his ribs brought him out of his reverie.

“Father, the tide will be falling. You have to make your speech.”

Imrahil grinned. His son was eager to take his bride away, and he couldn’t blame him. All the Lords of Dol Amroth took their brides to the tower on a small island just off the shore. Reached by a causeway uncovered at half-tide, it contained everything needed for twenty-four hours of bliss. No wonder Elphir oozed impatience; he didn’t want to miss a moment. Imrahil kept the speech short. What was there to say – that he hoped they would have a long and happy life together and he would be blessed by many grandchildren. He said it, but did he believe it? Only a fool could not see that the days were getting darker and the threat closer. Pushing such thoughts aside, Imrahil lifted his goblet.

Moments later they were outside. Resplendent in dress uniforms, the mounted guard waited. Amroth led up Elphir’s horse, clothed for the occasion in a blue quarter-sheet richly embroidered with silver swan-ships. Imrahil didn’t hear what Amroth whispered in his elder brother’s ear but took a guess as to the content when Elphir good-naturedly cuffed his cheeky sibling. Not surprisingly, first Erchi and then Faramir took the opportunity of Elphir’s lapse of attention to kiss the bride. Meren’s colour deepened, hand flying to hot cheeks. She looked as sweet as a posy of spring flowers. Elphir put his arm around her, whispering something that made her smile. Embarrassment forgotten, she readily let herself be gathered into her new husband’s arms to be lifted into the saddle. Then when he swung up behind her she waved to the crowd before cuddling happily back against him. Banners flying, the procession made their way towards the gate.

With the dancing about to start, guests started making their way back into the Great Hall, but Amroth waited, listening to the cheering as the bridal pair and their escort made their way down the street to the city gates. When the cheers died away he headed inside. A whole evening of entertainment lay ahead, but first he intended to seek out Lothíriel. She looked ravishing in that dress and he’d already noted glances being thrown in her direction by a number of young nobles. Well, they could damn well keep away from her! If necessary he’d stay beside her all night. But he need not have worried, for when he spotted her she was sitting on a side-bench with Faramir, enthralled in deep conversation. This luckily left him free to pursue his own agenda.

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The Riddermark.

Gárbald gave one sharp bark, but when he recognized the intruder his belly hit the floor; tail thumping the ground he crept submissively forward in a collie welcome. “You’re an old softie,” Éomer chided him. He bent to pull at the dog’s ears but hearing a click behind him, swung round. Mouth open in surprise, and with the baby on her hip, Bergit stood in the doorway staring at him. Realizing the identity of her visitor her blue eyes lit with pleasure, and surprise turned into an elated smile. A jolt shot through him as he realised how much he had missed her. But before he even had time to offer a greeting Éomund launched himself through the door, throwing his chubby arms around Éomer’s legs. “Éomer! Éomer! New horse. Want ride,” the little boy entreated him. Laughing, Éomer picked him up. “You have to be introduced first. Firefoot has to get to know you before he will allow you on his back.”

Fearlessly, the little boy stretched out a hand, roughly smoothing it down Firefoot’s long nose. “Friendly horse,” Éomund announced as Firefoot did no more than push his muzzle against soft fingers. It always amazed Éomer how the most formidable war-horse would be gentle with a child. When Bergit joined them she greeted him courteously and with obvious pleasure, but from her hip Félewyn glared at him with all the suspicion of a shy one-year old. A grin from a tall stranger, wearing unfamiliar armour, caused the babe to hide her head in her mother’s breast. Éomer let her be for the moment: he didn’t know Félewyn like he knew her brother. She had been mostly asleep the few times they had met before. Instead he concentrated on Bergit: knowing she would try to deny it, he wanted to read her face; discover if her difficult life had worn her down. Open and honest as always, she met his gaze squarely, but he detected tension around her eyes, worry lines he had not seen there before. His continued scrutiny brought slight colour to her cheeks and she dropped her eyes, veiling the slight anguish he had sensed. “Ride now?” Éomund lifted his eager face to Éomer’s, tugging at his collar to draw his idol’s attention away from his mother.

“Don’t pester Éomer,” Bergit scolded him. But her words were lost in laughter as her son struggled around in Éomer’s arms, desperately trying to grab Firefoot’s saddle and heave himself onto the horse’s back. Before Firefoot objected to the harsh treatment, Éomer settled the little boy on the saddle, holding him with one arm and the reins with the other.

“Let go! Let go!” Éomund demanded. Firefoot twitched his ears, but otherwise looked resigned to having a child bouncing around on his back, so Éomer let the rein rest on his neck and took hold of the bridle.

“Hold on tight, then,” he ordered. “It’s a long way to fall.” The boy needed a pony, but Éomer knew providing one was probably out of the question for his parents now. He’d give it some thought; work out how he could gift one to the children without causing too much talk.

“He’s well behaved for a stallion, Éomer, and lovely with Éomund.” She ran her eyes expertly over the horse. “Did Alfhére breed him? He looks like one of Wingfoot’s.”

He’d forgotten that Bergit, born and brought up with the herds, would have no trouble recognising Firefoot’s bloodline. And she would have ridden bareback from childhood; Éomund must be given the chance, too. “Yes, he’s a great lad. As long as you give him plenty to keep his mind occupied.”

“There are all like that, mare mooning, we used to call it. If they are not performing, they are thinking about it.”

Éomer chuckled. Her matter-of-fact assessment of a stallion’s behaviour didn’t surprise him: the girls that worked with the horses always so straightforward about such things. But a small hand grabbed his arm impatiently, so with a sideways grin to Bergit, he ran with Firefoot to the end of the yard. Éomund pounded his heels into the horse’s side. “Faster! Faster, Éomer!” Riding boots were not made for running, and a good job he had hold of the bridle —he had visions of the boy and horse trying to jump the gate. Bergit shook with laughter as the chickens scattered in all directions, even little Félewyn stared mesmerized at the spectacle. Bergit had chosen her son’s name well: Éomund would no doubt turn out to be as fearless and reckless as his namesake. He guided Firefoot in a circle back towards his mother ready for another circuit of the yard. Tomorrow he’d take him in the paddock.

“I will go and see to the supper, Éomer. Don’t let him wear you out.” Bergit turned to go inside but Éomer, bringing Firefoot to a halt, called softly.

”Bergit, how is Edwick?” Éomer gave the reins to Éomund to play with, and waited for her to answer.

Glancing at the kitchen door she moved closer to him, dropping her voice. “He is not well, Éomer. He tries his best to keep cheerful for the children and me. But the life has gone out of him. And he gets breathless. They say it is water on his chest because of his bulk. Although he seems to be shrinking in front of me.”

“And how are you managing? What about the business?”

“We are not doing too badly. Elthain will never be the craftsman Edwick was, but he makes a living and pays us what he can. Though it pains Edwick to see him doing things that he used to do so much better.”

Éomer could understand that and felt nothing but pity for his friend. “I’ll stable Firefoot and then come in.” He winked at her. “Éomund can help me, it will be quicker.”

Bergit smiled, throwing her son a fond glance. “Edwick will be glad to see you. He could do with some male company. Sometimes his cousin spends the evening with him. But he will stay late and Edwick gets tired easily and then cannot get comfortable in the bed. The healer gave me herbs for him, they help him sleep.”

With Firefoot comfortable, Éomer sent Éomund back into the house while he removed his armour and cleaned himself up; by the time he entered the kitchen appetising smells were coming from a large pot on the stove. The last time Éomer had seen Edwick it was just before Yule and now his appearance shocked him. Legs covered by a blanket, he sat in a chair by the stove, a leather strap helping to keep him upright. His once healthy face gaunt and sallow. Éomer supposed the winter and lack of fresh air had done that. But Edwick’s eyes still held a spark of fire and he grasped Éomer’s hand with near his usual strength. “Killed any orcs, Warrior?”

“Not recently.” Éomer replied clasping his shoulder with his other hand. “But the next one I get will be dedicated to you.” Edwick had never seen an orc but hated them nonetheless, and had always enjoyed reports of their demise. Éomer passed him all the news he could during the meal, and after supper they played a few games of Tafl whilst Bergit saw to the children. “I’ll bring a chess board and teach you,” Éomer offered. “I should be around a lot, now the weather is easing.”

“Hmm, they play in the tavern sometimes and I’ve watched a few times in the past, but I don’t know if I will ever learn the moves. And besides,” he grinned. “I can beat you at Tafl.”

“Are you up for one more game? I need my revenge.” Mindful of Bergit’s words he did not want to overtire the man. They played another game and halfway through Bergit joined them, sitting near the candle with a garment of Éomund’s and a needle and thread. Éomer wondered if she rested at all, but when he looked she was watching him not her stitching. She said nothing but a tiny muscle quivered at the side of her mouth before she dropped her eyes to her work again. He lost the game.

“Do you want any help?” Éomer asked when they put the board away.

But Edwick shook his head. “I still have the strength to drag myself and I’d rather that than anyone carry me, even though you probably could now. Bergit will see to me.”

“Then I will say goodnight to you both.” He guessed Edwick did not want him watching the struggle he had with unresponsive limbs.

Bergit picked up her work and cleared away their mugs. “Take a lamp, Éomer. And will you let Gárbald out for a moment. I’ll let him back in when I’ve finished with Edwick.”

The dog heaved himself up from the mat, tail waving as Éomer went to the door. “You’ve got it easy,” Éomer admonished him, “sleeping in the house.”

“Gárbald’s getting older and this winter was so cold.” Bergit said, patting the collie’s head. “He’s got used to it now and I don’t like to make him stay out.”

When he went outside, the night had darkened, low cloud cover hid the moon. Gárbald disappeared into the gloom, but since he couldn’t get out of the yard Éomer didn’t bother about him. Instead he went to check on Firefoot, raising the lamp above the stable door to cast enough light to see. He chuckled. “You and me both, friend.” The stallion, having eaten his fill and with nothing else to do, passed the time in a soporific trance. The subject of his dreaming evident as he thumped his erection against his belly. Éomer left him to it, the horse obviously well settled in the strange stable.

A while later, just about to enter dreamland himself, the click of the latch brought him fully awake.

“Sh…, it’s only me.”

“Bergit…? Is everything all right?” His first thought was that Edwick needed help.

“Yes, fine. There’s nothing wrong.” She closed the door softly behind her. The candle she held flickering light on her pale face.

Sitting up, he stared at her. Vaguely he realised she was untying the woollen robe she wore. But the significance of her action didn’t really resister until he saw her shapely body outlined by the thin nightgown. She stepped right up to the narrow bed and caught hold of the edge of the quilt. “Move over, Éomer.”

“What!” Béma! This was no dream.

“Move over. I am coming in.”

Like lightening he grabbed the quilt, holding it tightly so she could not lift it. “No, you can’t. What about Edwick?”

“I still love him, Éomer. This makes no difference to how I feel for him. And if it were not for the accident I would never be here.” Her eyes bored into his. “But you know you want this. You’ve always wanted it.”

And he thought he’d hidden his feelings well. Éomer swallowed: so much wanting to pull her down on top of him, but hating himself for even considering it. “Edwick will know you’re not there. I couldn’t bear to hurt him, Bergit.”

“No, he won’t. He has the herbs, they keep him asleep. And if one of the children wakes, well, I left the kitchen door ajar and Gárbald will come and find me. He knows I’m here.”

Still Éomer hesitated, his head pounding with indecision. Bergit placed her hands on his chest, pushing him back down on the bed. “I need someone to hold me. Some relief from the drudgery of it all. Please, Éomer, you must understand that.”

His eyes locked to hers, Éomer relaxed his hold on the quilt. Bergit bent her head, and the touch of her lips crushed the last remnant of his restraint.

To be continued.

My thanks to Lia.

And I am indebted to Sulriel for her insight into the behaviour of stallions.

Chapter 9

Summer 3015

Dol Amroth

How would she ever keep the bow still enough to take proper aim? With a word to Amaurea, Lothíriel dropped the reins and gripped tighter, guiding with legs and knees. The mare didn’t alter her course but charged in a straight line down the beach, coming up on the target at a dead run. Lothíriel nocked the arrow and pulled back the string, releasing the shaft just as the mare’s nose came level with the butt. They went past so fast that she couldn’t see if she had struck the target, but when they pulled up and turned to canter back, she saw a blue fletched arrow stuck in the outer ring.

Lothíriel raised her hand in triumph. “I hit it! I hit it!” She leaned forward pulling at Amaurea’s ears. Lothíriel loved her big ears, so different from horses bred in Gondor. And her nostrils, wide and flaring – to drink the wind – the Haradrim believed they contributed towards their horses’ incredible speed. Amaurea tossed her head, she knew she had done well, but then the intelligent horse liked to play her part. She liked to win, and probably, Lothíriel acknowledged, she liked to fight. The mare wouldn’t get the chance though, because her mistress had no inclination to be any kind of warrior princess, and the longer she worked with the maimed and the sick, the more abhorrent the thought of war became. But with her country still under threat, it seemed likely direct confrontation with the Dark-lord would eventually happen. An awful thought, not to be dwelled upon. Instead, she patted Amaurea’s neck, revelling in the bond between them. It was a good job Amroth was so tall or he would be trying to prise the mare from her. He expounded on Amaurea’s battle-worthiness almost daily.

“I hit it, Sergion!” Lothíriel shouted as her bodyguard cantered his horse towards her.

Sergion beamed. “You did. But you shot a trifle early. Don’t forget, the closer you are to the target, the nearer to the bull you release.”

“Yes. I’ll go again on the same line. Once I get a bull at this distance, I will move out.”

“Practice is everything.” Sergion acknowledged. “If you are determined to carry the bow whenever we ride out, then it becomes necessary to learn to shoot when riding at speed.”

Lothíriel wasn’t sure about that. She might feel obliged to take her bow with her, but knew that whatever Seron had told her, she only ever wanted to shoot at straw. Still, she enjoyed target practice – having energy to spare after working long hours in the Healing-house. And Amaurea loved the exercise.

It took her a few more passes to get a bull and then after she got one at the next distance, the day had grown too hot for her. Sweat ran down her face, and she wiped an arm across her forehead to keep it from stinging her eyes. “I have had enough,” she called to Sergion, “and so has Amaurea.” Although the mare hardly blew: desert-bred, her thin skin and soft fine hair dissipated heat efficiently. But the tide would be up the beach soon, so they would have to go.

Nodding, Sergion directed the men to roll the targets above the tide-line, and trotted Thunderer up to her. “You will have to try it in the confines of the training ring.”

Lothíriel laughed. “Yes, but not now. All I want is a cool drink.”

“An excellent idea,” Sergion replied. “And how do you intend to spend the rest of the day?”

“I may go with Meren to the port, if that is all right.” Lothíriel relished a day of comparative freedom – she did not need to report for duty until the next morning.  Elphir’s wife had such taste and could help her choose some new shoes. In spite of Amroth’s teasing, she did get out of riding clothes and healer’s garb occasionally. “It will be hot; I will drive us in the carriage. There is no need for you to come,” she assured the warrior beside her. “You hate shopping.”

“Not my favourite,” Sergion agreed.  “Just let me know when, and I will detail someone.”

Splashing though the surf cooled riders and horses, and put Lothíriel in even greater spirits. She might lead a protected life, but it had its compensations. And although unseasonable heavy rain had confined them the last few weeks, it did keep the meadows green long after they would normally be yellowing. As they trotted up the paved road to the city gate, she cast an eye to Mista. The old pony stood in the top corner of the paddock, peacefully surveying the comings and goings to the city. At one time he would have trotted down to greet her. Now, sleeping in the sun took priority. A slight wistfulness for her carefree childhood constricted her throat for a moment, but then she thought of Meren. She was really looking forward to an afternoon spent with her. They got on well, even though they had quite different personalities. Meren was good at all the things she was not. She could sew and sing and play a harp. Lothíriel couldn’t tell one note from another, strange that she could master languages.

The gate wardens saluted as she and Sergion went through. Lothíriel felt sorry for them standing for hours, but at least they were in the shade of the wall. They clattered up the street and with a wave to the guards, entered the palace courtyard. At that moment her father appeared from the side door that led to his study, a frown on his face. “Oh, Lothíriel, I wanted to see you. The messenger from Londpeler brought a letter from Eglaneth.” He waved parchment vaguely in her direction. “She is extremely ill - some kind of wasting disease.”

“Oh no! We knew her health was not of the best, but last time she wrote to me she said there had been a slight improvement.” Tears welled up, Lothíriel realising how much she loved Cousin Eglaneth. As she got older the more she appreciated the sacrifices the gentle lady had made when she took charge of a distraught toddler. Sniffing, Lothíriel held out her hand for the letter but her father continued to scan the page, screwing his face as he read. 

“Well, now she says she is too ill to pen this herself and had to dictate it. She wishes to see you, but that is impossible.”

“Why is it? Of course, I shall go.” Lothíriel retorted, already planning in her mind what she would take.

Her father frowned even more, shaking his head disapprovingly. “No, Lothíriel. It is too risky. You know the threats Umar made, and that piece of coast is vulnerable to raiders. And although Londpeler is fortified…”

“But we have not had a raid for months.” Lothíriel remonstrated, “and we can get there in daylight. With Sergion and my guard adding to the garrison, I will be perfectly safe.” Her father’s face still showed his resistance, so Lothíriel tried cajoling. “Please, Father, I have to go. Cousin Eglaneth was so kind to me, and devoted many years of her life to my upbringing. It is natural she wishes to see me. And there are things I can do to relieve her. I have learnt so much these last two years.”

“They have good healers in Londpeler, Lothíriel.”

So they might. But however skilled, none had the gift she had been given: the gift to ease hurt and calm the sick. And if the worst happened and Cousin Eglaneth’s illness proved to be mortal, Lothíriel knew she could alleviate the pain of her passing. But she needed to convince her father. What use was her gift if she could not use it when needed? Just about to offer up another argument for going, she was assailed by one of her visions. It came out of nowhere – a funeral bier floating out to sea, decked with flowers, – but impatiently she pushed it aside as she had learnt to do. It could have nothing to do with Eglaneth and did not mean she would die – she would not be buried at sea. And, anyway, her visions had no timescale; this one might be way in the future. Giving up trying to persuade her father for the moment, Lothíriel gathered up her the reins. “I’ll see to Amaurea, Father and then we can talk about it properly.”

The bad news put shoes out of her mind, and the discussion as to whether she could visit Cousin Eglaneth continued into dinner. Amroth saying she should definitely not go to Londpeler and Elphir hesitant. Erchi settled the matter by volunteering to go with her. Londpeler was only a day’s ride along the coast towards Tolfolas, and besides, the Corsairs attacked at night, running their boats up the beaches on moonless nights. So with a guard and Erchirion’s protection, her father relaxed and gave his blessing to the expedition.

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Another lovely day, after the weeks of rain the sunny weather was welcomed by everyone. Amroth half wished he had gone with his sister, a trip to Londpeler, which would mostly be a canter along the beach, sounded pleasant. If she could have told him how long she would be away he might have done so, but having just been given command of his first group of mounted warriors, he felt obliged to supervise the summer training regime. Amroth took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. He loved this time of the morning, when it was still cool and fresh. Raising his spear in an answering salute to the guards, he led the small company out under the arch and onto the road at a swift trot. Down at the port two sets of masts showed between the houses that clustered around the harbour. Already he could see a line of wains heading for the city. Turning to Gidon riding next to him, Amroth set a bland expression on his face. “When we have finished on the beach it will be gone noon, I reckon we ought to check to make sure all is quiet in the port.” 

Gidon grinned, not at all fooled. “Sample the ale, you mean?”

“Spear throwing is thirsty work!” A voice came from behind him.

A ripple of laughter and agreement flowed around the men but it by-passed Amroth; he had fixed his eyes on the rider galloping up the road towards them. Great Ulmo! Why should Oríon ride as if Sauron himself was after him?

Fifty yards further on, Amroth brought them all to a halt, just before his friend pulled up his bay with such ferocity that the poor horse snorted vehemently in protest, prancing sideways in front of Amroth’s big grey.

“Some irate husband after you?” Amroth couldn’t help teasing, but another glance at Oríon’s troubled face brought him up sharply. “What is it? “What’s the matter?” he asked once Oríon had calmed his horse.

“I am not sure,” Oríon replied, “but something is, and it could be bad. I’ve been down at the docks to check on some measurements. The fishing boat Blue Pearl came in on the first of the flood. I know her master well. Coras was coming up here to see your father but spotted me. Last night, they were stemming the tide back along the coast when they spotted an Umbarian three-master. She had her lights doused, but showed up outlined against the lighter sky. Coras immediately put out his own lights thinking she was a pirate vessel looking for game. But as he crept past he realised she was landing men on the shore, right at the mouth of the Ernil River. It doesn’t look like a normal raid because evidently she left the men there. The boats went back to the ship and then she tucked herself away in a cove behind that small island that lies half a mile out. They are obviously up to no good but…”

 “Lothíriel…!” Amroth felt the blood drain from his face.

Oríon confirmed Amroth’s fears “Yes, my first thought. Father intended to take the route along the beach; the road takes more than a day.”

“A good place for an ambush,” Gidon muttered beside them.

Amroth did not need to be told that: nothing but one small village a mile inland on the river bank. And if you came along the beach and the river was up, that’s where you had to cross. Which it would be with the recent rain. Not only that, the thick woods at the top of the beach would provide plenty of cover. “He’s sure, your fisherman?” But as he said it, he knew the answer.

Oríon nodded. “Dead sure. He’s sailed the coast for twenty years. I can’t believe it’s a raid, there are no rich pickings on that piece of coast.”

On the contrary – one very rich picking! His sister! “Oríon, go and tell my father to follow on. I’m not going to wait.” Amroth turned to the men behind him, a cold fury stealing over him as the ramifications of the situation hit hard. “You all heard! If it is a trap there is no time to waste. They left about an hour ago, but will be taking it steady as it will heat up later.” With a murmur of agreement the group checked swords and spears and brought their mounts to the bit. Amroth raised his hand; it would be a gallop all the way to the river, or until he caught up with his sister.

Charging down the sward at the side of the road, he racked his brain, seeking for a clue as to whether Lothíriel might really be riding into an ambush. The messenger had arrived about the same time as he did every week. He’d carried the usual correspondence and often it included a letter from Cousin Eglaneth. They knew she didn’t enjoy good health so the call to see Lothíriel could be genuine. But hang on –  the letter wasn’t in her hand. A forgery perhaps! Amroth cast his mind back to the messenger. He did not recognise him but then he didn’t know them all. And the man looked authentic: he wore the right uniform and carried letters from the garrison commander. But messengers could be waylaid. Yes, now he remembered! He’d gone to the tavern after dinner and spotted the messenger from Londpeler – nothing strange about that. Oddly though, the man had left immediately he and Oríon had entered, leaving his ale half drunk. It was all too much of a coincidence to ignore. Thank the Valar his company were out and armed.

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Aldburg - The Riddermark

Éomer, tugged at the rope, making sure the pony was tied securely to the back of the cart. “You’ll take it steady. I don’t want him lame when he gets there.”

“Trust me, lord.” The merchant reassured him. “I’ll look after him and deliver him safe and sound. And we will be resting when it heats up, so don’t you worry.” He grinned, exposing a row of blackened teeth. “I wouldn’t do anything else, or you’d have my hide!”

“You can count on that,” Éomer replied. “And you’ve got the letter safe?”

The man patted his pocket. “All safe. I’ll deliver it personally.” With a nod of his head he hopped up onto the wooden seat at the front of the cart, flicking the reins and clicking his tongue. In spite of the gee-up, the skewbald pulling the cart moved forward reluctantly, ambling in his own time to join the end of the line. Making the journey to Eastfeld and back once a week, the horse knew where he was going and looked bored by the prospect. Éomer didn’t think there was much danger of him tiring the little pony with any spanking pace.  And since Rolfic, the carter Éomer had entrusted to deliver his gift, countered the skewbald’s lethargy with no more than a few ripe words, Éomer felt he had made a good choice.

Watching the neat tail swishing from side to side as the little dapple-grey trotted behind the cart, Éomer felt really pleased.  Éomund would love having a pony to ride, and Bergit would know how to manage the delicate animal. He’d hesitated sending a pony, although he’d longed to do so for some time, but with this little fellow being inclined to the laming disease, he’d found a good excuse. Rich grass aggravated his condition, so being unable to send the pony to graze around Aldburg, his owner couldn’t be bothered with him and had let him go cheaply. But Edwick’s sparse paddock would be perfect, and Éomer intended to send a load of hay when the summer ended. He knew there would be enough for now. 

Turning his back on the small cavalcade of wagons and carts, Éomer ran his eyes over the outer fortification of Aldburg, routinely checking for any breach in the defences. A brooding sentinel watching over the Great West Road, for nigh on five hundred years the fortress had welcomed or repulsed travellers seeking the land of the Horse-lords. Built by Eorl when he had first founded the Riddermark, time and need had turned Aldburg from stronghold to city. Still smaller than Edoras, it was no less defended. The first protection was a formidable ditch, sharp spikes pointing skyward from its depths. This surrounded a high palisade made from ancient oaks and hard grey stone from the mountains.  At the centre of the city an inner stockade enclosed the original Hall, the traditional seat of the Marshal of the East-mark.

The early sun only held a promise of the heat to come, but a pleasant feeling of belonging warmed Éomer as he gazed at the solid walls. He realised that more and more he had started to consider Aldburg his home again.  Memories of his childhood and of his mother and father abounded here. Once he had wanted to forget, but now he enjoyed remembering the happy days before his father had charged off to his death. In fact the little pony he had sent to Éomund reminded him of the one Éowyn used to ride. And indeed Éomund was a bit like Éowyn as a child – fearless and spirited. Their mother’s death had crushed her. Destroying her confidence and turning her into a shy, retiring mouse, looking out at the world through frightened eyes. Théoden had brought her back: his gentle patience and love gradually restoring her strength and vitality. Éomer smiled to himself: now she sometimes had a bit too much. Conversely, he had reacted quite differently to losing both parents in so short a time: the anger and resentment in him leading to many clashes with his uncle. Théodred had sorted him, spending hours every day teaching him how to fight with every conceivable weapon. His cousin had succeeded in turning the vehemence he had directed at his mother towards the enemies of the Riddermark, and instilling in him a love for his land that would always demand his best efforts. Éomer knew that deep down he had never quite forgiven his mother: the loss and hurt had run deep. But at least now he could remember her with love and affection, grateful for years of love she had given him and recalling the time she had spent on his extensive education with appreciation.

Passing through the outer gate, a cheery salute from a guard brought himself back to the present. Not surprising that he would think of his parents today. Although he hoped not only his dead father would be proud of him, but Théodred also. For today he took over as second-in command of the East-mark Riders. And Aldburg would be seeing more of him. Revelling in the thought of the challenges ahead, Éomer strode across the main square towards the Hall. The city had come to life in the time he had being dealing with the trader and now the market place buzzed with merchants and farmers setting up their stalls. Memories ambushed him again, and he stopped to look at a pen of goats, recalling Éowyn feeding an orphaned kid with milk squeezed out from a rag. But the kid had died and Éowyn had been inconsolable for days. Their father had given her a puppy, which, against all the rules, she had sneaked into her bedchamber. He recollected his mother’s horror at finding a feather snowstorm and child and puppy asleep amongst the ravaged quilt. A smile must have crossed his face because a farmer grinned at him in passing. The smell of meat pasties assailed him next. A crate of golden crusted pies and tarts were being taken from the back of a cart and piled onto a stall. They must have just been baked, steam and aroma rose temptingly. Having missed his early meal, Éomer searched his pocket for a coin.

“Best pasties in the East-mark,” the pie-seller boasted, treating him to a wink and an eyeful of cleavage.

Éomer doubted that, and biting into the pasty confirmed his opinion that Bergit won on both counts: her pastry lighter and her face prettier that the buxom girl behind the stall. Damn! He certainly didn’t want those kinds of thoughts to disturb him today. However, they inveigled themselves into his consciousness accompanied, as always, by the inevitable feelings of guilt. He sighed; it was no good for Bergit to say they weren’t hurting anybody. Edwick might be unaware of his treachery, but wrong was wrong. Although Éomer knew that he could no more keep away than he could fail to breathe. Besides, stopping his visits would really make Edwick think something had happened and he could hardly bear the thought of that. So he rode to Eastfeld no more or less than before. Edwick welcomed him; they played Tafl, joked and talked as they always had. And every visit Éomer searched Edwick’s face for any glimmer of suspicion, any flash of anger or hurt. There were none.  But each time Edwick appeared weaker than the last, and each time, once all was quiet, Bergit slipped across the yard. And he did nothing to stop her.   Part of him wished his duties would take him to the far borders of the Riddermark, putting him leagues away from temptation. The other part knew he would not want to go. The only answer lay within himself, he just did not want to delve to find it. Finishing the pasty, Éomer deliberately tried to clear his mind of anything other than the business at hand, organising the patrols for the next few months required all his attention.

Entering the inner stockade, he hesitated, glancing at the sun. Judging there was just enough time to check on Firefoot before his meeting with Eorllic, Éomer turned on his heel and headed to the stables.

No quite as palatial as the Royal ones at Edoras, they were still spacious, cool and airy. Constructed like the wall and the Hall, from stone and wood, his ancestor’s priorities were evident – they could house a hundred horses. This time of the morning the place thronged with Riders and grooms, Éomer knew Firefoot would have been fed and watered and he’d rubbed him down himself the night before after hard exercise, so he could safely leave him until the cool of the evening. An hour or so shaking the stiffness out of him would be good.

Éothain appeared from Starkhorn’s stall as he passed on the way to see Firefoot. His friend carefully bolted the door and welcomed him with a sideways grin. “You got the pony off all right, then?” 

“Yes. The merchant, Rolfic might not win any prizes for his looks, but he comes across as reliable. He makes the journey every week, so dare not cheat me.”

Éothain hung the bridle on a hook, and shifted his saddle from its position on the partition to a holder on the wall, eyeing Éomer with veiled amusement. “Mighty lot of trouble you went to, getting the little thing fit. I hope the lady’s worth it.”

Éomer froze, clenching his teeth in annoyance. Up to now Éothain had accepted the friendship without comment. “The pony is for the children.”

“Some would say that you are being extraordinary generous to someone else’s children.”

Meeting Éothain’s cynical scrutiny with a bland expression, Éomer deliberately kept his voice calm. If he got riled Éothain would know he had hit the mark. “Bergit and Edwick have been hospitable to me. The children, the boy especially, need to ride. Edwick would have provided a pony if he hadn’t had his accident. Now he can’t, so I am doing so. It has cost me only a little money and some of my time.”

“Is that so?” Thick brows rose a trifle. “Well, between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if you aren’t deputising for him in other ways. A woman needs a man, and a pretty one like Bergit isn’t going to be content for long with a husband who can’t…”

He didn’t get any farther because Éomer grabbed him by the throat, his fingers pulling the collar of his shirt together and grasping a lump of flesh. “Just don’t say it, Éothain! Don’t even think it! She loves him. That’s all you need to know.”

“Peace… Peace…” Éothain spluttered. Raising his hand, palm outwards. “I didn’t mean anything. And it’s your business. I won’t mention it again.”

“Good.” Éomer slowly released him, but did not move from the spot, burning his eyes into the other man. “You are right. It is my business!”

Éothain rubbed his throat, throwing him a half grin. “Don’t worry; you won’t hear another word from me. You’ve got a grip like a rabid warg.”

Un-mollified, Éomer turned abruptly and stalked off in the direction of Firefoot’s stall. Morgoth’s balls! He regretted his reaction even before he had reached his horse. His cursed temper. He should not have done that, but luckily he didn’t think there had been any witnesses. A laugh and a joke would have been a better way of dealing with Éothain’s natural curiosity. Damn it! Now he had probably confirmed his friend’s suspicions.

Leaning over the stall, brooding on how to repair the damage, Éomer heard a soft footfall. He didn’t move, knowing who it would be. A hand fell on his shoulder. “Tonight, when it’s cool, we’ll put the jumps up. Loser cleans out both stalls.”

The tension left him. Turning, he met apologetic eyes. Éomer grinned. “Éothain, if you think that under-bred piece of horseflesh is going to beat Firefoot….”

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Somewhere on the coast of Belfalas.

Even worry for Cousin Eglaneth could not take away the joy of the day. Lothíriel’s sense of freedom intensified by the smooth pace of the mare beneath her and the vista all around. With only the glimmer of dawn apparent when they had left the city, heading eastwards they met the sun. A red marbled sky opened up across the horizon as they descended the steep path that led off the road and dropped down to the sand. No breakers today: the surf just gently murmuring in the quiet of the morning. Small wavelets, turned pink by the display above them, played brightly across a still-dark sea. Lothíriel edged Amaurea to the water’s edge, kicking up a spray that sparked from red to yellow to silver as the sun gained strength.

A few miles of a good paced canter and the group slowed as they approached a fishing village. With the morning fully light now, Lothíriel could see dwellings scattered along the edge of the beach. Slackening off to a jog, they threaded between upturned boats, wicker creels, lobster baskets and drying nets. Polished hooves skittered sandflies into clouds and disturbed the scavenging gulls who shrieked their displeasure, wheeling and diving overhead. Grubby village children, bare-footed and wide-eyed called greetings, and some ran out with offers to hold the horses if the noble lords would like to sample the freshly caught shellfish. Erchi had eaten in the village a few times before, and told Lothíriel there were a couple rough wooden tables set out on the sand under the trees. A wonderful spiced fish stew was served with hunks of coarse bread to sup up the juice. But Sergion, dispensing a few coins waved the children away, eager to push on— maybe on the way back.

The shoreline became heavily wooded and a long beach stretched before them, disappearing into the early haze. Sergion rode beside her. Shading his eyes he looked far ahead. “There is an inlet just out of sight; where the Ernil River meets the sea. Usually at this time of the year we could wade across, but with the recent rains the current will be strong. We’ll check when we get there, but I suspect we will have to ride inland along the bank. There is a small village and a bridge.”

Lothíriel nodded, encouraging Amaurea to pick up her pace. How perfect here: the white sand so firm and clean. Washed by the tide in the early hours, the unmarked beach showed that no man had walked the shore that morning. Only the imprints of wading birds, and the trails of the little red crabs scurrying in and out of the surf, blemished the pristine strand. Nothing in sight, not even a fishing boat at sea. A little island, beach sparkling white in the sun, stood a half mile out. How she’d love to be there, putting footprints in the untouched sand. Suddenly wanting to feel completely alone, a luxury so often denied her, Lothíriel urged Amaurea to the front of the group. Breaking into a gallop the mare charged ahead of the rest.  Lothíriel could see no one. They were all behind her and she could pretend she was on her own in the wild. She had Amaurea and not Mista beneath her, and no Larca bounded alongside, but for a moment she could almost believe she was a child again. Pounding along the sand – no cares – no fears – just freedom. But as she revelled in it, she heard the beat of hooves bearing down on her.

“Lothíriel!” Sergion sounded mad.

Guiltily, she reined in the mare, allowing her bodyguard to catch up.

“Just hold it there, young lady.”

Yes, definitely mad. His voice uncharacteristically cold. Lothíriel wheeled Amaurea around. “Don’t be mad at me, Sergion. I couldn’t resist.”

His expression softened, “I know. And everything looks benign here, Lothíriel, but I have sworn to your father to keep you safe…”

“A justified telling off, little sister?” Erchirion’s scolding voice belied the merriment in his eyes. He pulled his horse to a halt beside her.

“It’s not only the safety aspect, we have a long way to go and I don’t want to tire the horses.” Sergion reminded them.

“Yes, I am sorry. I will not do it again.” Lothíriel smiled, trying to look contrite. She could usually get round him, and he was never cross for long.

Pacified, Sergion gave her a big grin. “Right, let’s get going. You’ve had one good gallop, we’ll manage another later.”

They set off at a canter, her in front flanked by Sergion and Erchi with the guards and knights arranged in a rough semi-circle behind. Soon, Lothíriel could see where the river cut a wide swathe through the sand. The trees hugged the beach sweeping around the edge of the inlet and following the river.

As they neared the river the beach became narrower as it curved inland and dark trees bordered the sand. Lothíriel didn’t even ask about crossing the river, for although the bed was a wide and shallow basin, filled by the tide twice a day, foaming water flowed to the sea down a deep channel in the centre.  Suddenly, just as they turned the bend and headed away from the beach, Erchi put up his hand, bringing his mount to a halt.

“What is it?” Sergion asked, pulling up just in front of him. Lothíriel reined in, the men coming to a halt behind.  Twisting around in the saddle, she saw Erchi looking at the sand between him and the trees, brows drawn together in a frown.

“Look at the sand. Where the sea has been it is smooth and flat, but above the tide-line it looks as though it has been swept clean.”

Sergion studied the area where Erchi pointed, his lip compressed into a thin line. His face changed as some kind of realisation dawned. “Turn Back!” he ordered. “Head for the beach!” But as the words left his mouth a cry came from the guard nearest the woods, and he fell from his horse.

Lothíriel gasped: a red fletched arrow protruded from his side. Almost immediately bloodthirsty cries came from the trees and even as her escort drew swords, a host of men erupted from the woods in front of them. Holding long, wicked looking spears aloft, they threw off black cloaks, revealing their scarlet tunics. Haradrim! Fear choked her. Great Eru! There were so many of them.  Behind them another group emerged from the woods, waiting, spears and their evil curved swords blocking any escape.

Immediately, Sergion closed on her, and the others formed a ring, but Lothíriel had no doubt that even though her guards had the advantage of being mounted, they were likely to be overthrown by sheer weight of numbers.

Erchirion, standing in his stirrups, took a moment to assess the disastrous position they were in. “The river!” he shouted to Sergion. “It’s the only chance. Go! We will hold them off until you are across!

“Lothíriel, follow me! The rest of you provide a rearguard!”  Sergion took off straight for the river. Lothíriel followed him, her brother and the escort spreading out like a shield behind them as the Haradrim rushed forward to try and stop them reaching the bank.  Sergion attained the top of the low sand-cliff, a few feet above the riverbed and checked. The river flowed fast, frothing and bubbling, carrying vegetation and branches brought down in the recent storms. But the deep channel was narrow, shelving abruptly so that the water below them was only inches deep. “Come on!” he yelled at Lothíriel. Sergion jumped Thunderer down into the water, but before Lothíriel could kick Amaurea to follow him, the mare suddenly shrieked and reared up, nearly throwing her from the saddle. Losing a stirrup, she clung on, trying to bring the horse under control. But maddened by something unknown, the mare fought the bit, bucking wildly. “Amaurea what is it?” Lothíriel cried. She had no idea what was going on, never had the horse behaved like that before: as though it were petrified of something. Lothíriel could hear the sounds of battle behind her, but as she fought to get the mare into the river, Amuarea wheeled right. The maddened horse charged straight at the Haradrim line. Two men flung themselves out of the way, and terrifyingly, Lothíriel found herself the wrong side of the enemy blockade. Amaurea calmed slightly and Lothíriel strived to placate her, maybe there was a chance of making the beach or crossing the river farther down, but to her horror she realised that a man stood not a yard from them. Before she could pull away he reached out and grabbed the bridle.

No! It couldn’t be.  Dumbstruck, Lothíriel recoiled in horror, shrinking into the saddle. No mistaking that leering, lecherous grin… Umar! Sweet Elbereth save her!

The mare sidestepped, slewing around her captor. Lothíriel was too shocked to do more than keep her seat. Umar said something she could not translate and Amaurea woofed through her nostrils. Ears flicking, the mare’s greeting sounded like a mixture of terror and pleasure.  He uttered something in his own tongue, something soft and encouraging and she calmed further. “There, my clever one, you brought your mistress to me, just as we planned.” He said it in Westron, smirking up at her in his success. “You like my gift, Princess. How neatly you fell into my trap. You have changed her name, but she is still mine. She obeys me.” His black eyes held a jubilant gleam and, triumphantly, he held up two long, silver whistles.

Lothíriel had never seen anyone that looked so evil, but fear and anger clashed for dominance. Chest heaving, and shaking from rage and anguish, she rounded on him. “What have you done to her? What cruelty made her behave like that?”

He shrugged. “First you cause them to fear you, then you offer kindness. One whistle will panic, the other will call her to me. It takes a little effort to achieve perfection.” The smirk turned to a grin. “But worth it, don’t you think? When you reach your new home, I will show you exactly how it is done.”

“I don’t want to know. You… you are evil. You have abused her. She came because she was terrified.”

He tried to smooth the mare’s nose but Amaurea snapped her teeth, just missing his fingers. His jaw clenched, and anger flashed in his eyes, but then the smile returned. “She came because I mastered her. Just like I will master you, my green-eyed beauty.”

“You are nothing but scum!” Lothíriel spat at him.

Umar’s eyes narrowed. “You insulted me before, Princess, and you will pay for it. A thousand times you will pay. I will teach you to respect and obey me.”

“Never!” she shouted. “Filthy cur! I will die before I let you touch me!”

Umar threw back his head and laughed, “I don’t think so. What a waste that would be.” His eyes raked her wolfishly. “You know, Princess, I used to abhor women with spirit, but now I am inclined to think they offer the better sport.”

Frightened beyond reason, Lothíriel could make no response. Desperately she looked around for a means of escape: Sergion, her brother and most of her escort were still horsed and fighting valiantly, but a host of Haradrim stood between them and her.  It was hopeless –surely the best of Dol Amroth could not prevail over so many.

Still holding the bridle, Umar reached up and laid his other hand on her leg. “There is no escape, Princess.  See, our transport comes. Time to go.”

Flinching from his touch, she jerked her eyes around to follow his gaze. Total panic grabbed her. Emerging from behind the island she could see a three-masted ship, but worse, halfway to the shore already, three longboats were coming in fast, the rowers helped by the push of the tide. Rigid with terror, she could do nothing but stare. Then suddenly she heard Seron’s words in her mind: the horse will look after you. Just as if the old man stood next to her, she heard them clearly.

She would not give up! She loved Amaurea and was sure the horse loved her. There was still the faint chance of reaching the river. As Umar’s attention focused on the boats, Lothíriel gathered up the reins. Sending all the thoughts of the love she bore her horse, she called her name softly. “Amaurea, I need you. Don’t let me down.”

The large ears flicked and Lothíriel pulled on the reins.  “Hótule, Amaurea! Hótule!” she shouted. “Hótule!”

Umar shouted something Lothíriel did not understand and put a whistle to his mouth, but before he could blow it Amaurea threw up her head violently, pulling the bridle from his hands and knocking him off his feet. The whistle fell to the ground and Amaurea gave an almighty shriek, but not a shriek of terror, one of anger. As Umar regained his balance and grabbed for the reins, Lothiriel kicked out, catching him under the chin. “Hótule, Amaurea!” she cried again and the mare, responding to her insistent hands and the Quenya command she had been taught, turned her back on Umar and headed for the river. Lothíriel heard Umar’s voice shouting orders, and a man lunged towards her, but Amaurea sideswiped him, sending him tumbling over. Lothíriel realised she had taken them by surprise: thinking their prince had her safely captured, the Haradrim had been absorbed in dealing with her escort. As another rushed at her, Lothíriel kicked Amaurea into taking a flying leap to the riverbed. Landing in the shallow water the mare stumbled, but regained her feet, sweating and snorting in her distress. Now Lothíriel was uncertain, men jumped down to the basin and at the river mouth, boats were landing on the shore. Ahead, the tumbling water frothed and boiled. It looked deadly, but if she didn’t brave it she would be captured. Amaurea, as if wanting to get as far away from her tormenter as possible, strained at the bit. Lothíriel dropped her hands and the horse lunged forward, letting out a long woof before she plunged into the raging water.

Author’s note.

I do not wish to insinuate that all Haradrim ill-treat their horses. Umar has a warped personality and did not hesitate to use the mare harshly in order to entrap Lothíriel. Possibly he used the threat of fire coupled with the blowing of the whistle, to induce the panic reaction in Amaurea.

Hótule – come away.

Warning for angst!

Chapter 10

“Ulmo help me!” Lothíriel screamed. Water deluged over her; the fierce cold taking her breath away. Flung forward, she held the reins high on the horse’s neck. “Come on, Amaurea, swim!” she cried, putting her trust in her horse as foaming water swirled around them. Amaurea struck out strongly, but the force of the current pushed her on a diagonal line towards the opposite bank. The rampant power of the water threatened to tear Lothíriel from the horse’s back. Sweet Elbereth! She would never hang on! Buffeted and battered by the surge, it took all her strength to stay in the saddle. But safety depended on it! Umar’s boats could not get up the river against the force of the water, but once swept down to the open sea they would pick her up easily. Head held high above the turbulence, Amaurea fought for both of them. Minutes seemed an age. With legs like jelly, Lothíriel thought she could hang on no longer, but at last the mare got her front feet on the shelf that bordered the deep channel. “Oh, you did it! You saved us!” Lothíriel sobbed with relief, tears running down already wet cheeks.

The gallant animal struggled out onto wet sand. Snorting and blowing hard, the mare trembled from her exertions. Standing with legs splayed, Amaurea shook her head, water spraying in a shower around her. Lothíriel gulped air. She couldn’t stop shivering, her leggings cold and clammy against her skin; her skirt heavy and sodden. Resolutely ignoring the discomfort – the hot sun would soon dry her – she wiped her arm across her face and gathered up the reins. But when her eyes swept the opposite riverbank she teetered uncertainly on the brink of flight. Those of her escort still able to fight had formed a defensive ring of horses and men in the middle of a throng of Haradrim. For her, freedom lay east. She could ride away now with no risk of Umar catching her. But however temping, she was Imrahil’s daughter and that made her hesitate. She absolutely knew that Erchirion and Sergion would yell at her to escape when she had the chance. But would they ever leave any of their people in danger to seek safety for themselves? Never! Neither would her father, Amrothos or Elphir, at whatever cost to themselves.  Her people had suffered enough from Umar’s obsession. No more would die on her behalf. Decision made, and not knowing if she had any chance of aiding her brother or if it were too late, Lothíriel reached for her quiver. It dripped water. She pulled out the arrows and emptied the quiver, shaking the arrows with a quick flip to get rid of most of the water. They would do: the fletching, made from plumage of sea-birds, would recover from the dousing. She slotted them back into the quiver and unhooked her scabbard from beneath the saddle flap. The bow was damp but unharmed. Already strung for the journey, Lothíriel twanged it to dislodge any clinging wet.

Urging the mare forward, she brought her mount right up to the edge of the deep water channel.  “Termáre, Amaurea!” she ordered as the horse shied away from the furious torrent. “Termáre!”

A shudder ran through the mare’s body and she flicked her ears, but stood fast. Lothíriel knew Umar could blow his evil whistle, spook the horse and possibly unseat her, but it was just as likely Amaurea would bolt away from the river in her panic and out of his range with the prey still on her back. Hopefully he would realise that. And she was sure Amaurea would not go to him willingly, even if he summoned her. Not back across that boiling torrent.  Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself—she needed to be calm to do this – Lothíriel wrapped the reins around the pommel and bent her bow. The fighting men were right on the edge of the river, just within her range. A steely determination swept through her: maybe it was fate that she should be here, sitting astride a desert mare and about to use a bow designed after those the Southron mounted warriors had used through the ages. Not a straw butt her target now, but Haradrim. Fools that they were for wearing scarlet, she could pick them off easily. She whipped an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to the string. Taking aim at the nearest red tunic she cleared her mind of any thought but that of assisting her kin-folk, and released the arrow. The man she hit jumped, clutching at his side. Seeing that she had struck her target Lothíriel dismissed him, and reached for another arrow. The next two were hits, the third a miss. She grabbed the forth and sought out Umar. She could not see him so let go her arrow at the easiest red target. Another hit – she was making a difference. Two more down and she saw him strutting about giving orders, but the scum was out of range. She loosed two more arrows at Haradrim on the edge of the melee and then saw that Umar was pointing at her. He had lined up three bowmen who were taking aim towards her. Would he really kill her? It looked as though he was waiting to give the command to shoot. Cold, Lothíriel went icy cold. No! She would not run! He had frightened her enough; she refused to let him turn her into a coward. Fingers shaking, she took another arrow, so numb that will power alone made her fit it to the string. Clenching her teeth and drawing back as far as she could, Lothíriel aimed it right at the black serpent emblazoned on Umar’s tunic. But as she loosed the shaft Amaurea screamed and stumbled – a red-feathered arrow had embedded in her chest.

“No! You craven cur!” Lothíriel yelled across the river, realising they were aiming for Amaurea and not her, but too late! Another arrow hit its mark and the mare fell, rolling onto her side and sending Lothíriel sprawling in the shallows. She scrambled clear, soaked again but unharmed, and managed to grab the reins just before Amaurea slid into the deep channel. Screaming in her pain and anguish, the mare frantically thrashed and struggled, hampering Lothíriel’s efforts to stop her being swept away. Pulled off her feet, and the leather cutting into her hands, she desperately held on, but the weight of the horse and the force of the wild water gave her no chance. Wet leather slipped and tightened around her hand; she had to let go or be dragged in herself.  Amaurea’s huge, terrified eyes met hers one last time, and then she was gone. Her wonderful brave horse taken by the river and given to the sea. Tears streaming down her face, Lothíriel knelt on the sand and stared unbelieving, for caught around Amaurea’s body was a raft of broken branches and foliage. The horse floated to sea as if on a funeral bier, surrounded by the pink blooms of Oleander washed down from higher up the river. Her vision! It was her vision… Lothíriel collapsed into the shallow water, burying her head to shut out the sight.

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His sister must have ridden most of the way near the edge of the surf as the tracks steadily vanished, surrendering to the persistent tide.  Pulling away from the water, Amrothos led his company along the firm sand to make best speed, riding closer to the trees as the beach narrowed. He slacked pace only slightly as they skirted the village, jumping a beached boat and waving an apology to a dumbstruck fisherman who sat peacefully mending his net. The others followed. Shouting to the children to keep clear, they impatiently wound their way through the array of obstacles spread over the shore.

After the village a clear stretch of sand opened out, its length disappearing under flying hooves with a swiftness born of dread. Here the tracks showed plainly across the width of the beach. A third of the way along Gidon shouted. “The fisherman was right! Look! There it is!”

Easing off, Amroth scanned the sea. Fear caught in his throat at the sight of the three-master hove to halfway between the island and the shore. She couldn’t get any closer to the beach along here and was probably picking up the boats! Blessed Eru! Pray he was not too late. “Come on!” he bawled out, digging his heels in. Hero responded, bunching haunches and stretching out his powerful neck to put Amroth in front of his men. But as he got nearer Amroth slowed him again, eyes searching the water. “There are two boats close inshore. It doesn’t seem as though they are ready to leave.”

“There’s another, but it’s near the mouth of the river. It looks like it’s going away from us.” Gidon said, shading his eyes. “They’re not corsairs,” he yelled, sounding flabbergasted. “They’re blasted Haradrim. Those red tunics stand out a mile.”

“Umar! Now I understand! And they’re still fighting. Look down by the river bank.” The remaining escort were in a tight circle, no doubt protecting the injured and a few horses, fretfully tossing their heads.  The beach around was littered with red-garbed bodies, and here and there lay grey mounds of horseflesh, the crows already staking claim.  Amroth took out his battle horn. Sounding it would save lives. But just as he was about to put it to his lips a cold dread arrested him – what of Lothíriel? Where was she?  In the middle of the circle, or somewhere else? A cavalry charge would strike fear in the enemy and their own would find new heart.  But if they had captured her and put her in a boat…. No, he decided they could not have done so, as the guard would be beating their way to her rescue not taking up a defensive position. And if she had already been put in a boat he was too late. Far too late! Announcing their presence would make no difference. He put the horn to his lips, supremely conscious that this was his first command. But the Princes of Dol Amroth had been warriors for a thousand years.  Confidently, Amroth blasted out the stirring tones – a dozen horns echoed behind him. The battle cry never changed, just the enemy differed.

The horns evoked confusion.  Some of the Haradrim broke off from the conflict and ran for the boats. Fuelled by fear for his sister Amroth bore down on the escaping men, trying to work out what was going on. He could make no sense of it. The boat in the river mouth, he could see now, carried about six Haradrim plus the rowers. But it turned and headed back out to sea, making for the ship.  That seemed to be the signal for all the Haradrim to try and break off.  It didn’t look as if any wanted to stay and fight. But they damn well weren’t all going to get away.  And he wasn’t the only one who thought that. Mercifully, Amroth picked out his brother –Erchirion and a few others were still fighting hand to hand with Southron warriors who were trying their best to retreat. “I want a couple alive!” Amroth shouted to him.

Levelling his spear to charge, he directed his men to cut off those making for the boats.  The first boat got away — overloaded, with the gunwales only just above the surface—the rowers straining to get into deeper water and out of spear range. But Amroth concentrated on those trying for the second boat and still in the sea. No chance for them, they made the mistake of running when they should have stood and fought. A volley of spears flayed the nearest, the rest mown down by the cutting hooves of warhorses as they scrambled for safety. In minutes Haradrim blood and surf mingled in a swirling red foam. Amroth had to pull himself up as fury caught him, wanting no more than to trample every raiding Southron into pieces of bloody fish bait.  But he needed some alive to question, and where was his sister? Throwing an order to Gidon to round up any survivors – a couple were coughing and spluttering in the water – Amroth turned and headed up the beach to his brother. At the moment he couldn’t see Sergion or Lothíriel, but perhaps they had got away somewhere. A fleeing Southron, caught between the two arms of Dol Amroth – one on the sand, the other in the surf – tried to dive away as Amroth kicked his horse into a last effort and ran him down, slicing into the back of his neck with one arc of his sword.

Coming up alongside Erchirion, Amroth pulled Hero to a halt. Sides heaving, the poor horse was near exhaustion after the long gallop and the charge. Grim faced, torn and bloodied, if anything his brother looked worse. He had stuck his sword in the sand and one arm hung limply by his side; the other grasped a Haradrim warrior by the golden collar of his tunic. The man slumped against him, black braids clumped with blood, his dark face twisting in pain as Erchirion shook him.

“This one still lives!”

Amroth flicked his eyes over him. “Only just. Keep him that way. Where’s Lothíriel?”

Erchi’s expression softened. “Don’t worry; she’s safe for the moment. You came in the nick of time, little brother. How did you know?”

“Sheer luck, I’ll tell you later. But we didn’t know it was Umar’s doing.”

Erchi’s face turned rigid with disgust. “He was here himself. Kept out of danger, the bastard!  Concentrated on getting Lothíriel, but she outwitted him. You’d better go and get her, Amroth.  We’ve lost six men. More are hurt, and Sergion’s been badly injured. He got caught on his own trying to get her away. “She’s over the river.” he jerked his head towards the Ernil.

Over the river! That explained the third boat. Amroth turned to look.

 “And Amroth,” Erchirion waited until Amroth looked directly at him, “She’s brave girl. They got the horse, but she picked off a few of them herself.”

“Amaurea?”

Erchi nodded.

“Damn Umar!  He will pay for this!”

“I hope so, the man is mad. Probably got the pox.” Erchi’s eyes darkened. “With any luck it will finish him before we do.”

Revolted, Amroth said nothing to that. “I’ll get Lothíriel, but I’ll have to go round. Hero will never swim it, he’s spent.”

“Take Warmonger, he’s fretting to do something. He might not be pretty, Amroth,” Erchi flared up at Amroth’s look of derision, “but he’s powerful and game.”

He’s going to have to be, Amroth thought, as he surveyed the river. He could see Lothíriel, huddled on the sand opposite him – a bedraggled, forlorn looking bundle – head buried in her knees.  She hadn’t seen him, but he hesitated to call to her, guessing she would need some comfort. Best to cross downstream a bit, he decided, where the incoming tide was calming the angry water, spreading the force over the wide river basin. The big horse snorted and tried to pull away, but once Amroth had persuaded him in he was able to push his way forward through the tide for some way, swimming only when they reached the channel.

Warmonger neighing and snorting when he got out the water lifted Lothíriel’s eyes to him. But she didn’t move, staring vacantly at him as he approached. Sitting in a few inches of water she was shivering in spite of the sun. Amroth slid from Warmonger’s back, commanding the horse to stand. Still Lothíriel did not move, and Amroth got down beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder.

“Are you hurt, Lothíriel?” She looked terrible: White faced, damp and covered in sand, her hair hanging in rattails.

As if she had not heard him Lothíriel stared at the river, her eyes glazed. “She came to me in the end, Amroth. Umar thought he had mastered her, but he hadn’t.  And then I let her down. I couldn’t hold her. She was screaming. So frightened, and I couldn’t save her. The river took her. I should have taken notice of my vision, but I didn’t realise.”

Amroth had no idea what she was talking about but knew that Amaurea’s loss would have affected her badly, especially as she had witnessed the horse’s death. And she was so stunned that she hadn’t even asked what he was doing there. “She was a brave horse, little sister, and you did your best. Nobody could hold a horse against the river.” He pulled her to her feet, knowing he needed to shock her out of her daze. “We have to go, you are needed. Sergion has been injured and will require your skill.”

“Sergion!” Lothíriel’s eyes opened wide, the vacant look gone. “No!” She wrung her hands in distress, chewing on her lip, but did not move. “And Erchirion?”

“He’s fine, but others are hurt.”

The desperate look she gave him pierced his heart. “How many? How many won’t be coming home with us?”

No point in denying, she would find out soon. “Six, I think.”

Silent tears started to roll down her cheeks. “Why, Amroth? Why is Umar doing this? I am not worth all this death. What is it about me that provokes him to such madness?”

“That’s just it, Lothíriel. He is mad. And he doesn’t like to be beaten. Come, there is no time to waste, we will talk it through later.”  

Wordlessly, Lothíriel allowed him to lift her onto Warmonger. Looking utterly dejected, she huddled into the saddle. Amroth heard a small sound like a sob, her whole body trembled. He wouldn’t risk the river again. Also, the tide was very likely to bring Amaurea’s corpse onto the sand and he did not want any chance of her seeing that. But almost as if she heard him think it, Lothíriel grabbed his shoulder as he was about to mount.

“She’ll be washed up on the beach, Amroth. I can’t bear it! We’ve got to bury her. I won’t leave her for the birds.”

“Don’t worry, Father will arrive soon. He will organise it.”

Placated for the moment she slumped again, and he quickly swung in front of her.

“We are going to cross by the bridge, as speedily as we can, so hold on tight, won’t you.” Something he would never have to say to her normally. But she grasped him firmly around the waist and cuddled against him.

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Aldburg – The Riddermark

Firefoot pranced about, tossing his head, sniffing and snorting and flirting with any mare coming within his range. In fact generally making a spectacle of himself, Éomer acknowledged. But he could not blame him: the merrymaking had affected everyone. Any stray thought in Éomer’s mind that the East-mark riders would resent his rapid rise through the ranks melted away when the race between him and Éothain turned into much more than a private wager. Almost a full scale tournament.  Three other patrols had challenged his own, and glad of an excuse to celebrate – relief from a life of vigilance and the dealing with death was always needed–  had organised a course on the cropped grass that swept right past the gates of Aldburg. The Rohirrim liked nothing better than to test their horses against others, and if they could accompany friendly competition with a barrel of ale on the sidelines, so much the better.

By the time he emerged from his meeting with Eorllic hurdles kept for the spring and autumn fairs had been lugged out and hammered into place, and merchants took the opportunity to hastily erect a few stalls.  Horses and people thronged around the gates waiting for the first race; mothers holding the hands of excited children; young boys arguing over the outcome and loudly discussing the finer points of every horse, and the unmarried girls dangling woven ribbons from their hands, eying their favourite riders. 

A giggling group clustered round Æbbe, Eorllic’s daughter. The lively maiden was always the centre of attention and her hand held a whole bunch of ribbons. Éomer covered his mouth to contain his hoot of laughter as Éothain sidled Starkhorn up to Æbbe. Seeing him coming, Æbbe quickly stuffed the ribbons in the pocket of her skirt, leaving just one hanging from her fingers. A few moments’ conversation and the bubbly girl placed her hand on Éothain’s arm, grinning up at him and bestowing a ribbon on his red-faced friend. Éomer had not missed the doughty warrior’s decided partiality for Déor’s sister over the preceding months, although he doubted the feeling was reciprocated. But Éothain rode towards him fixing the ribbon to Starkhorn’s brow-band with a very smug expression. Éomer moved Firefoot slightly around and said conversationally, “A pretty ribbon, Éothain. Fine workmanship.”

Éothain fairly bristled with pride. “It is Æbbe’s; she is an accomplished needle-woman.” He fingered the woven red, green and yellow wool fondly, before giving it a tug to make sure it was securely fastened. “It will have taken time to weave, and she does not bestow her favors lightly.”

“I am sure she doesn’t,” Éomer agreed, choking back another laugh. He tugged at Firefoot, who had decided that he had stood around long enough and having spotted a pretty young mare he had not met before, was making serious efforts to effect an introduction. Forestalling the possible ruckus, Éomer pulled him around to face Éothain. His friend glanced indifferently over the stallion, his attention still on Æbbe. But something must have registered in his brain because he suddenly swung his head back to stare at Firefoot’s bridle. Éomer said nothing, pretending to inspect a slight tear in his sleeve whilst observing Éothain under his lashes. White; red; purple; the hues crossed Éothain’s face in quick succession.

“What’s that?” Éothain exclaimed, astonishment and anger vying for position.

“A tear in my sleeve.”

“No, I mean that ribbon!” Éothain barked back. “It’s one of Æbbe’s.”

Stifling his mirth, Éomer carefully examined the ribbon, comparing the pattern to the one Starkhorn sported, as Éothain visibly fumed. “So it is. She must have had another one.”

 “We’re ready, lord. And we are going first.” Guflaf glanced at Éothain as he trotted up, drawing his brows together in surprise at the belligerent expression he encountered. His horse had a colored ribbon under each twitching ear. “We are bound to win.” He smirked at Éomer, “What with ours now being the senior patrol, so to speak. Besides, Æbbe gave all our lot a ribbon, and baring my daughter, she’s the prettiest maid in Aldburg.”

A good day, Éomer decided later, leaning against the door to Firefoot’s stall and watching Éothain shovel muck. His patrol had won the challenge and, unusually, he had beaten Éothain in their personal contest. Mayhap his friend’s bad temper had affected his horsemanship. Not getting much conversation, he left him to it, strolling outside into the stable yard.

Éomer stared at the sky: the mountain just about to claim the sun, it blazed as red as Éothain’s face. With a quick goodnight, a rider hurried past him as he lingered in the doorway. But the man didn’t stop to look at the spectacle, no doubt eager to get home to his wife. Family time was precious to the warriors of the Riddermark. A stable boy looked up from his last sweep of the day. Putting the brush over his shoulder, the lad nodded his goodnight, and disappeared into the tack room. Still enjoying the evening, Éomer watched a big tabby cat hunting around the edge of the yard, his head cocked to any noise. Seeing Éomer, he broke off from the hunt and strolled towards him. Arching his back, the tabby rubbed contentedly against leather boots. Éomer pulled at its ears and scratched the silky fur of its head. It mewed appreciatively, pushing its head deeper into Éomer’s hand. But suddenly the cat went stiff, every nerve on alert in feline anticipation, before it darted out of his grasp. Summoned by a movement too slight for even Éomer’s warrior senses to detect, the cat dived behind a water butt. Emerging proudly moments later with a rat still struggling in its jaws, it slunk off around the side of the stable. Éomer followed it with his eyes until, with a last twitch of tail, it vanished from sight. He sighed audibly. Not even the cats could afford to relax for long. Tomorrow his patrol would be off again, this time checking up on the others as well as keeping vigil themselves. Wives and sweethearts would wave goodbye with glistening eyes, while others looked longingly down the road for their men returning. And with any luck Éothain’s chagrin would not last farther than the Entwash, lost in the banter and rivalry that existed in such a fine group of Riders.  Turning on his heel, Éomer went back into the stable to see if Éothain had finished.

To be continued.

Chapter 11

Minas Tirith 3017

After the muted light of the Healing Houses the bright sun outside made her squint. Screwing up her eyes against the glare, Lothíriel looked down the street. Where was Sergion? He never failed to meet her, not allowing her to walk alone even on the sixth level of the city and only a few hundred yards from their home. Then she saw him, hurrying from the way that led up to the Citadel. He was in the shadow of the wall, but the awkward way he walked made him easily recognisable. As always the thought of the pain he had endured and the months of recuperation smote her with sorrow. But he was still upright, strong and honed, and well able to wield his long sword. The injury had not impaired those skills. And the captains of Minas Tirith welcomed the help of one of Dol Amroth’s finest knights with the training of new recruits, when his duties to her permitted.

As Sergion got closer Lothíriel descended the few steps from the door to the cobbled street, stifling a yawn. Early shifts were the ones that made her the most tired. She could work all night if necessary, and frequently did, but getting up in the dark to start before dawn –ugh!

“I am sorry to be late, Lothíriel.” Sergion said, taking her arm.

Lothíriel reached up and kissed his smooth cheek. “You fuss too much, Sergion, I could easily walk home by myself. I am perfectly safe here. Surely not even all the rampant hordes of the Haradrim could breech the walls of the White City.”

Grinning, he tweaked at a few errant strands of black hair which had managed to escape her plait during the long shift. “Probably not, but your uncle, as well as your father, insists you have a guard. That reminds me, Denethor wishes to talk to you. He asks for you to attend him just before the daymeal, so there is time for you to change.”

“Talk to me! What about, Sergion?” Lothíriel was aware of the slight panic in her voice. “And don’t say I have to see him in that dreary hall. It’s about as friendly as a tomb in there.” No wonder her uncle had a reputation for being bad tempered and stern, he spent most of his time amongst morbid statues of dead kings. But to be fair, she admitted, pushing aside thoughts of his grim face, he had been kind to her — allowing her to continue her training as a healer when it was deemed safer for her to live far out of reach of Umar’s long arm.

“No, you’re to go to his study. But I am not sure what he wants, Lothíriel, he did not say. It may be something to do with Erchirion. He arrived today.”

A spurt of pleasurable anticipation pushed away her anxiety over Denethor’s summons. “Erchirion? Here?”

“Yes, you will see him tonight, but tomorrow he is off to join Boromir in Osgiliath.”

That made sense – her brother always liked a good fight. And Gondor’s borders were being continually harassed, providing plenty of opportunity. Then a thought struck her. “Did he turn up on his own, or did my father come as well?”

“He came alone. But your father is due to arrive for another visit in a few weeks.”

“I thought he would not stay away for long.” Lothíriel grinned, catching Sergion’s eye. But other than the slight stiffening of his chiselled features, he did not acknowledge the dig. Sergion had tried to keep it from her; nevertheless, she knew that her father had a lady friend in the White City. She wasn’t quite sure who it was yet, although she would recognise the lady’s perfume – warm and spicy, it clung to her father’s clothes. But why they thought she would mind she couldn’t fathom. Her mother had died many years before and her father was still a fit and handsome man, no reason for him to spend the rest of his life alone. She did not mind at all, but would have liked to be introduced properly. Somehow she could not believe that her father would have a relationship with a woman that he couldn’t introduce to her. The Lord of Dol Amroth had better taste than that.

By this time they had arrived at the entrance to the town house that had been owned by the family for years uncountable. Built against the wall of the Citadel, it was just along the street from the Healing Houses. A cool shady courtyard - one of the greenest places in the City – led to the entrance of a three storied house built of white stone. Large windows looked across the gardens of the Healing Houses and over the Pelennor to the silver sweep of the Anduin.  Years before, frustrated at the lack of provision for horses in the City, her father had commandeered the empty house next door, turning  the lower floor into stables and the top into accommodation for his knights when they accompanied him on his frequent visits. Lothíriel now knew why those visits had become even more frequent. Her permanent residence in the house must be a nuisance, but that consideration could not have weighed with her father when he insisted she would be safer here. The attempt to kidnap her had shocked everybody. Now all, including her uncle, took Umar’s threats seriously. In the weeks afterwards, when Sergion had lain fighting for his leg and his life, Lothíriel had angrily rued the missed shot that had allowed Umar to live. But now, having tended the sick and the dying for so long, she had no wish to take another life; however warped she felt that life to be.

Treated exactly the same as any other apprentice by the Warden and his staff, Lothíriel knew that none of the other healers would arrive home to find a maid waiting, a bowl of scented water already warm and clean clothes laid on the bed. Not that she was interested in, or had any need, for clothes other than her healing garb. Shunning any kind of social gatherings, she spent most of her free time reading. But Hisael tried; and today had laid out a blue silk dress with slashed sleeves and some matching slippers, embroidered with a tracery of flowers. The anxious look told Lothíriel her maid was expecting to be instructed to put it away and find something plain and serviceable.

But today the woman’s eyes lit with pleasure when Lothíriel said with a ghost of a smile, “Yes, I will wear it, Hisael.  I have to go and see my uncle Denethor.”

“Oh, Princess, are you going to eat in the hall? Let me style your hair properly. You are too old to be wearing that plait in the evenings.”

Maybe she was, but it would do. With any luck she wouldn’t have to stay for the meal, but if she did, she didn’t want any of the men to notice her. If she looked plain and dowdy so much the better. She would wear a shawl over the dress just in case. “My hair is fine, Hisael, and I haven’t much time anyway. Oh, and hopefully I will eat here with Erchirion.”

But of course as much as she wanted to she couldn’t be completely anonymous. Walking through the corridors with Sergion at her side initiated the inevitable rash of hurried bows and curtseys. Not many young women walked around with their own guard, and in spite of the limp Sergion’s military bearing proclaimed his role. And rumour always ran rife in the Citadel; a princess coming to live for her own protection had got the gossip mongers going. But so far, with her keeping out of the forefront of court life, she hoped they had not found much to tattle about.

Her uncle’s study, only a fraction more homely than the Hall of Kings, was reached by climbing the stairs in the White Tower. To Lothíriel it had one thing in its favour – the view. It looked straight over the Pelennor to the Harlond and beyond, where the green hills of Emyn Arnen could be picked out against the blackness of the Ephel Dúath. But sweeping ones eyes left the ruins of Osgiliath came into sight – the frontier of Gondor’s battle with the unnamed. Otherwise the round chamber struck her as a bit like the Steward himself – hard and cold. Her uncle seemed to revel in personal discomfort and no hangings softened the marble walls and no rugs warmed the tiled floor. In spite of the rays of the afternoon sun shafting across the huge desk, Lothíriel involuntary shivered as she closed the door behind her.

“Ah, my dear, it’s good to see you looking so well.” Denethor got up from his seat and came around the desk, surprising Lothíriel when he put his arm around her and hugged her against him, kissing her cheek. But his lips were like the rest of him – rigid and controlled. Still, it could be worse, she had heard many say that the lash of his tongue could cut one to the bone; in her dealings so far she had experienced only a velvet leash.

“Your training is going as you wish? You are satisfied with the standard of the teachers?” Strong fingers lingered on her shoulder and she did not move. He held her fast, as he did all his subjects. Her perception heightened these last two years by her dealing with the dying and her chosen isolation, she felt his iron will as a tangible force. He let her go, and she sat down, her body sagging into the chair as he returned to his own. Only then could she answer.

“Yes, of course. How could I not be, Uncle? There are none better.”

”So I would hope, but I understand your own Master is very skilled.”

What did he want her to say, that the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith were superior to those in Dol Amroth? Instinctively she knew that was just what he wanted, and that he liked to have the best under his command. “He is, Uncle, but of course the Houses here are larger and so have a greater diversification of abilities.”

“Hmm …” shrewd eyes surveyed her, but he did not follow it up. “Remind me, Lothíriel, how long have you been here now?”

She was sure he knew exactly but answered politely. “We came two years ago this autumn, Uncle.”

“So you did. And your captain, I spoke to him today. He still limps heavily, but I suppose he always will.” Lothíriel didn’t answer, nothing to say to that really and she felt Denethor was only passing time waiting to get to the reason he had asked to see her. “It was a bad business, Lothíriel, but you mustn’t let it affect the rest of your life, you know.”

Her breath caught in her throat and she wondered where this was going. She felt his eyes boring into her, seeking to discover her secret thoughts. “I try not to let it, Uncle.”

“But, my dear, you avoid appearing in public. Understandable at first, alone here with just your guard. But even when your father visits you do not choose to grace us with your presence.”

“My duties…”

“You are not always on duty, Lothíriel.”

Silence. She had been right to fear this meeting. Fiddling with the sleeves of her dress to avoid those all-seeing eyes, Lothíriel could not deny the accusation, so said nothing.

“You are eighteen now, my dear. It is time you took your place in our society …. Oh don’t look so scared, I am not asking you to give up your calling and spend every night preening, posing and chattering nonsense, like most of the women seem to do. But I would like you to attend the weekly feast in Merethrond. It will be good for you, there is a bit of dancing and music. You cannot shut yourself away for ever, Lothíriel.”

Panic started her shaking, but she didn’t want to anger him and have her training curtailed. Besides, she was thankful her presence was only required once a week. “I …if that is your wish, Uncle, then of course I will do so.”

“It is my wish. And I am expecting Boromir and Faramir to return to the City for a few days next week. So I will hold a special feast in their honour. It will be a good time for you to take your proper place. You are one of Gondor’s highest ranking ladies, Lothíriel.”

As if she could forget it! But she stifled the retort, saying instead. “Oh, my cousins will both be here. That is unusual.”

“Yes. Your brother’s arrival is fortuitous: he can relieve Boromir for a few days. My eldest son has not felt able to leave the front line for a while but I wish to discuss some strategy with him. And Faramir is due to report on a scouting expedition.”

She must have shown her pleasure – the fact that her cousins would be present would make the ordeal of a formal meal in Merethrond more bearable – because Denethor beamed at her.

“There, not so bad when you get used to the idea, is it?”

“No, Uncle. I shall look forward to seeing my cousins.”

“And one more thing. I do not think you get enough fresh air. You should be doing more than sitting in the garden reading. You should be riding, Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel stuttered, heat suffusing up her neck making her slightly breathless. “I don’t wish to own a horse, Uncle.”

“Who said anything about owning one? I do not get time to ride anymore. My gelding, Gilroch, could do with the exercise. I will give orders for him to be made available for you. Naturally your captain will go with you and he can pick some others as well. As long as you keep within the Rammas Echor, I see no harm. I will speak to him about it.”

Lothíriel swallowed as bile rose to her throat. She hadn’t ridden since that dreadful day when she’d lost Amaurea, but realized that she didn’t have a lot of choice, and anyway could not really spend the rest of her life without ever going on a horse. Somehow she would overcome those sickening memories. So she nodded. “Thank you. I will look forward to it.”

Denethor smiled, a glint of triumph in his eyes. He stood up, and Lothíriel recognising dismissal – he had got what he wanted – stood up also. She faced him across the desk, knowing he would always seek to control her. But his stern expression softened, and as before he came around the side of the desk towards her. Taken aback, Lothíriel stared, for his movement had allowed the long black cloak he always wore to open slightly. Beneath it, perhaps deliberately kept hidden, she glimpsed bright mail and the jewelled hilt of a sword. Her suspicion was confirmed when her uncle caught the edge of his cloak and drew it quickly across with one hand, reaching out the other to smooth her hair.

“Yes, I have got what I want, Lothíriel. I read your eyes, and they tell me you are not happy that I have. But I tell you this – the longer you walk in the shadow of your fear, the harder it will become to stay in the light. You are a noble amongst great nobles in the ancient realm of Gondor, and as such must squash those that crawl in the slime under the sole of your shoe.  Those of the race of Númenor cannot let others see that they have lost hope, lest all lose hope. Always they must strive to push back the tide of despair that threatens to overwhelm the men of the west.”

Fine words! Denethor’s face, determined and unyielding, blazed with pride and conviction as he squared his shoulders and looked East. But when he continued to stare out of the windows, immobile and lost in valiant fervour, Lothíriel recoiled from what she saw there, gripping the edge of the chair to keep from reeling. But he didn’t notice her distress, and managing to contain her horror and not move from his touch, she blinked a few times. But the awful sight remained – what had been a glint in her uncle’s eyes had turned to flames. Horrified, she watched fire flicker in those dark eyes, the flames licking upwards to claim the heavy brows.

----------------

Edoras – The Riddermark

At Éothain’s shout the crowd parted, opening a pathway to the steps that led to the door of Meduseld. But Éomer’s progress was slowed by the press of people grabbing at him, wanting to clasp his arm or thump him on the back. Giving him no chance to stop, no time to greet old friends, Éothain shouldered them aside with a grin and a promise that the new Marshal would join in the celebrations later. But once on the steps Éomer paused, wanting to drink the atmosphere for a moment: the happy crowd clustering at the bottom of the age-worn staircase; the clean water gushing from the stone horse’s head into the overflowing basin, before flowing down the hill in a chattering stream that never dried.  Edoras – seat of power, home to his king – what would greet him here on this day of days? But Éothain pushed him on with a hand in his back, “Surely you are not hesitant,” he whispered.

No, he wasn’t, but again Éomer paused once he gained the terrace, taking a mere heartbeat to compose himself. The doorwardens stood motionless, only their long braids and the edge of their green cloaks moving in the inevitable breeze that whipped up the hill from the plains. At that moment the sun discovered a scrap of clear sky amongst the threatening clouds, and its mirror images on two shiny shields glinted their own welcome. Éomer took a pace forward, and the hilts of long swords were turned towards him in the traditional gesture of respect.

Háma waited just inside the door; he greeted Éomer with a warrior’s clasp and a beam that went from ear to ear. “You made good time. But hurry now, Théoden King is waiting.”

Éomer nodded. He took off his gauntlets, throwing them onto a table, pushed his cloak back from his shoulders and pulled at his tunic to straighten it. Éothain did the same, standing behind him slightly. Háma ran his eyes over them both, his mouth twisting in pretended mockery. “I suppose you’ve done your best, seeing you were out in the wilds when you heard. Come on!” 

Hand on sword-hilt, following Háma down the centre aisle, the distance between door and throne had never felt so great. The Hall felt stifling after the fresh air of the plains. But in spite of the number of people that lined each side, grouped closely between the pillars, only the regular clip of three pairs of boots could be heard over the spitting of the fire. Éomer had not been expecting such an audience, but then immersed in the troubles of an increasingly beleaguered land, he’d forgotten that others had time to celebrate the end of harvest, and dance and feast before the onset of another winter closed the Mark tight. Today, with the sun battling dark clouds, all but the dais stood in shadow. Háma stopped before it, bowing low to the sunken figure who sat on the throne. “Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, comes at your command, my Lord King.”

Third Marshal of the Riddermark – only the second time he had heard it announced aloud – the first being on the messenger’s lips. Following in his father’s footsteps indeed, but so young. His father had certainly been a lot older than twenty-six. Théoden raised one bony hand, beckoning him onto the dais. Éomer stepped up, a long stride bringing him to the King’s feet. This time he knelt with pleasure, not wanting to do anything other than honour the man who had honoured him so greatly. Éomer kissed his uncle’s hand, holding the trembling fingers tightly – why were they so cold?

“My Lord King, I will endeavour to repay your trust in me.”

Théoden did not say anything but his lips turned up in a smile and he nodded his acknowledgement, motioning Éomer to his feet. Éomer waited for some words, but as though the effort was too much, Théoden’s rheumy eyes passed over him and sought out his counsellor. Gríma stood up from his habitual place on the step, and moved to the side of the throne, placing one hand in a very proprietary way on the high back. White, claw-like fingers scrabbled over the wood, right next to his king’s shoulder.

Éomer was tempted to slap the hand away, but resorted to grinding his teeth. Gríma might be clever and possibly advise their aging king wisely, but everything the man did irritated him. However it was not the time to show his displeasure. Although something in his bearing must have revealed the tension in him, because a pace behind the throne on the other side, Éowyn indiscernibly shook her head, silently telling him to watch his words. How she’d changed these past two years, and not for the better. It had happened so gradually that he hadn’t really noticed at first, being away so much. But slowly and surely, her natural exuberance and spontaneity had been replaced by a gravity not all accountable to the dangers threatening their homeland.

His thought was interrupted by that hated voice. “It is indeed a great responsibility your uncle is giving you, Éomer son of Éomund. The whole muster of the East-mark under your command. So much rests on such young shoulders; let us hope his trust is not misplaced. Now the rashness of youth must be tempered by the prudence of experience.”

“If you doubt my experience, Gríma son of Gálmód, then I might ask why you advised my uncle in this matter.” Éomer stared into Gríma’s eyes until the hooded lids dropped to shield them from his thinly veiled challenge. But with a start, Éomer realised why – to keep him out of the way permanently. To make sure he was not temped to return to Edoras? Now why should that suit master Gríma?

But as if guessing his suspicions Gríma hurried to deny them “Your uncle commands his own counsel, and in this matter was adamant. We have heard of your exploits from many, and our Riders follow you without question. A valuable quality in a leader of men.”

But the murk in the man’s eyes did not reflect the flattering words on his lips, and Éomer ignored him. Turning once again to his uncle, he clicked his heels and bowed low. “Théoden King, my sword and my heart are always yours to command.”

Théoden put his hand out towards him, the twisted horse-tail ring he wore loose on a bony finger. “Éomer, my sister-son, I will never doubt it.”

Éomer grasped the cold hand again, and held his uncle’s eyes for a few seconds, trying to convey the love he felt for the man who had been like a father to him. 

”Time for the mead cup, I think.” Gríma broke into the moment, which earned him a glare from Éowyn. But she went to fetch the jug of mead and carved cups, with which they would toast the Riddermark and the appointment of a new Marshal. Breaking off from his clasp with Théoden, Éomer scrutinised her, and was suddenly stunned by what he saw. Tall, and willow like, the white dress clinging to her slim figure as she moved, shining hair veiling her back like a cloak of gold.  Taking the tray she turned round to face him – her fine features sculpted and pale, her eyes cool and calm, the blue softened to grey in the half-light. Béma! Why hadn’t he realised? His sister had turned into an absolute beauty.  

Éowyn passed Théoden a cup, and then him, before giving one to Gríma. She stepped down from the dais and handed one to Éothain who stood in attendance on his Marshal. As Éomer put his lips to the silver-rimmed wood his glance fell again on Gríma, still holding onto the back of the throne. The man’s cup was poised halfway to his lips; his eyes were fixed on Éowyn as she moved towards Elfhelm and the other nobles standing near the dais. His expression told all. Éomer had seen that look on many a man’s face: it was the look of want; the look of lust, and his stomach cramped in response to it being directed at his sister.

-------------------

He would have to speak to Éowyn tomorrow, Éomer decided as the promised rain confined the festivities to Meduseld itself. No chance in this crowd to talk privately to her, and besides, she was kept busy in attendance on Théoden. She should be enjoying herself! No wonder she looked a bit gloomy if most of her time was spent in the presence of an old man – however much loved – and a slimy worm who couldn’t keep his evil eyes off her.

“Do you think Éowyn is happy?”

“What?” Déor dragged his gaze away from the dance floor. “What did you say?”

Éomer scanned the whirling dancers, trying to pick out who had caught his friend’s attention. But in such a throng he could not be sure. “Éowyn, do you think she is happy?” he repeated. “She has changed. She is no longer carefree; the vibrancy has gone from her.”

Déor took a swig from his mug, considering his answer, Éomer felt. “She is frightened for her uncle, I think. He ages before our eyes and more and more Gríma Wormtongue speaks for him. Even Elfhelm, who commands the muster of Edoras in his stead, receives his orders from the worm’s mouth and not directly from his king.”

Éomer sighed. He was going to have to speak to Théodred, discover what he felt about his father’s increasing decline. Once again he wondered if Wormtongue had deliberately got them both out of the way. But he also had another more immediate concern. “I am worried for my sister. Do you notice Gríma’s eyes upon her?”

Déor drew brows together in a frown. “We all notice. But do not worry,” he said, squeezing Éomer’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. “There are those of us who watch over her. No harm will come to Éowyn while we still have breath.”

“Thank you, my friend. You have relieved me and also helped me come to a decision. I was going to ask Elfhelm to release you, and for you to ride with me. But now I think that for the time being anyway, I would prefer you to remain here. Unless you are eager to return to Aldburg – where your father waves his stick at any young rider who dares to go too near, and offers his advice to all.”

“Then I think I will remain,” Déor chuckled.  “And there are other things to keep me here.” He let his eyes wander to a girl who had formed part of the set in front of them. Her hair a rich gold, it hung down her back in long ringlets. A tiny waist set off admirably, Éomer noticed, by curvaceous hips and a shapely bosom. Perfection in a small package. Grinning, Éomer leant towards him.

“Do you think Háma will let his youngest go to just anybody, after snaffling a Marshal for Wilflede?” But Déor laughed at his rudeness, and in accord they both searched out Elfhelm. Dancing with an arm around his wife, for once the Marshal had a relaxed smile on his face. Suddenly Éomer envied him, and Déor – if only Háma had another daughter lurking. It would solve a lot of problems if he could fall in love with someone suitable, and not a woman who belonged to another. Both sorry and thankful that his duties had kept him more and more away from Eastfeld, he acknowledged it had been a difficult few years.

“Elfhelm looks happy,” Déor said at last, “and Wilflede was ripe for marriage. But I feel Byrde is too young, and the times too uncertain for a warrior to settle to home life.”

“Tell that to Éothain!” Éomer retorted with a guffaw.

“He still hankers after my sister?”

“Well, I think he has given up. Her interest is elsewhere.”

“Is it? We will see about that. But as for Éothain, I think he needs a strong woman to control him, Æbbe is not much more than a child.”

Éomer agreed with the first part, but as for Æbbe being a child – he wondered when Déor had last seen her. But then he thought Byrde too young. Aloud he said, “Éothain will get over it, but for the last few months a warg with a head cold would have been better company.”

Chuckling they both returned to their ale, Déor following Byrde’s progress around the room, her younger brother squiring her in a lively reel.

The dance ended, and as Elfhelm took his wife’s hand to lead her to the seats around the side, one of the guards went up to him. The two men talked avidly together for a moment and even from this distance Éomer was aware of the Marshal’s stiffening posture. Elfhelm looked up, his eyes traveling around the room until they connected with Éomer’s. He jerked his head towards the door.

“Trouble?” Déor said, as they both put down their mugs and followed Elfhelm.

A rider waited in the ante-room, cloak sodden, boots and hose splashed with mud, his warrior braids hanging in rattails to his shoulders. He nodded his head to the two Marshals, and launched into his report.

“Godred of the Wold sent a rider to warn us – an army of orcs, hundreds strong, plundering as they went through. We picked them up when they reached the Emnet but there were not enough of us to attack on the open grassland. They are so many that they are not bothering to keep to the wall, but heading straight across the plain.”

“What! Coming here?” Elfhelm barked, his face contorting with surprise.

“No.” the scout shook his head. “We feel they are heading for the crossing below Rauros. But they will need to feed, and the herds are further to the West at the moment. Our worry is that if they keep on the same track they will be passing Eastfeld about dawn. My patrol has ridden at all speed to warn them, and offer protection. But they are not enough, so I was sent here.”

Éomer went cold, an icy dread numbing him. What he had feared for so long, and with him and his éored leagues away.

To be continued.

Warning – The first part of this chapter contains an explicit death scene. I make no apologies for this – terrible things happened in Rohan before the Ring-war. If you think it may upset you, please scroll down to Lothíriel’s story. Further chapters will contain nothing so gruesome, and after the war the story will lighten. LBJ

Chapter 12

Edoras – The Riddermark.

Immobilised with shock for the first few moments, now he ladled out orders thick and fast. “All our Riders are to prepare to leave immediately,” he shouted to Éothain – no matter some were still dancing and downing ale, the fresh air would clear their heads – “I want no delay, tell them to travel light.”

Elfhelm caught his arm, as he grabbed cloak and gauntlets from his squire. “I’ll give you half an éored, that’s all I can let go. Wormtongue will shout about that, but you will be gone by then. And take Déor, he can command my lot.”

Éomer nodded his thanks, for it was more than he expected. Now he must depart with all speed. Luckily Théoden had already retired, so he need not stop to offer his farewells to his king, but he had to see Éowyn.  Torn between rushing for the stables and searching her out - the decision was taken out of his hands when she appeared in the ante-chamber, her face worried and drawn. “Éomer, what is this? They say you are going already.”

He pulled her aside into the shadow of a pillar. In the hall the fiddler still played, but one by one his men were leaving, snaking in and out of the dancers and hurrying to the door. “We have had word of a great band of orcs. They threaten Eastfeld. We must ride through the night, Éowyn.”

“But Eastfeld is hours away.  What can you do? And have you Riders enough?” 

“I have enough, but as to what I can do – only hope the villagers will defend themselves for the time it takes us to get there. We have trained and armed them over the past few years and made plans for such an eventuality by constructing a small stockade around the square, but even so…”

“They are not warriors.” Éowyn finished for him.

“No, but if they can hold on, and we make good speed, there is a chance.” There had to be a chance, he told himself. Not wanting to think about anything else.

----------

Pushing aside the guilt he felt for leaving Éowyn so soon, Éomer bounded down the steps and ran along the path to the stables. Men were rushing down the hill, saddle and tack over their arms – most of the horses were grazing in the paddocks outside the walls. Thoughts raged in his head, jostling for place: would Egbert be in time to warn the village – and if he did – could they hold off until relief arrived in the form of him and his Riders? And which way should he go – along the road, or the track alongside the Snowbourn? Would the rain keep up – it would slow them if it did. But the most frightening thought he refused to let surface – would Bergit be safe?

No more time for deliberation, already men were mounted in the stable yard. Éothain came out leading Starkhorn and Firefoot, the big stallion dancing with excitement on the end of the reins. Éomer grabbed him quickly as his rear end swung around, just stopping him from colliding with an indignant roan belonging to one of Elfhelm’s riders.

Éothain snorted his disapproval. “Damn horse needs a lesson in manners.”

“He’s keen that’s all”. Éomer immediately jumped to the defence.

“If you say so.”

Ignoring this, Éomer looked around. “Is everybody ready?” The yard was crowded with a melee of warriors fixing spears and tightening girths.

“Ours should be, we can pick them up at the gate, but I don’t know about Déor.”

But at that moment Déor appeared alongside them mounted on a handsome grey gelding, which unfortunately Firefoot took an instant dislike to, showing it by snapping lethal white teeth at the animal’s neck.  But Éomer was in no mood to put up with his pranks and wrenched him away, treating him to a tirade of colourful expletives.

“You ready?” he barked at Déor, having finally subdued the overly enthusiastic stallion.

“Yes, my Lord Marshal,” Déor replied, his face not changing expression. “Which way are we going?”

Éomer didn’t have to think anymore, he had decided.  “The shortest – along the south bank of the Snowbourn, and then to the lower crossing. The Entwash is down and this light rain will not make any difference, we can ride across.”

Déor nodded his agreement. “It hasn’t been raining for long, the ground will be hard underneath. But the track will be tricky with so dark a night.”

Éomer looked up. “I am sure the sky is clearing. With the moon nearly at the full we will make good time.”

Many leagues stood between Edoras and Eastfeld, and covering them fast on a dark rainy night would not have been done from choice. But Éomer had no choice if he wanted any chance of saving the village. Nine or ten hours at least and, however much he wished it, neither horses nor men could ride at speed for that long. They would need to walk between times and water the horses and also allow for one good rest stop. That would make it nearer twelve — the best time he could hope to make. However, his optimism was well founded, as two leagues from Edoras a fresh wind sprang up, blowing the clouds apart. Soon the waxing Hunter’s Moon shouldered its way between them, lighting the muddy track.

Taking their mood from their Marshal, the Riders did not talk much on the first part of the journey: concentrating on keeping their horses from stumbling as they splashed through the silver-edged puddles. But with the ground still firm underneath, Éomer kept up a good fast pace. Silent, and deep in his own grim thoughts, he urged Firefoot on. Then reluctantly slowing the pace for a bit, he had another piece of luck. Déor approached him, introducing one of his Riders. “Seldrid here thinks we save a few leagues. He knows a track that cuts off the corner and comes out just west of the crossing. With the moon out he reckons it will be easy to follow.”

Éomer thought hard, the last thing he wanted to do was miss the way and end up in a bog, taking even longer. But Seldrid was confident, so they left the wooded Snowbourn valley and headed out on the plain. For leagues they followed a track that showed as only a shadow of trampled grass picked out by the light of the moon. But Seldrid led unfaltering, and way before he had hoped Éomer emerged on the road that led to the crossing. He called for a halt rather than plunge hot horses into cold water. Hard though it was to rest, he leant against an old tree stump and closed his eyes, but somebody shoved a flask under his nose.

“Keep you warm!”

Éomer opened one eye. “Éothain it that’s what I think it is I’ll never stay on my horse.”

“Go on, it’ll do you good.”

One swig and he started coughing, but Éothain was right. It warmed one amazingly and gave you heart. And he needed that to believe they would be in time.

His third piece of luck: the river was right down and the lines of horses splashed across, quickly pulling up the bank onto the beaten ground that bordered the river. When everyone was across he got them all together.

“It’s a straight track now and we can make good time, but we have to arrive in a state to fight, with horses still on their feet. We will have one more short rest where a stream crosses the track, which might be the last chance for the horses to drink. It’s about ten leagues from Eastfeld. I don’t know what we will find; hopefully Egbert’s patrol will have been in time to warn them. In that case everyone will have barricaded themselves behind the stockade in the centre of the village. If I know orcs, they will have raided all the houses outside, so when we get there expect them to come at us from all directions.” He raised his spear. “Now ride!”

They headed into the dawn; colour crept slowly across the plain – cobwebs of mist still clinging to the drying grasses – clutched at flying hooves. Reaching the stream he signalled the halt, and all around him sweating horses steamed into the chill air. The riders did not dismount but gave their horses free rein to walk around at will easing their tired muscles. When they started off again the sun had risen above the distant Emyn Muil. It fired the plain red but brought no warmth to Éomer, chilled to the marrow by the terrible fear that he was already too late.

They saw the smoke first. Black and thick, it hung over the plain like an angry storm cloud. But the sight of burning homes spurred the will, forcing the last efforts from men and horses. With the village in sight Éomer ordered the horns to be sounded, their challenge would bring hope to the beleaguered and panic to the enemy.

As they pounded between the first houses his worst fears were realised: burnt out smouldering thatch, doors forced and windows smashed. A dog dead in the road, a cow butchered where it had stood. Closer to the square a small group of orcs emerged from a side path, run down before they could turn to flee. Now the shouting and the cries of battle could be heard. A horn sounded in welcome, so some of Egbert’s patrol was still capable of fighting. Éomer ordered the charge.

Assailed by such a force the stockade had given way, and hordes of screaming orcs were throwing themselves at the broken wood, tearing with their hands to pull apart the planks.  Already some were through, and in the stockade the fighting was fierce. But Egbert had ordered his defence well, and the bodies strewn outside the walls bore testament to the villagers’ stout resistance.

His fury roused, Éomer speared a brute that tried to run from flying hooves, drew his sword and with one swipe hacked off the head of another that came at him wielding an evil looking pike. Seething with rage he wheeled Firefoot around to plunge steel into the chest of a third. But the stallion was heaving, almost spent, so he pulled him up and leapt from his back. Then he spotted one of the orcs hacking at the splintered wood of the stockade in a bid to open the passage wider. With a yell of outrage, Éomer shoved Firefoot’s reins into his squire’s hands and thrust Gúthwinë straight through the orc’s thick neck.

But whether the orcs were weak after their long journey from the north, or just had no wish to fight, the arrival of the Riddermark’s elite warriors caused a lot of them to give up the attack and scatter into the side streets, heading for the way out of the village. Éomer wanted to run them down, it grieved him to let them go, but he had no wish to murder tired horses. Therefore he gave orders to concentrate on dealing with those inside the stockade and led his men through the gap.

They had arrived just in time: Egbert’s men too few to hold off so many for long, and the villagers not skilled enough to deal with such strength and raw hate. Many bodies lay in the square, orcs and inhabitants of Eastfeld. Éomer knew the stone-built meeting house would hold the women and children, but already its roof was burning. Some villagers broke off from the fight immediately they knew relief had come, running to the well for buckets. But the doors opened and the women started pouring out, dragging children behind them, or hugging babies in their arms. In a vengeful surge of hate a few orcs lunged towards them, but Déor had jumped his horse over the broken wood and speared the leading one as Éomer, Éothain and others ran to protect the women.

As the foe was finally subdued and the stinking bodies began piling up, Éomer despatched riders to search the houses that still stood. He wanted no orcs hiding out and causing mayhem later. Then he spotted Bergit’s cousin cradling an injured man in her lap. “Where is Bergit? Did anyone get Edwick here?”  Her eyes looked vacantly up at him, and his stomach cramped when her head shook in denial.

“She never came. I don’t know why. There was not much warning and all the men were busy with the barricades.”

Stunned for a moment – had no one given thought to the crippled man – Éomer stared at the woman before turning on his heel and running out of the square. Not seeing Éothain, he shouted to Déor to take command, but when he reached the lane that led to Edwick’s house he heard footsteps behind him.

“Wasn’t she with the other women?” Éothain called out.

“No!” It was all he could manage.

The houses around had been ransacked, and as he turned a bend in the lane he saw the smashed gates. No! His step faltered – please let them all be safe! Heart thumping in his chest, he reached the gates and stopped. The yard was empty. The stable doors open, the gate to the paddock wide. Had Bergit let Flyhte and the pony run free to save them? Where was Gárbald? No chickens either, everything was horribly and ominously quiet. A creak made him turn quickly – the kitchen door swung on one broken hinge. Éomer started to run, but Éothain grabbed his arm. “No, Éomer. Let me go.” But he shook off his friend and launched himself through the door. The stench of orc and the smell of blood halted him; it hit him like a blow. Bergit’s pristine pantry had been looted. An axe had holed a barrel, the beer mixing with spilled flour to form a brown scum across the floor. Apples from a split bag scattered amongst it like islands of despair. He had squashed one under his boot; it turned the scum to vomit.

Slowly now, he approached the bedroom, reaching out an arm to push the door wide. But he got no further. Behind him Éothain gasped. Éomer forced himself to take a step into the room and stopped again. Involuntarily he fell back, clutching at the doorframe to steady himself as his knees gave way. Drawing his eyes away from the bed, he looked down at the dead orc at his feet.  A grimace of surprise still twisted its hideous pock marked face, from when the creature had seen death approaching. The black stinking blood had spurted in a wide arc, spraying a ghastly pattern of dots over one of Edwick’s half finished baskets that had rolled on the floor.   Putting off the time when he would have to deal the with horror in the room, the warrior in him started to work out what had happened.  The orc was one of the smaller kind, and maybe Bergit had struck a lucky blow. The filth had probably come in on his own, and she had bettered him –  gone at him with Edwick’s sharp sword and sliced his throat.. Then what? Another arrived, maybe two. She fought, but would have known she had no chance. There was a knife on the floor – Edwick had used the knife, lashed out, but the orcs would have been out of his reach.

Éomer forced his eyes to look at the two people on the bed. Bergit lay half over her husband, she had buried one hand in his hair, the blond strands tight around her fingers. Just before the final blow she must had turned from her attackers and thrown herself over her man, protecting him to the last. Husband and wife had embraced death together: a heavy black spear had been stabbed right through Bergit’s back and into Edwick’s heart. Éomer choked on his own bile: the swine had hacked off her hair again. He stared for a moment longer, fixing the image in his mind. It would be with him always. Every time he had an orc within his sight, he would see her, and they would pay. He had hated them before, but now the hatred burned with a white hot heat that threatened to devour him.  

Éothain dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t she run?” Why stay here and die? ”

He shook his head, not wanting to think about the last moments of two people he cared so deeply for. Tears squeezed between his eyelids and ran down his cheeks, but he paid no heed. “She wouldn’t leave him because she loved him. She always loved him.” When he eventually pulled his gaze away from the atrocity on the bed, something blue caught his eye – a rag doll on the floor, bloodied and torn…the children! Where were the children?

Pushing Éothain out of the way, Éomer rushed for the door. She would have known he would come, pray the Valar they were there! He belted across the yard. The door to the hut was open but nothing else looked touched. Éomer heaved at the bed. “Éomund! It’s me, Éomer. Are you there?” A child whimpered, and something else – a muffled bark. “Give me a hand!” he yelled at Éothain. Together they pushed the bed away, and Éomer took out his knife, prising open the catch to the trapdoor. Heart thumping he raised the lid. Éomund’s frightened eyes met his, but Félewyn lay curled in a ball. The thumb of one hand was in her mouth, the other wrapped around the old collie’s neck. Seeing Éomer, the dog started thumping his tail against the wood-lined wall.

Éomund ran his small fingers down the white on its nose. “Mama said Gárbald would keep us warm,”

-----------------

Minas Tirith

“You look beautiful, Princess. I wish you’d let me do your hair like this more often.”

Lothíriel glanced in the mirror and immediately looked away. She didn’t like what she saw. Wearing her hair drawn back in a plait and with a plain shawl wrapped around her shoulders, the captains and young nobles of Gondor had stared at her. They had tried to engage her in conversation, even when she cold-shouldered them. What chance had she of avoiding attention with luxuriant black tresses tumbling around her shoulders and the neckline of her silk dress cut away to her breasts?  Determined to force herself to some kind of understanding, Lothíriel looked back into the mirror, staring at her reflection. Eyes could tell you about a person. But all she saw in the luminous green ones that stared back at her, was death. So much death. Her father’s knights; the villagers killed in raids; even the spies her brothers had executed and hung from the city walls - all slaughtered because of one man’s mad obsession with her.  Turning away she dropped her head into her hands in desperation. Why her?  There was nothing that special about her. Many women were beautiful, but they did not inspire so much evil.

Suddenly the thought that any other man would even look at her, started her shaking.  She would not go! Her uncle couldn’t make her. She would say she was ill, had a headache….

“Princess, what is it?” Hisael’s concerned voice brought her up. But she was saved from answering when a soft tap came at the door and the housekeeper, Moreth, poked her head around it.

“Lord Faramir is here, Princess. He’s come to escort you to the feast.”

“Faramir! Oh!” Lothíriel jumped up, she could bear it if Faramir was by her side. He had returned to the city the night before but she had had no chance to talk to him, for both he and Boromir had spent the evening in conference with their father. Now she longed to see her favourite cousin.

He waited in the antechamber, and Lothíriel drew in breath when she saw him – so tall and handsome and safe. His black hair had been cut neatly, just touching his broad muscular shoulders; a rich dark blue tunic with an edging of intricate embroidery covered his powerful body. With silver vambraces and a great sword hanging on his hip, he looked to be the consummate warrior. Until you met his gaze, that is. The quality of his character as ever reflected in the grey, farseeing eyes of Númenor. Here was a man both proud and sad, stern and wise. One who would deal justice at need but always temper it with compassion. Suddenly Lothíriel saw a flame flicker across the dark irises, it died and went out to be replaced by a bright white light. She gasped out loud.

“Lothíriel?” Faramir stepped forward and caught her arm, questioning.

“Oh, Faramir.” She hugged him, laughing tears. “You will have a great love. I see it clearly.”

Squeezing her waist, Faramir chuckled as he dropped a kiss on her head. “Oh, do you? Maybe you do not see quite so plainly as you think. I cannot imagine I will ever have time for love.”

“Of course you will.” She replied, quite seriously. “You are not like Boromir and Erchirion, wedded to warfare and glorifying the might of the sword. One day you will make some great lady wondrously happy.”

Again Faramir laughed and shook his head, the sombre grey eyes glittering with amusement. “And what of you, my pretty one. Are you still seeking your king?”

“My king? What king?” Lothíriel asked mystified.

He tapped her gently on her nose with one long calloused finger. “Remember, you told me years ago you would marry a king. You seemed certain of it then.”

“Oh yes.” She had all but forgotten that piece of Seron’s foretelling, so much had happened in-between. “There are no kings to marry, Faramir. And I do not think I will ever love.” No, she would not. She had decided that life would be easier that way. “I will be happy being an aunt to all my brothers’ children. They are bound to have many. Which reminds me,” she said smiling up at him. “I have recently heard good news from Meren: a child to be born before the end of the year.”

“That is wonderful – but I say to you, Lothíriel. Even though you do not think it now, one day you will love, and the man to whom you give your heart will be a king in your eyes.”

Lothíriel grinned, how easily he could push aside her gloom. “There you are. All these so called prophesies can be explained so rationally by my sensible big cousin.”

“Well, your big cousin thinks it sensible that we hurry along. My father does not like to be kept waiting.”

----

Feeling shielded by the man at her side, Lothíriel ascended the steps confidently, only to falter when she entered the massive space. But no doubt sensing her anxiety, Faramir held her arm against him tight. Bigger than the hall in Dol Amroth, Merethrond thronged with colour, and the hubbub of chatter almost drowned out the organ music. With guests intent on finding their seats she first thought they could pass unnoticed. How naïve, she had reckoned without her cousin’s popularity. As Faramir was spotted, those next to the aisle strived to catch his eye, some reaching out hands to attract his attention and offer greetings. Lothíriel smiled in response to the various salutations directed toward her, trying her best not to look the haughty princess, but she recognised very few. Her fault entirely, she acknowledged, having shunned court life since her arrival. Luckily, to her mind, the Steward rarely entertained so lavishly, but then his sons were seldom in the City together. Although Lothíriel suspected the welcome was really for Boromir, apparent to all how Denethor doted on his eldest. Lothíriel thought it odd. True, she liked Boromir a lot; he was always kind to her. However, he was very different from his father. And although unquestionably valiant, war-hardened and popular with his men, he lacked Faramir’s keen wit and deep understanding. Faramir was much more akin to Denethor in looks and temperament – although not so grim — and, she realised suddenly, to her own father, also. But then her brothers differed, Erchirion much like Boromir whilst Amrothos would likely grow more like Faramir and her father, as he aged. Elphir came somewhere in the middle.

Pleased with her appraisement of her family – it had kept her from worrying that whispered comments, craftily covered by elegant hands, had followed her progress towards the top table –  she took a tentative look around when Faramir stopped for a few words with Lord Húrin. All the tables were full, the dark shades of Gondor’s numerous uniforms setting off the bright hues of the ladies’ dresses.  The sun had not yet set and only the big candelabras, which hung from the great roof arches, had been lit. But already the heat stifled her. She felt for the organ players, pumping the great pipes continually to provide – at least to her ears – a rather tuneless melody. She hoped that since she had to be here, her uncle would allow some lively fiddling after the meal. If she had to dance she preferred something fast. The possibilities were good, for when she saw Boromir and Denethor coming in from behind the dais, her uncle was actually smiling.

Before she could even begin to curtsey, Boromir strode across and enveloped her in a crushing bear hug. His chest was even broader than Faramir’s. “I am not sure why my little brother gets to escort you,” he guffawed in her ear. “Blame my father; he kept me talking about nothing.”

Her cheeks hot, she extracted herself from her cousin’s exuberant embrace, all the hall would be watching. Belatedly, Lothíriel turned to pay her respects to her uncle, but her second attempt at a curtsey was forestalled by him catching her hand and pulling her slightly to one side. Looking into his face surprised her; for his normal sharp dark eyes had softened, misting to iron grey. “Lothíriel, have I ever told you how much you remind me of Finduilas?” She opened her mouth to protest, her father had never said that. But Denethor was looking far away, his mind in the past, so she held her tongue. “Of course your aunt was a lot older when I married her, but when I first set my eyes on her she was about your age.” He sighed, and Lothíriel caught a fleeting glimpse of hidden pain. “I was busy protecting our borders, as my sons are doing now. I always regret that I did not marry her then. We had so very little time together.”

Lothíriel had no idea what to say. Her Aunt Ivriniel had told her that Aunt Finduilas had withered and died, locked in the City of Stone far from her beloved sea.  However, she could not doubt the sincerity in her uncle’s eyes. But abruptly, as if he had given away too much, he stood upright, tall and proud, and signalled to the Master of Ceremonies to begin the feast.

She could not get out of her mind the possibility that Denethor had not always been so stiff and formal. In fairness, she realised that in all the years of his Stewardship he had been fighting the creeping darkness. A lifetime spent under such a shadow did not make for lightness of temperament. But she had no time to dwell on her uncle’s character, whilst sitting between his two sons. So different perhaps, but no one could fail to discern the great bond between them. They joked and laughed at each other, remembering instances of their childhood, both in the City and on their visits to Dol Amroth, regaling her also with tales of her brothers’ misdemeanours.  It was so enjoyable to listen to them, that if only she could sneak out at the end of the meal, the evening would have been the most pleasant since her arrival in the City.

The fiddler allowed, first she danced with Boromir and then Faramir, but the time came when for a moment she stood alone. Panicking a little when it looked like a tall man wearing a soldier’s uniform was about to approach her, she searched for escape but at that instant Sergion materialised beside her.

“Oh.” She took his arm with relief. “I wondered where you were.”

“Watching you from a distance, as is my role, Lothíriel. I am happy for Faramir to deputise for me, but you looked so lost when someone waylaid him.”

“I don’t like the crowds, you know I don’t. And I know hardly anyone. Also the men look at me, it makes me uneasy.”

“Hmm…, come, I will introduce you to a lady who wants to meet you.”

“Meet me?”

“Yes, she lives in Lossarnach, and knew your Great Aunt. In fact she met you as a child, but I doubt you would remember.” 

“Great Aunt Morwen?” Lothíriel remembered a visit to the old lady when she was little, but not much else. And her aunt had died not long after. But she nodded, and Sergion threaded her through the crowds, leading her up to a tall, grey-haired woman, who was vigorously fanning herself with a bunch of long brown and black feathers, obviously plucked from one of the dressed pheasants that had decorated the tables. Intrigued and heartened by this refreshing lack of taste, Lothíriel sketched a curtsey in deference to the lady’s age.

“Lady Tinusel was a friend of your great aunt, Lothíriel,” Sergion said, performing the introductions.

Merry hazel eyes twinkled at her from out of a delicate, fine boned face, the skin parchment thin. Lothíriel’s eyes rested on the handful of feathers, which produced a tinkle of laugher. “I am hot, and too old to worry about the niceties of manners, child. And Denethor is stuffier than his father. It’s a shame; he wasn’t like it as a child. You can leave her with me, Sergion,” she said, not stopping for breath. “She will be perfectly safe.”

“Now,” a bony hand rested on Lothíriel’s arm. “I want to give you some advice, my dear. I owe it to your Aunt.”

Not more advice! Lothíriel had an inkling what it might be – something similar to her uncle’s –  but at that moment two ladies approached, and Lothíriel caught a whiff of spicy perfume. A familiar warm and sultry fragrance. Quick as a flash she swung her head around, and met cool grey eyes. The lady, tall and dressed richly and becomingly in dark red silk, her black hair intricately coifed into two thick plaits which framed a striking oval face, inclined her head. Giving Lothíriel a pleasant smile, she passed on. “Who is that lady?” Lothíriel demanded of her companion.

For a moment Lady Tinusel looked as if she was not going to answer, but Lothíriel kept her eyes fixed on her, and thin shoulders dropped. “She is Lady Calaerdis, of Sirith in Lebennin.”

“She is married?” Lothíriel held her breath dreading the answer. But she could not believe her honourable father would pursue another man’s wife.

Lady Tinusel shook her head. “A widow. Her husband was very old and doting. He left her a fortune, as I understand it. Consequently, she answers to no one.”

“I see,” Lothíriel said. “Would you introduce me, Lady Tinusel?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” The answer came rather sharply. “Not because she is unworthy. Calaerdis goes her own way, but no stain attaches to her name. But because it is not right, and you know it.”

Maybe, but if she waited for her father to let them meet….

“Lothíriel,” Lady Tinusel’s voice softened, “may I call you that? I did know you as a child. I sense you are lonely. Would you mind if I called on you occasionally. I live in the City now, and like to go for a walk in the mornings.”

Touched, Lothíriel smiled. “I work in the Healing House a great deal of the time, but I would like some companionship when I am free.”

----------------

East Emnet - The Riddermark

Of course they were not ready as early as he wished. The wagons were likely to take five days to reach Aldburg, but if they didn’t move out now they would be into their sixth. Éomer tried to curb his impatience: people leaving their homes moved slowly, and goodbyes to relatives who had decided to stay took time. He tucked the blanket tighter around the little girl who cuddled against him, covering up her thick plait. Thumb in mouth, her eyes stared at nothing. She wanted her mama and not anything he could say would ease her pain. He glanced across to Éomund. The boy sat ramrod straight on his pony, refusing to show any of his anguish. He was going to be a Rider, he had informed Éomer that morning. He was going to kill orcs. Éomer remembered that feeling well, although he had been eleven at the time. Éomund was only seven, but already the all-consuming fire of revenge had kindled in his veins.

“I think we are ready,” Éothain rode up. “A couple decided to come at the last minute.”

“They should all come,” Éomer said. “I should have made them.”

“It is difficult, their livelihoods are here. And considering, the death count was few.”

“Because we were warned, because we risked horses to get here, because…” oh what was the use. He had turned it over in his mind, spent hours discussing it with the village elders, but one more threat and he would have them all out.

“What are you going to do with those two?” Éothain indicated the children.

Éomer looked down, Félewyn had fallen asleep. He dropped his voice. “I am hoping my cousin Edyth will take them. She is childless and her husband is a good man.” It was the only thing he could think of: their aunt was staying in Eastfeld. He would have fought tooth and nail not to leave them in danger there, but in the end she had been happy to let them go.

“There will be talk, Éomer.”

“Then there will be talk. But hear this, for I will say it once only. They are Edwick’s children. He sired them, and I shall never let them forget it.”

Éothain nodded, raised his hand, and the lead Waggoner snapped his reins. Gárbald, keeping an eye on his charges from the back of the cart, barked once, and the column started down the long road west.

To be continued.

Chapter 13

June 3018

Minas Tirith.

“There is no doubt you have made an effort, Lothíriel, which of course has had repercussions in the attention you receive. That, I agree, has provoked a certain jealousy. But if you would only join in with their gossip, the ladies would welcome you into their circle. Your disinterest makes you appear aloof; add that to the fact they have to defer to your rank, and it’s no wonder they whisper behind their hands.”

“Tinusel! You never give up.” Lothíriel shook her head in exasperation. “You browbeat me into appearing for the court functions, scheme with my maid to dress me in what you consider suitable attire…oh don’t look so innocent.” Lothíriel chuckled. “I know what you have been up to!  And now you tell me the ladies of the court will be  …are … jealous of me, and I have to join in with their gossip to make them like me.”

“Hmm... I do sound as though I am contradicting myself, my dear.” Tinusel fanned herself with a fern she had filched earlier from a large arrangement of greenery the housekeeper had placed on a side table. Lothíriel put her hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter as almost without thinking her elderly friend, not content with the cooling properties of the frond, dipped her fingers inside the vase and proceeded to pat the water over her cheeks.  A drop ran down her chin and fell onto her muslin blouse. She swiped at it irritably. “But you don’t have to try to attract suitors, they appear from nowhere. The ladies would not mind if you played coy, or if you were swollen with pride, they could handle that. Indifference worries them.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” But Lothíriel grinned indulgently. She might have no interest in attracting suitors, but she did appreciate Tinusel’s friendship and wry way of looking at things.

“I thought I had convinced you that not all men are like that serpent fellow… what’s his name… Umbar?”

“Umar,” Lothíriel corrected her.

“That’s it! Sergion says he’s mad, reckons he’s got the pox…”

“Tinusel!” Lothíriel gasped. “I can’t believe Sergion told you that.”

“Well, he did. I knew his mother.”

Lothíriel stared at her; sometimes she just couldn’t follow her reasoning. “What’s that got to do with it?”

Tinusel frowned. “I am not sure, but it must be significant, and anyway I thought we had agreed that men could be pleasant company. You cannot deny that you have enjoyed the last few months since I took you under my wing.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “And introduced me to every man going!” She dropped a hand onto a thin muslin-clad shoulder. “But I agree you have helped me to bury the awful memories. I do realise that not all men are like him, and there are one or two I have enjoyed dancing with but…” she stopped, not wanting to voice her thoughts.

“But what, dear?”

“With that out there I see no point in even discussing suitors, or worrying about whether I evoke jealousy.” Lothíriel waved her hand towards the window.  “That’s what should be bothering the ladies of the court, Tinusel. Not who dances with whom. Can’t they see it?”

Tinusel tightened her lips. “They can see it, Lothíriel. The same as we all can see it. But how do you expect us ladies to deal with it? We are helpless, and it is easier to pretend it is not there. Better, some think, to ignore what is happening and carry on our lives than to give way to despair.”

Shrugging her shoulders, Lothíriel turned impatiently to the window. She pushed open the casement and stared out towards the east. Away in the distance the thick plume of smoke from Mount Doom puffed into a clear sky. These last weeks no one could have failed to notice the increase in the belching filth that at times spread over the top of the Ephel Dúath to blanket Ithilien with a black mantle of fear. As she watched, a tongue of flame erupted from the cone, as though someone had thrown a handful of dry kindling onto a fire, and the area around the top of the mountain disappeared in a haze of burning ash. She shivered. It had been happening more and more, as though the mountain was getting ready for some cataclysmic event. How could the nobles of the city ignore this warning, carry on with their idle chit chat, giving flirtation a more important role than defence? She heard the chair scrape behind her and felt a hand on her arm.

“I am sorry, my dear. I have spent so long these last months trying to put the smile back on your face, but you are right; ignoring what is happening will not make it go away. And you have your brother to worry about, as well as your cousins.”

Lothíriel dropped her eyes from the sky to the foot of the Ephel Dúath – Osgiliath, the vanguard of their defences. She could just see the tall towers protruding from the afternoon haze. Somewhere below them Erchirion would be on duty. Suddenly a tremor of unease shot through her, and for a moment, even though the distance was far too great, she was sure she could see a dark cloud floating low over the ruined city, and above it something black circled menacingly.

“Oh!” Lothíriel clutched at the sill to steady herself.

“What is it? Lothíriel, what is it? You have gone white.”

“I don’t know. I felt a terrible evil presence, as though we were being attacked even as we stand safe behind the high walls of Minas Tirith.”

----------------

2 weeks later

“Haradrim? Haradrim joined the orcs against us?” Lothíriel gasped, her innards twisting as all the memories came flooding back.

Sergion nodded. “Our forces were outnumbered, for as well as the Haradrim, Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings. But it was not by numbers they were defeated, Boromir says that they felt a power that they had never experienced before. Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came a madness filled foe and defender alike, and horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath. Boromir, Faramir and Erchirion were among them.”

“Thank the Valar they are safe.” Lothíriel sat down heavily on a chair. “But for how long?”

“Well, demolishing the bridge halted Mordor's offensive for the time being,” Sergion replied. “Gondor now possesses the West of Osgiliath and Mordor the East. But this lull is probably due to the fact that the assault was mostly a probe of our defenses, rather than an all out attack. The situation is dire; if they come in such force again we may not be able to hold them.We cannot match their strength of arms, so some other way must be found.”

Lothíriel looked up sharply, meeting Sergion’s eyes. “I have heard something about a dream. There are whispers everywhere, but it sounds so unlike Boromir. Faramir, yes, I can believe he would take notice of a dream, but Boromir?”

“It’s true. They have not divulged the contents to anybody other than their father, but servants have ears. The brothers hold the dream to be of great importance and between them they have managed to convince him it has some deep meaning,” Sergion confirmed. “Which is why Denethor has arranged a full meeting of the elders and also called your father for counsel.”

Lothíriel got up and walked to the window, trying to digest what Sergion had told her. The attack had started that very day she had gazed out this same window at the eruption from Mount Doom. She had felt the hostility then, but only later learned of the attack.  Mordor’s assault had made her conversation with Tinusel pointless: there had been no dancing since.  No one could deny the terrible threat any longer. But a dream? Her two normally forthright cousins were suggesting Gondor’s defense should be trusted to a dream?

Her father’s skepticism was apparent when he arrived a couple of days later. He rushed in covered in dust, having ridden fast from Dol Amroth in answer to Dentethor’s summons. Lothíriel felt a surge of love towards him; it was not often she saw him less than perfectly groomed. He stopped long enough to change his outer clothing, but then hurried off for the meeting, shaking his head in answer to her question about what was going on.

“I only know, Lothíriel, that Boromir and Faramir have shared a dream. According to the message from Denethor, one that seems to have a hidden meaning. Quite frankly I have never credited either with the gift of foresight, but,” he ruffled her hair,” perhaps it does run in the family.”

However, when hours later he joined her and Sergion in the garden, he appeared much more thoughtful, sitting down and taking a cup of tea with barely a word. “Well,” Lothíriel said, eager to know what had happened. “Is it to be kept a secret?”

“I can tell you, but it is not for general consumption, and I would not like it to go any further. But it strikes me, Lothíriel you may be able to shed some light, what with all the reading you do.” Imrahil drained his cup and passed it for a refill. Seemingly unaware of the two people hanging on to his words, he took a few sips before he spoke. “Faramir had the dream first; it came to him in a troubled sleep on the eve of the sudden assault, and many times since. But the strange thing is that Boromir also had exactly the same dream.”  He put the cup to his lips but the rim stayed just touching his mouth – poised in thought.

“Go on!” Lothíriel could hardly contain her impatience.

“What? Oh yes, I was trying to work it out.” Imrahil gulped the tea and put the cup down.  He leant forward in his chair. “See what you two make of it –  both my nephews said that in their dream the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it they heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Sergion drew his eyes together in a frown, “That’s it? That’s all there was?”

“Yes,” Imrahil answered. “But it is taken very seriously. The fact that Boromir backs his brother is seen as significant. He is normally the pragmatic one. All Denethor would say about it is that Imladris is the elvish name for Rivendell, where dwells Elrond Halfelven. It lies way beyond Rohan, a hidden valley, somewhere in the Misty Mountains. A long and perilous journey. But Gondor is in such a grim situation, the chances of keeping the Dark Lord at bay look bleak, so it has been decided that either Faramir or Boromir will undertake the journey. Denethor will give his decision as to which of his sons will travel to Rivendell at this evening’s meal.” Imrahil turned to his silent daughter, “You are expected to attend, Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel looked up at the sound of her name; she had been searching her memory for clues to the meaning of the rhyme. “The Sword that was broken must be Elendil’s sword. That is not too difficult. And I agree that Imladris is Rivendell, the references appear in many an old tome. But Isildur’s Bane, what is that? Isilidur was supposed to have been killed by an arrow in an ambush, wasn’t he?  How would an arrow help? And a Halfling is surely some creature from a children’s tale.”

Imrahil shook his head. “I do not know the answers, but something tells me Denethor knows more than he is saying. But he is giving nothing away, and I feel he has changed lately, although I cannot put my finger on what is different about him.”

Hurrying, to keep up with her father’s long strides, Lothíriel wondered why her uncle had requested her presence. If it were only to be family at the dinner she would have understood, but knowing a good sprinkling of Gondor’s statesmen were attending she felt it strange. True, over the last months, encouraged by Tinusel as well as her uncle, she had started to take her rightful place in the hierarchy of Gondor. However, she did not normally get called for such occasions as this. But racking her brain gave no answers, and her father shrugged dismissively – Denethor’s way of doing things had always exasperated him.

Entering the ante chamber off the main hall where they would be eating, she saw that her suspicions had been correct: she was the only woman present.  But since she had met all the old men during her time in Minas Tirith, and her cousins welcomed her with obvious pleasure, she did not feel too uncomfortable. Unfortunately she had no time to talk to them because her uncle followed moments behind her. Straight away she saw what her father meant about Denethor – since she had last seen her uncle a few weeks ago, his face had thinned; in fact he looked quite gaunt and when she made her curtsey the wild glitter in his eyes unnerved her. He stared hard for a moment before speaking. “I thought you would like to be present, Lothíriel, to hear how one of my sons will have to ride into great peril to try and save us.”

His tone of voice startled her, never before had he spoken to her with barely veiled hostility.  Her father caught it too, because he took her arm and saw her to her seat, whispering in her ear. “Not himself, as I said.”

Lothíriel sat down, shaken. From then on her uncle ignored her, but Faramir gave her a wink from across the table and Boromir grinned, which lightened her spirits. But all the same, as her father was in conversation with Lord Húrin, and talking with the rather deaf Lord Raglan on her other side, proved wearing, she was glad when plates of smoked fish were brought in to claim everyone’s attention. The meal progressed slowly: Boromir and Faramir spent most of the time with their heads together, chuckling sometimes, at others looking serious. Lothíriel noticed her uncle’s eyes upon them: even his blatant preference for his eldest could not cleave a gulf between the brothers.  She sighed, wishing she were somewhere else other than this stuffy chamber piled with food: fish; a cheese mould; a dish of lettuce and nuts which was followed by roast saddle of lamb. She could barely eat any more but then great dishes of raspberries were brought in, but just as she put the spoon to her mouth Denethor stood up.

He wore his customary black, and against it his stretched skin looked as pale as ivory. Hollow cheeks caused the bones of his face to stand out in sharp relief and his dark eyes glistened deep in their sockets. To Lothíriel, it looked as if some spark of avarice lurked there; a quiver of unease shot through her, it was as though she was seeing not her uncle, but a crumbling shell of a once great man.

Reluctantly, all around the table, spoons were put down. The raspberries, luscious and tempting, little by little stained the neglected cream pink. Only Lord Raglan continued eating, but Denethor’s long finger tapped admonition until he too realised the Steward was about to speak.

“You all know why we are here. I have to give you my decision as to which of my sons undertakes the perilous journey to Rivendell to seek counsel with Elrond Halfelven. Suffice to say that were Gondor not in direst need we would not be talking of anyone travelling into such danger. But Mordor has unmasked its strength, and it is more than we feared. Our friends in Rohan report massive groups of orcs travelling through their land, Easterlings have marched from beyond the Sea of Rhûn, and no longer can we hope the Haradrim will resist his call – legions of scarlet clad men joined the attack on Osgiliath.”

Lothíriel felt the blood drain from her face as his eyes landed on her. Malevolent. Accusing.  No mistake now, she knew what had upset him. But how could he blame her? Why did her uncle blame her?  Her father had told her that Denethor had given up the idea of using her to placate the Prince of Harad, but now it looked as though he might have not. Feeling the eyes of the room on her, she immediately looked across to Faramir. Her cousin gave her a reassuring smile; Denethor slid his eyes between them and carried on speaking.

“I have considered the arguments: Faramir claims the right to go because he first had the dream and argues that Boromir should be left in command of our forces. Boromir on the other hand, as eldest son, claims the quest is his. Being hardy and enduring in all things he wishes to take on this task.  It is true he is a mighty commander and would be missed, but for the present Mordor has withdrawn far from the river. So, I charge my second son, Faramir, with our defence, and appoint Erchirion of Dol Amroth as his second-in-command. Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor will travel to Rivendell, and in him will we trust our fate.”

“No!” Lothíriel almost screamed out the word, rising to her feet. “Boromir must not go, let Faramir.”

Denethor’s pale face blanched white. “How dare you question my decision…”

“I beg you, Uncle…do not let Boromir go. I see only…”

“Silence!” Denethor shouted, spittle forming on his lips. “If you had been willing to do your duty to Gondor, we would have allies in our need.”

“Uncle, that’s not fair…”

“Silence! I said. Now go. You have said enough.”

Lothíriel stared at her uncle; he seemed a different person from the perceptive man who had urged her to put away her fears. She opened her mouth, but a hand on her arm and her father’s soft voice stopped her. “Not now, Lothíriel. Go, we will talk later.”

Swallowing, and with heat flooding her cheeks, she sketched a curtsy and with as much grace as she could muster left the chamber.

 ---------------------------

Sitting gazing out into the darkening night when her father came, Lothíriel jumped up. The hour alone had mixed guilt, anger and anguish into a maelstrom. “I am sorry, Father. But I saw such an awful thing.”

Imrahil took hold of her shoulders dropping a kiss on her brow. “I realise that, my love, but it would have been far better for you to have kept it to yourself. Denethor is extremely angry, and I am afraid you are to go home.”

Lothíriel gasped; to be sent home in disgrace would be dreadful. But the vision still burned bright in her. She clutched at her father’s arm, pleading into his sympathetic eyes. “Father, you must speak to my uncle. Or better, let me tell him of my vision. I saw Boromir wizened and twisted, his hands like claws reaching out to take something … I could not see what, but then the image changed and I saw him falling: down; down; through white, foaming water…”

“Hush …hush, Lothíriel.” He smoothed a long strand of hair back from her face, his grey eyes soft with understanding. “Whatever you saw will make no difference. I suspect that Denethor has a fair idea of what it was, and for some reason he does not want others to learn of it. Which is why he wants you out of here. Also I am convinced that all along he wanted Boromir to go because he believes he has the answer to the riddle in the dream, and trusts Boromir rather than Faramir to act as he would himself.”

Lothíriel burst into tears, sobbing against her father’s hard chest. The last time she had seen something so vivid she had ignored it. As a result six of their knights had been killed and she had lost Amaurea. What use her visions if no one would listen to the warnings?

August 3018

 Aldburg – The Riddermark

The children clustered aroundEdyth, rapt attention on a dozen faces. Éomer marvelled how she managed to interest them on so hot a morning, he remembered lessons as an interference to his riding, but she had the knack. Félewyn, too young to take much interest in writing, played with some counters at her feet, piling the wooden discs on top of each other until they fell in a clatter on the floor. But Éomund, like the others, painstakingly scratched letters into the rough wax tablet laid across his lap. Not that the lad could see any need to learn to write in an unfamiliar language, or learn to speak it, but Éomer had convinced him by the simple means of telling him he would not be allowed to train as a warrior otherwise.

Not normal for a wheelwright’s son to learn, he knew. But with Edyth and Beorn as foster parents the children’s position had changed. And Bergit would have been pleased they were being educated. The familiar mixture of guilt and pain twisted his guts; it had not lessened over the months. In his dark moments the thought that the Valar had somehow punished him for his sins seemed very real, at other times he knew it foolish to even think it. More use to look for solutions to the growing troubles of the Mark, from the latest reports from Théodred it seemed they were beset on every side.

“Lord!”

Éomer, deep in contemplation, jumped at the voice. He looked up to see one of the guards trying to get his attention. The man inclined his head slightly as soon as their eyes connected.

“A traveller seeks an audience and rest for his horse, which is lamed. He gives his name as Boromir of Gondor, son of the Steward. He is dressed richly, so with no reason to doubt his claim I have sent his horse to the stables, and he waits in the ante-chamber.”

“What! Boromir here?” Éomer pushed back from his desk and stood up, looking towards the door.  Against the light he could see the outline of a tall man pacing to and fro. Not waiting for his guard to bring in his visitor, Éomer strode across the hall. At the sound of his footsteps Boromir turned. Éomer saw a fair-faced man, proud and keen eyed. Dark hair skimmed his shoulders, and a new growth of beard sprouted on a firm chin. It had been many years since he had seen the Steward’s son, but he recognised him instantly.

Boromir looked him up and down. “You were just a lad when I saw you last, but now you look like your father.”

Éomer laughed, holding out his hand in welcome. “So I have been told, and I remember you taking time with this lad, teaching him a parry and a thrust that got past even Théodred’s guard.”

“Ha! How is he? Still using that two handed swipe?”

“To great effect, and he needs to. He’s kept busy on our Western marches. But come,” Éomer slapped him on the shoulder, “you must be thirsty this hot day. Tell me your errand over some ale. And your escort, where are they?”

“I have none. This is a mission that requires stealth and secrecy, let us go and sit where we cannot be heard.”

-----------------

“A Halfling you say?” Éomer racked his memory, but then saw that Edyth had finished her lesson, and the little group was breaking up. “One moment, Boromir, if you do not mind me asking my cousin, she knows more lore than most.” He called across the hall to Edyth, who nodded but made sure the children had tidied away their things before she came across. All except Félewyn and Éomund ran outside as soon as they were released, eager to get into the fresh air. Éomund had his eyes fixed on Boromir, taking in the burnished hauberk, vambraces and the heavy sword on his hip, but his sister stretched up her arms to Edyth, wanting to be picked up. Reassuring arms cuddled her close, and the little girl twisted a strand of Edyth’s blonde hair around her fingers burying her head into the only comfort she knew. A stranger was just too much.

Ever grateful for his cousin’s willingness to take on the two orphans, Éomer gave her a big smile. “Edyth, what do you know about Halflings?” he asked after he had introduced her to Boromir.

She looked pensively at him over the top of blonde pigtails. “Now you have got me thinking, Éomer. Not much. But I remember an old tale where it is said that far away, over many hills and across wide rivers, live the Halfling folk that dwell in holes in sand-dunes.”

Boromir nodded. “As much as we know in Gondor.”

“Are you from Gondor?” Éomund piped up. “I am learning to speak and write like the people in Gondor, but I would rather learn to fight with a sword.”

Boromir laughed and reached out pulling the boy to him. “You have to learn to do both. I remember not wanting to learn my lessons, but a warrior needs to be able to read messages and write orders.”

Éomund frowned, his smooth skin puckering across his forehead. “I suppose.” He didn’t sound convinced, but stretched his hand to feel the jewelled handle of Boromir’s sword, and then raised his gaze to the smiling grey eyes. “Have you cut off many orc heads? Éomer has cut off a lot, and when I am a warrior I am going to cut off every one I see.”

“Are you?” Boromir replied, grinning. “Then you will have to be strong. Let me feel your muscles.” He made a show of feeling the boy’s biceps, pursing his lips with admiration. “Very good! Now let us test the real strength of them; sit across the table from me.”

Éomund could hardly wait to comply. His eyes opening wide when Boromir put his elbow down on the wood in the traditional challenge, “Right, young man, put it there.”

Watching the play between man and boy, Éomer felt as if a great stone had lodged in his throat – just like Edwick, when Éomund concentrated the end of his tongue poked out between his lips. He looked a miniature version of his father.

Boromir did not let Éomund win, but he pretended he was having a hard time of it. “Those muscles are coming on well, when I come back you will have to try and get your revenge.”

“It would be better if I could practice with a sword all day and not go to lessons,” Éomund said, hope in his eyes.

Boromir reached out a huge calloused hand and ruffled the fair, silky locks. “It’s true that as well as lessons in reading and writing an aspiring warrior needs to build up his strength. Running and jumping will make him strong, as well as playing tag and …” Boromir sounded as though his list of games had dried up but help came quickly.  

“And swimming in the stream.” Edyth interrupted. “Why don’t you go with the others, Éomund?” 

Boromir nodded, catching her eye. “Swimming is especially good for strengthening arms.”

“Thank you,” Edyth said after Éomund had run out. “It is hard to make him play with the other boys.”

“His parents were killed by orcs,” Éomer said. “Edyth is doing a wonderful job, but he thinks of little else other than revenge.”

Boromir’s eyes darkened. “It is a sign of our times. Many children in Gondor have vengeance for a playmate when their games should be carefree and untroubled.”

------------------------

At dawn the next morning Éomer stood in the courtyard, holding the reins of a dark grey gelding, whilst Boromir fixed his saddlebags. “He will see you right, and your mare will be here when you return.”

Happy with the straps, Boromir clasped Éomer’s arm. “Thank you for the loan of the horse, and the hospitality.”

Éomer moved closer to him. “Remember what I said last night: you will find the king changed. Be frugal in your speech when you get to Edoras, I do not trust that worm, Gríma. And I think it would be better if when you get to the Gap you ask Théodred to show you the way down over the mountains and the place where you can swim the river, rather than risk the Fords. Do not join the North-South Road until you are well past Isengard, but tell no one except Théodred of this plan.  Only recently has Saruman revealed his true colours, proving to be a traitor and claiming lordship over the Mark, but he has ways of finding out things; ways I am only just beginning to suspect.”

Éomer stared down the road a long time after Boromir had left, watching the swish of the grey tail, and the broad back of the man of Gondor gently moving to the rhythm of his mount. If Steward Denethor had sent his eldest son, alone, to travel league upon league through unknown wild lands to seek an answer to a dream, then he must think there was little hope in halting the black shadow that threatened them all.

To be continued.

A/N     As there are a large number of Original Characters in this story I thought it might be helpful to provide an Appendix at the end of each chapter. So from now on I will list them if they appear or are mentioned in the chapter. If I get time I will go back and do the previous chapters! LBJ

List of Original Characters appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR -

Lady Tinusel  -  Hails from Lossarnach. Widowed, and was a friend of Lothíriel’s Great Aunt Morwen. 

Sergion -             Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel.

Umar -                  Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Lord Raglan -     An ancient member of Denethor’s Council.

Amaurea(Dawn) -  A Desert War-Mare. Given to Lothíriel by Umar. Killed in the kidnap attempt on Lothíriel.

----------------

ROHAN:

Edyth-                Cousin to Éomer, related through his father. Wife of Beorn, foster-mother to Éomund and Félewyn.

Beorn-                A rider of the East-mark. Husband to Edyth and foster-father to Éomund and   Félewyn.

Bergit -                Daughter of the horse-breeder, Egbert. Raped by orcs when her family’s camp was attacked. Later married Edwick and bore him two children – Éomund and Félewyn. Started a relationship with Éomer after her husband was crippled. Killed by orcs in a raid on the village of Eastfeld.

Edwick -             A wheelwright in Eastfeld. Husband to Bergit. Crippled in an accident and killed by orcs alongside his wife.

Éomund  -           The orphaned son of Bergit and Edwick – current age is 8.

Félewyn -             The orphaned daughter of Bergit and Edwick – current age is 5.

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Chapter 14

February 30th 3019

Dol Amroth

Lothíriel tried to force the food down, but appetite had deserted her. It had come to it at last – the final family meal before her father and brothers went separate ways. But wherever they were heading, each path led to war. A shiver ran through her as she thought about Erchirion. He already faced the enemy, commanding in Osgiliath whilst Faramir and his rangers probed deep into Ithilien to harass the armies that every day marched to answer the call of the Dark Lord. How soon before all Sauron’s might fell upon those defending the river. Would her brother and cousin be safe?

And what about her other cousin?  There had been no information on Boromir’s progress since a messenger from Rohan had reported him journeying through that land. But that was back in the autumn, no more since.  Many times these last few months she had fervently hoped she had been mistaken in her vision, and Boromir would return safely, but it looked increasingly unlikely. Prayed too that something would happen to turn the tide of rising gloom, but the news from Minas Tirith had got worse and worse. And in the morning Elphir would leave, taking two companies to Linhir, to help defend the crossing from the expected invasion by sea. After Erchi, he would probably be the first to wield steel in Gondor’s defence, if the reports of the fleet of Corsair ships making ready to sail from Umbar were accurate.

One prawn managed to get down, and Lothíriel took a gulp of wine to ease its passage, chiding herself for her increasing panic. However hard it was, she had to keep her fears from showing. Determined to calm herself, she let her eyes wander around the lofty chamber of their private dining hall. How often had the family sat at this huge table, the heavy, studded door closed, shutting out the prying eyes and listening ears of the palace servants. Good news and ill had been discussed here. These stone walls held many secrets; the aged planks of the table top had provided the board for many an offensive against Gondor’s enemies to be played out, in her lifetime and before. The intricately embroidered hangings on the walls, showing graphic scenes of past battles gave inspiration from generations of warrior princes. But not tonight, all had been planned and all had been said.

Lothíriel looked across the table to her father – as always he oozed confidence, refusing to bow to the despair that was said to be haunting Denethor. Gaunt and thin, her father had described the Steward after his last visit to Minas Tirith, and becoming even more volatile than when she had last encountered him. But even if her father had not reported this, the whisperings of her uncle’s strange behaviour would have reached them: lights high in the tower at night; shutting himself away and seeking no counsel; brooding continually on the whereabouts of his firstborn and paying no attention to Gondor’s armies. Which was why her father wanted to get to Minas Tirith very soon; he didn’t trust Denethor with its defence.

Giving up on the next prawn, which had been stuck on her fork an age, Lothíriel sat back, waiting for the others to finish. If she had been able to convince Denethor of the truth of her vision, his son might be with him now. But in Gondor seldom did men listen to women, especially men like Denethor. Her father and brothers were more enlightened, but she had deliberately suppressed any flashes of foresight these last months, afraid of what she might see.  Lothíriel pushed her plate away unable to look at the food on it any more. The men’s appetite did not seem to be affected, she noticed, but Meren only toyed with her portion. Even worse for her, Lothíriel decided, but her sister-in-law’s pretty, fragile looks belied the strength underneath. Meren’s bravery never in question since Elphir had rescued her from the corsairs and brought her home. She would hold to the tradition of the Princesses of Dol Amroth — wave the men to war with a smile on your face.

At last Imrahil put down his knife and wiped his mouth. He signalled for the server to leave the fruit and go, before he turned to his eldest son. “You are all ready for the morning, Elphir? I shall only be two days behind you, but I shall go through Ethring and straight to Lossarnach.”

Elphir nodded, taking a swig of wine before he answered. “Yes. The men are packed and I shall leave at first light.” He looked around at his family and friends. “Don’t all feel you have to see me off.”

“Don’t be silly, Elphir,” Lothíriel said. “Of course we will all be up.”

“I am sure father will be,” Elphir grinned. “There are bound to be a few last minute instructions.”

Her father smiled. “You are getting too old for me to tell you what to do, my son. And unfortunately too experienced in war to need my counsel.”

Lothíriel spluttered into her hand, knowing immediately that her father would follow this up with some advice to his eldest, and probably to everyone else as well. Sure enough Imrahil hardly paused for breath.

“Do not march the men too fast, and make sure they feed well. And Elphir, remember to heed Angbor. He is a wily old dog and you will learn much.”

Elphir nodded. “I am glad he will be there. The responsibly of the holding the crossings against the Corsairs is no light task.”

“You will have plenty of support, and I have every confidence in you. But if it were not for the dire situation you would be staying here.”

Nobody said anything to that, the traditions that ruler and heir never rode to war together had no value when they faced such overwhelming odds. But it had been decided that her father and Elphir would fight different battles, just in case there was a chance of victory. Ignoring the awkward silence Imrahil carried on, fixing his eyes on Amrothos.

“You will be with me anyway, Amroth, and I know that you will give a good account of yourself. I only ask that you curb that reckless streak you sometimes show. Normally you use your head, but just occasionally sense deserts you. Remember you are not only responsible for yourself, but the men you lead.”

“Yes, Father.” Lothíriel coughed to hide her giggle when Amroth nudged her under the table, but luckily Imrahil turned his eyes to Sergion. However serious the situation it helped to laugh.

“There is nothing I can say to you, my friend. I know you will do all you can to defend Dol Amroth and our people. Hopefully the enemy will not come near, but I like to know that we are as prepared as we can be.” He swivelled his eyes to Oríon. “You have done everything you need to, young man?”

“Yes, lord.” Oríon answered swiftly. “The chains have been checked and the winches greased. We will be towing the fireboats into place tomorrow. They will light with one torch, so much tar have I used. Nothing will get into the harbour.”  Oríon might be no warrior, but he had other valuable skills.

Amrothos looked up thoughtfully. “But you do not expect a sea born attack here, though, do you Father? All the signs show they will make for Linhir and Pelargir.”

Imrahil stood up, indicating the meal was over. “Yes, I am sure that’s true. They will try to get up the Anduin. There is no reason for them to come here unless Minas Tirith falls.”

----------------------

February 30th 3019

The Riddermark

As soon as Éomer slowed the éored to a walk, Éothain brought his horse close alongside Firefoot, but his normally talkative friend stayed silent. Éomer could feel the censure wafting over, it came seeping out of Éothain’s rigid back, and trickling down his stiff arms. Not wanting to account for his actions, and anyway grateful for the chance to continue with his thoughts, he made no effort to converse with his captain: Éothain would voice his displeasure soon enough. The peace lasted barely a quarter of a league.

“How are you going to explain it?”

“Explain what?”  Éomer replied, although he knew precisely and was just trying to avoid the inevitable argument.

Éothain spluttered his derision. “You might have got away with disobeying a direct order from Théoden King, if it had only meant you pursued a troop of orcs across the Emnet instead of going directly to Edoras, but you gave our horses to a bunch of strangers. And you let those strangers go free, in spite of the law that says all travellers have to be given leave by the king to cross our land. It wouldn’t have mattered at one time, Éomer, but things are different. That worm, Gríma, rules at Edoras now, not your uncle.”

“Laws were not made for such an occasion as we have witnessed, Éothain. Do you not realise the significance of the heir of Elendil proclaiming himself. Long have free men sought for a leader to take on the fight against Sauron, long has Gondor talked about the return of the King. Did you not see the look on the faces of the elf and the dwarf when he drew that mighty sword? They were as surprised as us: it is the first time he has shown himself openly. He did it on the green grass of the Mark, Éothain – a powerful sign indeed. Maybe he has come in our darkest hours, to lend us aid in our strife against the White Wizard.”

“Now you’re grasping at straws: what can one man do? Even if he is the lost king, which I doubt. If he had an army behind him, I could understand your quickness to help him. But if all he can bring us is a short, hairy troll with a belligerent manner and a fresh faced youth with an itchy finger, we can do without him. I’ll wager we will never see that trio again, or our horses.”

Éomer stared at the robust warrior beside him; sometimes his friend’s obtuseness surprised even him. No man better in a fight, but Éothain only ever saw what was about to hit him in the face. “He gave his word he would come, and he is a man who does not lie. And your fresh-faced youth is probably older than the House of Eorl!”

Éothain’s mouth fell open, but Éomer gave him no chance to reply, raising his hand to signal the éored back to a fast canter. They would need sleep, but the sooner he got to Edoras the better. So he headed them straight across the plain, and for league upon league the horses swished through the spring grass, pounding out the ceaseless rhythm of the Eorlingas.

-------------

March 1^st 3019

Dol Amroth

Shivering in the chill of dawn, Lothíriel huddled in her cloak. She felt so sorry for Meren: face pinched with the cold her sister-in law stood resolutely silent, Alphros cradled asleep in her arms.

Elphir was in deep conversation with his father, whatever advice was being given he listened to it seriously. Nearby, at the head of a long line of fidgeting men, Amrothos held his brother’s horse.  Unusually quiet, he ignored the cold and the salt laden wind that streamed his black hair out behind him. It would be his turn tomorrow and Lothíriel knew she would have to deal with the pain of leave-taking all over again.

Finally, when there was no more to be said, Imrahil clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, changed his mind and pulled him into a quick embrace. Lothíriel was glad: who knew when or if they would all meet again. Dignity could be too highly valued. A quick look to the crowd of onlookers told her that most thought the same. Many women were openly crying, and the normally talkative old men of the city stood quiet and sombre.

Released from his father Elphir came over to her. He pulled her against his chest and squeezed, the hard breastplate expelling the breath from her lungs. “You will look after them, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she managed, not needing to ask who. His family meant all to her brother. She turned away when Elphir hugged his wife. Saying farewell in public was bad enough without her gawping as well. But they broke off after a moment, goodbyes having already been said, parting an agony not to be prolonged.

Within a moment Elphir had swung onto his horse, checked with his captain and the whole column started to move. Lothíriel gulped, willing back the tears as a strong arm slid around her. “Chin up, little sister. We are not beaten yet.”

----------------

March 1^st  3019

Edoras - The Riddermark.

Horn’s sounding as they crossed the Snowbourn, by the time they emerged from between the barrows the gates had been swung open. All looked normal — sentries patrolled the top of the wall, the King’s standard flew over Meduseld, but as they trotted the last stretch of road something in the bearing of the gatekeepers caused Éomer a shiver of unease. Shoulders drooped, the men moved listlessly, but only when he got nearer did he notice the scraps of white linen tied around their arms.”

Cold fear clutched at him. “Who?” Éomer demanded of the nearest, shoving Firefoot’s huffing nostrils in the poor man’s face.

The stallion’s teeth inches from his nose, the guard recoiled. “Prince Théodred has been killed, lord. The message came but four days ago, just after Marshal Elfhelm rode at all speed with reinforcements, taking four éoreds. He must have got there too late.”

Éomer opened his mouth but nothing came out. Théodred dead!  No! His great hulking cousin whom even he could not best in a fight! Éothain gasped, and behind him came mutterings of anguish and disbelief. But Éomer only felt anger! Anger pulsed through him, pushing the initial shock away. Damn Wormtongue and his machinations! Why had he held Elfhelm back? Senses numbed, Éomer knew the grief would come later — Théodred had influenced his life even more than Théoden – he kicked Firefoot up the hill. All their strength now had to go to meet Saruman, that was where their greatest danger lay. This time he would make Théoden realise it.

The citizens must have responded to the first sound of his horns, because all the way up the people had come out of their houses. Deep in sorrow, some just stood with bowed heads, but others murmured subdued greetings. And he caught a whisper here and there – ‘the Marshal’s here, now we don’t have to worry.’  Not worry! Their king failing fast, their crown prince dead, and the Mark being ruled by proxy of a traitor. He was sure about that now – the only explanation for Gríma’s cowardly guidance to Théoden. Not often did Éomer hand his horse straight to his squire, but this time he threw the reins to Garrick without a word.

“No, Éothain!” he barked as his captain made to follow him. “Make sure the men are housed properly, would you. I will see the king alone.”

“Éomer… Lord…”Éothain started to protest.

“No! That’s an order.” He shook off Éothain’s restraining hand and took the steps at a run; no way did he want anyone else implicated if there was any talk of disobeying the King’s command. But halfway up he stopped, reeling clumsily as the awful jolt of full comprehension hit him: he would never see Théodred again.

Háma came down the steps to meet him. No welcoming smile, his face taut and grim as he grasped Éomer’s arm in support. “You’ve heard?”

Éomer nodded, his breath coming fast. “They told me on the gate. I hold Gríma responsible for this. Elfhelm and I told the king weeks ago to send all our forces west, and he would have done it but for that slithering worm. Théodred sent word then that the signs clearly showed Saruman to be preparing for a big push. As a result of craven counsel I have lost my cousin, Théoden his son, and our people their prince.”

“It’s a bad call, Éomer. Especially now with Théoden not himself and Gríma lording it in the Hall.”

“Something I intend to rectify, if I can.” Éomer replied clenching his teeth.

“It will be difficult, for the king will hear no word against his counsellor. And be careful in there.” Háma warned.  “You’d better have a good story. Wormtongue is whispering treason in Théoden King’s ear.”

“I have no story, Háma. I only have the truth.”

“It may not be enough. Since you were here a month ago things have got worse. Sometimes your uncle is barely coherent, and Wormtongue rules in all but name.”

“Don’t worry, Háma, come and listen. You will hear something that will give you hope.”

Footsteps ringing on the tiles, Éomer marched down the centre of the hall Háma, matching him stride for stride. A few servers, laying for the evening meal, glanced up, but at a sign from him they scurried away. No witnesses wanted for what he intended to say to Wormtongue.

As he got near the dais Éomer let his eyes search for the hated counsellor. As ever the cur sat huddled at the king’s feet, watching his approach from under those heavy lids. Éomer could feel the shafts of malevolence aimed at him, and met his stare with a challenge of his own. Gríma turned his head towards Théoden and spoke; Éomer could not hear his words but guessed his uncle was being told of his presence. Drawing his eyes from Gríma he fixed his gaze on Théoden, willing his king to respond to him, but pale, unfocused eyes watched his approach. No help there: Théoden’s mouth was down turned, and white, shaking hands gripped the carved arms of his seat. His uncle looked to have all the woes of Middle-earth on his shoulders; he would have to tackle master Wormtongue on his own.  At that moment the curtain at the back of the dais twitched aside and Éowyn appeared. Briefly her face lit as she saw him, but the sadness showed in the slouch of her shoulders and the lethargic way she walked to her place behind the throne. A few more steps and Éomer could see the red rimmed eyes: Théodred’s death would have torn her apart. He wanted to comfort her but there was more at stake here than the loss of their cousin, however much loved he might be.

Reaching the bottom step of the dais, Éomer fixed his eyes on his king and bowed low. Defiantly he waited for Gríma to tell him to kneel. One sign of acknowledgement from Théoden and he would have done so, but never when only Gríma’s words came out of the king’s mouth. Grief for the loss of his son must have worsened Théoden’s mental state as his uncle seemed to be looking straight through him.

“Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark has come to report, my Lord King.” Háma’s voice got through and Théoden noticeably jumped, some spark of life returning to his vacant eyes. But as so often it was Gríma who spoke.

“We expected you two days ago, Marshal. If you had been here you could have supported your uncle in his grief. But as ever you think only of yourself. The king sent orders for you to bring your éoreds to defend Edoras, taking Marshal Elfhelm’s place. However, you chose to send but one éored to protect your king, whilst you took the elite of your force and rode north instead. A direct violation of your king’s command.” Gríma looked around at Théoden when he said this, prompting him to speak.

“You will explain yourself, Éomer.”

“Lord, even had I known of Théodred’s death I would still have ridden north before coming here. I had received reports of a group of orcs crossing our land from the Falls of Rauros towards Fangorn and Isengard. Those orcs bore the device of the White Hand – Saruman’s mark. Joined with them were those marked with the sign of the Red Eye. This corroborates what I had started to suspect: that a liaison exists between Orthanc and the Dark Tower. Your messenger came as I was readying my Riders to pursue the orcs. I diverted a number to Edoras but decided that I could not ignore the opportunity to prove this theory: our very survival may depend on such intelligence.”

“You decided! You thought to chase a bunch of orcs and leave Edoras and your king poorly defended!” Gríma’s sharp voice cut in.

Éomer ignored him and spoke directly to Théoden. “I reasoned that Edoras was safe for the present, lord. Gondor still stands between us and Mordor. So I went after the one group of orcs that were crossing our land from the south, rather than from the north as we are used to seeing. We slaughtered the orcs on the borders of Fangorn, and some were huge Uruk-hai such as Théodred had reported attacking the crossings. Others definitely bore the device of Sauron the Deceiver.”

Gríma’s thin lips twisted into a sneer. “So you killed a few orcs, Marshal. And you think because of that you have done the Riddermark a great service.”

Éomer threw him a contemptuous look. “Who knows what will come of my decision. Not you, Gríma.” He put one foot on the bottom step, and leant closer to the king.  “My lord, I have news both good and ill.  On the way back we met three travellers. Strangely garbed they were, in cloaks that can fool even a keen sighted man, and we nearly missed them, although we passed in the full light of day. But they called out, and when we turned a man, an elf and a dwarf rose out of the grass before me. They had been travelling south with others, one of whom was a man well known to us: Boromir son of Denethor. But alas that worthy man is no more. He died fighting those same orcs I had chosen to pursue.” A gasp came from Éowyn, and then a sound like a small sob, but Théoden never moved and some unfathomable spark glowed in Gríma’s eyes.  “Also they witnessed the ruin of Gandalf the Grey, he fell into the abyss in Moira and was lost.”

“Sad tidings you say. I would say that although we shall rue Boromir’s passing, Master Gandalf will not be missed. He was no favourite here.”

“Maybe because he saw more than you wished, Gríma,” Éomer snapped. Forestalling a rejoinder, he turned again to Théoden.

“Lord, these strangers had passed thorough Lothlórien and spoke of the Lady of the Golden Wood with reverence. It was from her they had gained their elven raiment and much help. At first I mistrusted them, thinking they might also be sorcerers and net-weavers, but then the man revealed himself to me. Lord, a legend sprang to life out of the grass, for he held his sword aloft and lo it was the very sword of which Boromir spoke. The sword that was broken has been re-forged. There, on the plains of the Mark, the Heir of Elendil proclaimed his rightful title, and asked for aid.”

“A likely story,” Wormtongue sneered. “Made up to excuse your conduct, I deem. No doubt you were prepared to give aid to three travellers, Marshal. Always you are ready to play the noble lord, one who perhaps puts the worth of strangers before their own.”

“Careful what you say, Worm, or you may find you can speak no more.”

“Éomer, do not loose your temper. He is trying to goad you.” Háma whispered a warning in his ear.

Éomer attempted to relax his clenched hands – the worm was succeeding. With an effort he managed to ignore Gríma and continued with his report. “Aid I gave, lord. Two horses I loaned, for the orcs that we pursued had carried off two of the travellers’ friends. Halflings, also, if you remember, mentioned in the riddle that Boromir repeated to us.”

 “Finally you show your colours, Marshal.” A triumphant light sparkled in Gríma’s guarded eyes. “Do you think yourself so puffed up that you can give permission for strangers to cross our land? That is the king’s prerogative; you take too much on yourself. But ever you are proud, coveting a higher position now that your cousin lies dead, perhaps.”

That was too much. Éomer launched himself forward and grabbed Gríma by the throat. “Take that back, you slime.”

“Stop that. I will not have you brawling here.” Théoden rose in his seat, pushing down on the arms to support himself.

Éomer loosened his grip and Gríma collapsed onto the step at his feet, rubbing his throat. Silent for once, but a smile lurked around his thin lips.

“I apologise, lord,” Éomer said. “But I gave aid because I trusted the truth in the man’s eyes. As ever, but especially in these evil times, a true man has to stand or fall on his own judgement. Aragorn son of Arathorn will repay my trust. And, fail or prosper, when his mission is over he will come to Edoras bringing the horses I loaned him. Of this I have no doubt. Then we must take every man and ride west. We must destroy the threat of Saruman.”

Hoarseness added to the usual whining note, but Gríma had recovered his voice.  “I’d say it is your judgment that has failed, Marshal. You give aid to a stranger, yet in spite of a direct command, decide to leave your king unprotected. You counsel to send all our forces west, when all know that Edoras is vulnerable to the East. Those are the actions of a traitor, Marshal.”

Struggling to keep his temper in check, Éomer slowly moved his eyes upon Gríma, drawing himself to his full height. “You dare to call me a traitor? I am a son of Eorl, descended through both my mother and my father. From where do you hail, Worm? Maybe your forked tongue comes from the serpents that slither their bellies through the mire. Speak one more word of treason to me and I will cut it out along with your heart and feed both to the swine.”

Gríma blanched, but he had not finished, moving closer to Théoden and pawing at the back of the chair. “Lord, hear me. He seeks to silence me, but hark how his schemes leave you vulnerable to our foes.  Now your son lies dead, remove you my lord, and who would claim the throne…”

He never got any further because Éomer’s anger exploded like a firestorm. He threw himself at Gríma, knocking him away from Théoden and sending him sprawling. The man ended up spread-eagled over the centre sun design on the floor of the dais. Éomer stepped over him and yanked him to his feet. Hands gripping the material covering his bony shoulders, he pulled Gríma’s face close to his. “If we are talking of treason, Worm, then what lies are you feeding Théoden King?” Watching with disgust the spittle forming on trembling lips, Éomer shook him hard. “What words of poison do you drip into his veins? Because of your counsels no help was sent to Théodred, and for that alone I will bleed the life out of you until your dried husk crumbles into dust on the floor.” Swift as lightening he transferred one hand to put a death clasp around Gríma’s throat, the other reached for his knife, but almost instantly his sister’s slim fingers circled his wrist.

“Éomer! Cease this! You have played into his hands.”

“Éowyn, stand back,” he hissed, too furious to listen

“No! I forbid this.” Théoden managed to stand, quivering on his stick.

“Éomer don’t!” Éowyn added her voice, but in the grip of the red mist he hardly heeded her. Then suddenly Théoden’s voice cut through his fury like a knife.

“Háma! Arrest the Marshal.”

“My lord!” Éomer dropped Wormtongue as a hot ember from his hands, staring at the king. Théoden’s eyes had lost their vagueness and now, even set deep in his lined face, they glittered bright.

Gríma coughed and spluttered, and almost sobbing, entreated Théoden. “He tried to strangle me, lord. See how he wants to silence me.” Rubbing his hand on his throat he stretched his neck to show Théoden the red finger marks.

“You have gone too far, Éomer, I cannot allow you to threaten death to my counsellor. You have broken the peace of my Hall. Háma! Take away the Marshal’s sword and lock him up!” Théoden left the chair and stick tapping, went over to Gríma, who still squirmed on the floor.  He put out a hand to help him up.

Éomer, the fury drained from him, could not move. What had he done! Éowyn was right: he had acted exactly as Gríma had intended. Looking up, he met his sister’s eyes; she shook her head helplessly, tears running down her cheeks.

“Éomer come.” Háma took his arm. “Come on, give me your sword. Don’t let me have to call the guard.”

Wordlessly, as if in some dream, Éomer unbuckled his sword belt, his eyes on the nightmarish tableau of his uncle tending to Wormtongue. He passed the belt to Háma and abruptly turned. Not giving the man time to stop him, he marched down the hall and out onto the terrace. Once outside he took great gulps of cool air. He could smell rain; they were probably in for a downpour in the night. The grass needed it, lush growth this time of the year would provide them with plenty of hay…

“Éomer, I warned you.” Háma broke in on his illogical musings.

“My temper will always let me down. But I never thought it would see me in a dungeon.”

“Nor will it this time.” Háma snorted distain. “Théoden said nothing about a dungeon. Although friend Gríma may not be pleased, if you give me your word not to escape, I will confine you in the guard’s quarters.”

“Escape! Háma there is no way I am going anywhere. For very soon Elendil’s heir will come to Edoras, and when that happens, I have every intention of being here.”

--------------

“A right pickle we are in now.”

Éomer looked up, startled. He must have been asleep. The last thing he remembered was Háma arriving with supper and lighting the candle, now it flickered in the draft from the open door. Éothain stood there, head ducked under the low frame, the lantern in his hand lighting up his face. The half smile and easy words could not hide the concern etched across it.

“Not we, Éothain, me! You are not implicated in any of this.” Stretching, he grinned at his friend. “I lost my temper.”

Éothain’s face relaxed a bit. “Threatened to slice him in two, from what I heard.”

No point in correcting him, the story would grow with the telling. “How did you get in, anyway? The door is supposed to be locked.”

“It was, but Háma said the key was hanging on a hook outside. Mind you, if you put your shoulder against the door you could have been out of here hours ago.”

Éomer shrugged. “I know, but I gave my word. Anyway, I don’t want to get out, that really would be seditious. But besides that, I need to be here when Aragorn arrives.”

“Still on that, are you?” Éothain tossed his head dismissively. “Although, you did manage to convince Háma. He has put out the word for any strangers arriving to be reported directly to him.”

“Yes,” Éomer agreed, grateful he had convinced someone. “We had a long talk earlier. What time is it, by the way? And where have you been?”

“It’s near midnight. And I have been talking to Éowyn. She is really worried for you. Also she says that since Elfhelm and Déor left, Gríma has …”

Éomer flew off the bed, grabbing Éothain’s collar. “What had that scum been up to? If he has been near Éowyn I will peel his skin piece by piece.”

“Éomer, Éomer, calm down! It is nothing Éowyn cannot handle.” Éothain put up his hand and Éomer sheepishly let him go.

“Sorry, my nerves are wound tight. And I am feeling guilty for leaving Éowyn alone here to deal with Gríma. I didn’t realise until today just how strong a hold he has over Théoden. Then when I should have used diplomacy, I used force instead.”

“I am the last one to blame you for that. I probably wouldn’t have lasted half as long as you. The man’s slimier than a slug.”

Éomer could not get to sleep after Éothain had left. Images of his cousin’s face floated in front of him every time he tried to close his eyes. He could have done with some light, but Éothain had taken the lamp with him and the one candle had already guttered. In the end he lay on his back in the darkness staring out the high window of the small room watching the few stars that glinted between the black shadows of fast moving clouds.  The promised rain had passed them by, probably drawn up the mountains as so often happened. Now, in the quiet of the night the harsh reality of his situation could not be ignored. He knew that somehow Gríma controlled Théoden’s mind. The orders coming from Théoden were still obeyed and would continue to be so, as long as Théoden lived – the Rohirrim were fiercely loyal to their king and he would not wish to challenge that – but the words were not Théoden’s. His uncle had always been an intelligent, shrewd man, well able to make sound judgements and push aside the curtains of the obvious to see that which was obscured behind.  But Théoden no longer recognised truth, loyalty or the kith and kin who sought to save the Riddermark from those who intended to crush it with a heavy iron fist.

But trying to convince Théoden had got him into this position, and Éomer knew he had to accept the possibility that being the king’s nephew would not save him. If the three travellers did not turn up in the next couple of days he faced the likelihood of spending time in the real dungeon, or worse. Unless he openly rebelled against Théoden’s rule, and that he did not want to do.

Suddenly, the moon came out from behind a cloud, sending a shaft of bright light into his makeshift prison which clipped the edge of the bed and spilled across the floor. He smiled to himself; light would always manage to creep into a dark place. Soon his judgment and decision would be vindicated, and as sleep started to claim him, he wondered why he had such faith in a tall dark stranger with steel in his hand and wisdom in his deep grey eyes.

--------------

March 2^nd  3019

Dol Amroth

The column had merged into a grey haze. The bright colours of proud uniforms lost by distance and time. No point in staring after them really, but she couldn’t help herself. Her father, Amrothos, a company of  Swan-knights and seven hundred men-at-arms, all gone to fight a war they had little hope of winning. But at least the sun had come out to wish them well, not like the previous day when she had waved goodbye to Elphir. Lothíriel put her hand on the stone parapet, still cold and dank. More than the pale orb above her would be needed to warm these thick walls. How many to storm them, she wondered, and when would that happen?  Nobody had said openly, at least not to her, but she would be a fool if she believed Dol Amroth to be invincible if the White City fell. Determined to put away her melancholy mood, Lothíriel pulled her gaze from what was now a dust cloud in the distance and turned to go down, but coming haltingly up the steps towards her she saw Sergion, a sheaf of parchments in his hand.

“Still here,” he said smiling. “You need something to occupy yourself.”

No one knew that more than her. If she hadn’t angered her Uncle Denethor so much, she would be in the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith. Galling to know that everyone else in her family were contributing to the war effort, whist she languished idly on the edge of the battle. She still reported for duty in their own infirmary, but with all the warriors away, only patients with winter agues and the odd birthing filled the beds. However, Sergion looked so apologetic that Lothíriel couldn’t help but laugh. “And you are going to suggest something.”

“The accommodation lists. If we have to move everyone up from the port, we need to know many each family can take. We will have to use the hall and tents if necessary, but at least we should be able to find beds for the old and the very young. The clerks are dealing with the storing of linen and food, but the bed list is not complete. You have a way with the common people, some of those old women can be quite cantankerous.”

 “I will,” she said, taking the lists from him, “but surely we are not expecting to be attacked. And anyway, if the worst happened how long could we hold out. Wouldn’t it be better to run? I don’t think I could stand a siege.”

“Lothíriel, none of us know what will happen. We have barely enough soldiers to man the walls, but we will make preparations to withstand any assault for as long as possible. If everything looks hopeless then we have to decide if it is worth trying to escape through the caves. Personally I doubt it. Where would we go?”

March 2^nd  3019

Edoras – the Riddermark

How slowly the morning aged. Éomer had discovered all he could about the small room to which Háma had confined him. Four paces one way, five the other. The ochre washed walls were bare, the only furniture a bed, a chair and a small table on which stood a jug of ale – half drunk – an empty plate and a new candle in the pewter holder.  Although grateful he was not languishing in a stinking hole deep below Meduseld, still the restrictions of so small a place chaffed at him. Hopefully the candle would not be used, and he would be out of here long before dark.

Éomer pulled the chair under the window and stood on it, looking out. How many times had he done that since dawn, but still he could see nothing but the roofs of cottages running down the hill. He could hear though: women’s voices, likely washing clothes at the communal area where the stream had been diverted to form a wide basin. And he could hear children laughing and shouting, their early chores over, glad to escape into the free air. Escape! Very tempting. Éomer knew whatever happened he would not stay locked up much longer, not with their land in so much danger. What was Elfhelm doing? Had he beaten back the attack? Maybe even now Saruman’s armies marched on Edoras…

The door banging open made him swing around, he went to grab the back of the chair just as it tipped, but his quick reactions let him jump clear.

“You all right?  Éothain picked up the chair, looking anxiously as Éomer tested his foot, he’d twisted it slightly.

“Yes!” he retorted. “What do you mean by coming in like that?”

“They’re here. I thought you’d want to know soonest.”

“Aragorn?”

Éothain nodded. “Yes, on their way up to Meduseld, as we speak.”

“Blessed Eru!” Éomer punched one fist into the other hand in a euphoria of excitement. “I knew they’d come.”

Éothain chuckled at his elation. “I suppose I should have known. You always were the clever one. Perhaps that’s why they made you a Marshal.”

“Let’s hope I am still a Marshal after they have spoken to Théoden,” he answered with a sideways grin.  “Get up there, will you, Éothain. Find out what’s going on.”

“Right!” Éothain turned to go but then stopped. “Oh, I nearly forgot. You’ll be pleased.”

Pleased! Of course he was pleased. But Éothain’s next words astounded him. “Gandalf Greyhame is with them.”

“Gandalf! He’s alive?”

“Yep. Rode in on Shadowfax as if he had every right to do so. But I doubt that will please Théoden King, or Master Wormtongue.”

“Dreams and legends indeed,” Éomer muttered. “And what of the Halflings,” he said aloud. “Did you see anything of them?”

“No, I saw none. Unless they are so small they have been hidden under those cloaks. So maybe their mission has failed.”

Left alone not knowing what was happening was almost a trial too difficult to stomach. Three times Éomer went to the door knowing he could easily break it down, and three times he willed himself to lie back down on the bed. Just when he had almost decided he could not stay in that room a moment longer he heard footsteps outside. Impatiently he waited for whoever scrabbled with the key, only just stepping back to allow the door to open.

“Háma, what’s happening?” He almost knocked the older man over in his haste.

Háma’s face split from ear to ear, Éomer had seldom witnessed a bigger grin. “Théoden King demands your presence,” Háma answered, trying to sound stately through his glee.

“And?”

“And Gandalf the White has healed our king. Théoden stands tall again. But not only that, Gandalf has seen off our friend Gríma. The last I saw, the snivelling worm was grovelling on the floor.”

“On the floor again? Just where he belongs!” Éomer grinned, unable to stop the joyous laughter bubbling in him. He grasped Háma’s arm. “Fetch my sword would you.”

“Your sword? I don’t know…”

“Háma, I am commanding you to fetch my sword. If Théoden King is standing tall, then I wish to lay it at his feet.”

March 2^nd   3019

Dol Amroth

Lothíriel crossed the courtyard heading for the main doors of the palace. Having not eaten anything since the night before – breakfast wouldn’t go down with her father leaving – she definitely needed some food. Not a drink though, so much had been pressed on her the last couple of hours from tea to lemonade to raw spirit, which she had refused. But the old man offering it to her had shrugged and swigged it himself.

Just about to run up the steps, she heard the clatter of hooves behind her. Swinging around quickly, she saw Adian, an elderly knight. One armed, and deemed too old to go to war, he remained as one of Dol Amroth’s defenders. His horse was sweating, specks of foam flew from his mouth, but not heeding its plight he slid off leaving the animal to find its own way to the stables. With a quick nod, he ran past her up the steps. Lothíriel looked around: the horse was heaving, but one of the door guards was already on his way.

“I’ll see to him, Princess. It looks as if Lord Adian has some news.”

News? What news?  Where had he been? Lothíriel picked up her skirt and followed him, all wish to eat forgotten. She ran down the corridor towards her father’s study, Sergion would be there. But she met them outside the hall; Sergion must have seen Adian’s arrival from the window and come to meet him.

“Two ships?” She heard Sergion say. “Only two?”

“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

Adian glanced at Sergion, who nodded. “It’s all right, start from the beginning. There is no hiding anything here.”

Adian moved slightly to include Lothíriel in the conversation. “I have been patrolling down the coast. I was not really expecting to see anything, but there are a couple of three-masters waiting out the tide.” He grimaced. “Or maybe waiting until our forces are long gone. No doubt that they are from Umbar, but I’d take a guess they’re free traders, available for hire to all, for as well as their own colours they are flying the Black Serpent.”

Lothíriel gasped, the rolls of lists falling from her hands and scattering over the floor. “But they are going to the fords, aren’t they? That’s what my father said they would do. They will try to get up the Anduin.”

Adian shook his head. “No, Princess, they are anchored in the inner channel, this side of the islands. If they were heading for the Anduin they’d be much further out. I could see the decks were crammed with men, many scarlet clad. My guess is that they want to land them the other side of the point. They must be coming here.”

Sergion frowned. “But why come here? We might not have many men to defend the city but it would take more than two ship’s worth to storm the walls. What is it they want?”

To be continued.

List of Original Characters appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR –

Princess Meren -   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion -             Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Oríon-                  Friend to Prince Amrothos. Son to Sergion. Expert on ships and shipping.

Adian -                 retired Swan- knight. Second in command to Sergion.

Black Serpent-    the Black Serpent on Scarlet . Device of Umar, Prince of Harad.–. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

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ROHAN:

Déor-                         Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. Now a Rider in Elfhelm’s éored.

Garrick -                    Éomer’s squire.

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Chapter 15

'Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son!' said the king. 'Go, Háma, and seek my own sword! Gríma has it in his keeping. Bring him to me also. Now, Gandalf, you said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?'

'You have yourself already taken it,' answered Gandalf. 'To put your trust in Éomer, rather than in a man of crooked mind. To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. Every man that can ride should be sent west at once, as Éomer counselled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed – then we will face the next task. Meanwhile your people that are left, the women and the children and the old, should stay to the refuges that you have in the mountains. Were they not prepared against just such an evil day as this? Let them take provision, but delay not, nor burden themselves with treasures, great or small. It is their lives that are at stake.'

The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien.

March 2^nd 3019  Sunset

The Riddermark.

The pale globe of  the westering sun was already kissing the tops of the White Mountains by the time Théoden and Gandalf led the host over the Snowbourn and onto the road that led to the Westfold. Riding behind his king, Éomer felt none of the elation that had earlier gripped him at the thought of his decisions being vindicated, and his counsel heeded. Their land was in too much peril to rejoice in any personal triumph, even that of his uncle declaring him heir to the throne. The image of his sister still filled his mind: his last sight of her as an upright column of shining mail, with the sun glinting on the heavy sword of her office. A sword she would much rather be wielding in battle, so she had muttered to him before he’d left. But however skilled he knew Éowyn to be, his heart could not but be glad that she would be seeking shelter in Dunharrow.

“What are the chances of your forces holding the Fords of Isen against Saruman’s Uruks, Éomer?”  Aragorn broke into his reverie.

He turned, meeting the ranger’s shrewd eyes. No point in making it sound better than it was. “If anyone can stave them off then it is Elfhelm. But the reports say he is totally outnumbered, and I fear it will all be over by the time we get there. I am afraid we are likely to meet our foes beating their way to Edoras. They fear the thrash of our hooves, and we will have the advantage on the open plain, but there are not enough of us.”

“Just make sure you set me down, Marshal, before you start any shenanigans from the back of this great beast. He’ll probably toss me off like an irritating fly.”

Éomer laughed at Gimli’s words, as a heavy body jolted awkwardly against him. The dwarf was bouncing around like a sack of turnips. “Fear not, Master Dwarf, I will set you on firm ground with enough room to swing that axe of yours.”

“I for one will stay on Arod,” Legolas said. “He and I will ride to battle together, and the open plains will suit us well.”

“Let us trust it is not the last battle,” Éomer said to Aragorn. “I would not like for Elendil’s heir to give his life in defending the Riddermark, and never get to Gondor.”

But Aragorn shook his head. “Did you not hear what Gandalf said? It is East, not West that our doom lies. We need to defeat Saruman before we can tackle the one who tweaks the strings.”

Always Éomer had respected Gandalf, heeded him when others had called him a herald of woe. If they had listened to the grey wizard when he’d warned about Saruman’s treachery, Théodred might still be alive. Éomer wanted no more of his kinsmen to die under the iron-shod hoof of Isengard, but again he met the confident eyes of the Dúnadan by his side, and hope swelled.

“Then let us ride to that purpose, and soon steel will clash against steel and our swords be drawn together.” Impatient now to ride to the relief of Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, Éomer urged Firefoot nearer to the horses in front, eager to push on the pace.

But however urgent the mission, men and horses could not travel league up league without rest. For five hours they rode, the dark gathering around them, until at last, not long before midnight, they set their bed-rolls in a great circle under the star-filled sky. Risking no fires, and using only the light of the waxing moon, they ate their food cold in the uneasy peace. But scouts reported nothing moving except sheep on the plains around them.

March 3^rd 3019  Dawn

Dol Amroth

They came in the grey of the morning, smart scarlet tunics brash against the dull leather jerkins of the mercenaries that followed them. Black braided hair swinging, the Haradrim marched in an orderly line, but the hired rabble strode haphazardly up the road with ill-kempt, mangy locks blowing across their bearded faces. Watching from the high walls, Lothíriel shuddered: Umar must have dredged every torrid seaport of the south to find such ill-looking men. Whilst the Haradrim stood quietly in ordered ranks, their captains assessing the closed gates and high walls, the others clustered together on the road, keeping a fair distance. Lothíriel leant over the parapet to see better, but immediately she showed her face, obscenities issued from those paid to fight.

“Bring her down, and we’ll have some fun before the Prince gets here!”  

Lothíriel pulled back quickly as the man rushed forward and followed his words with a revolting gestureshe couldn’t fail to understand. Uncouth in looks and behaviour! Someone else thought so too, for an arrow, loosed from the top of the battlements, took the mercenary cleanly in the chest. He fell screaming, but soon became silent, his body twitching in death. Immediately his compatriots raised their fists, shouting out curses on all Gondorians, provoking another arrow to wing its way toward them.

Bile rose in Lothíriel’s throat as a second man fell. Death! More death because of her. When would it stop! Unable to move, she stared at the two inert bodies left lying on the road in seeping puddles of blood, until her arm was grasped by strong fingers. Dimly she heard Sergion shouting at the unknown archer to cease shooting. “Come away, Lothíriel. You must keep out of sight. Seeing you, or any woman, will provoke them to such lewd actions.”

Shaking slightly, she leaned against him, seeking reassurance. “But what are they hoping to achieve, Sergion? As you said, they cannot storm the city with so meagre a force. And our ships cannot be taken because Oríon has disabled the windlasses, so they can’t lower the chains to get them out. They can fire them, but then the harbour will be no use to either side, and they can sack the houses in the port, but with warning of their coming there is nothing valuable left.”

Sergion ran his hand over her head, smoothing her hair. “I have a suspicion of their purpose, but no doubt time will tell…”

“Lord!” A voice interrupted him. “The Haradrim captain wants to talk.”

“Sooner, rather than later, we will know,” he said quietly to her, before answering the guard. “Very well, I will come.” Holding her by the shoulders Sergion looked intently into her face. “Lothíriel, stay out of the way. Do not show yourself.” He limped away, heading to the battlements above the gate.

“What’s happening? Why are they here?” Meren had run up the steps to the top of the wall, and took her arm. Lothíriel gratefully pulled her down onto one of the stone seats below the level of the parapet. “I don’t know, but nothing Umar does will surprise me. You would have thought he would have needed all his forces to attack Minas Tirith. Why waste them here? But Sergion is talking with their commander, so we shall soon find out.”

The two princesses huddled together in the morning chill, fielding questions from the growing number of onlookers crowding the square below. With the port emptied, the city was overflowing with those who had had to flee their homes. Just when they had almost given up, Sergion came back, his expression grim. Lothíriel jumped up, but he motioned her to sit back down. “I am afraid it is as I feared. They know they cannot overrun the city, although they are not sure of our numbers. But that is not their aim; they seek only to prevent us – you – from escaping.  And suspecting we have an exit from the caves they have left forces along the beach.  They will hold us here until the war is won, and then that snake, Umar, intends to come back and…”

“Claim his prize,” Lothíriel finished for him. Beside her Meren gasped, putting her arm around her in comfort.

“Yes, that about sums it up.”

Lothíriel’s stomach heaved, but when she looked at Sergion she knew that was not all. “Sergion, there is something else – I see it in your eyes.”

“I will not keep it from you, Lothíriel; it is your right to know.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “They offer to let everyone make their escape if you surrender yourself to them.”

In spite of the cold, Lothíriel felt sweat break out on her forehead. She shouldn’t have to cope with this, not with her father and brothers away. What would they do if they were in her position? Always they put their people first. She looked up at Sergion, but her lips were trembling so much she couldn’t speak.

But he grabbed her shoulder. “No, Lothíriel! Don’t even think it! Who knows what will happen. The West has not fallen yet, and we must not despair.”

March 3^rd 3019 – Sunset

The Riddermark.

All day they had seen no one: the rumour of battle and war scouring the plain, pushing the inhabitants high into the rocky valleys of the White Mountains.  A great storm had been following their tracks. Moving up out of the East and swallowing the light, it rolled to meet the darkness that crept down from Isengard. The Wizard’s Vale shadowed by a murk that defeated even Legolas’s keen eyes, allowing him only a glimpse of tall shapes moving to and fro on the bank of the river.

As the sun sank, great thunderclouds rose like peaks. Silver edged, they towered above the host bringing the day to an early close. But in the last red shafts of light the men at the front of the column saw a lone horseman coming towards them. As he got nearer he wearily slid from his horse, breathing with great gasps.

“Do you know him?” Aragorn asked.

Éomer eased Firefoot to the left, as Théoden and his guard were blocking his view. The man had his head down and Éomer could see a great dent across the top of his helm and the shield he carried was rent almost in two. Gathering himself, the man looked up searching the group of horsemen. “Is Éomer here?” But before Éomer could answer, Théoden kicked his horse forward.

Recognising the man now, Éomer turned back to Aragorn.  “It’s Ceorl. He is …was…one of Théodred’s riders. It looks like we are going to hear the worst.”

“But better to know what we are facing,” Aragorn said.

“True,” Éomer agreed. “Often the thought of a deed is worse than the doing of it. But I have a feeling that we face a fearsome enemy.”

Worse than he even thought – Isengard had emptied; Dunlendings and wild hill-men had joined Saruman’s Uruks; their own forces scattered with the onslaught of so many. His shield-wall broken, Erkenbrand was retreating to Helm’s Deep. The report went on, and Éomer’s spirits sank. They should have mustered more men. Should have sent their full strength west weeks ago.  Was Isengard already marching on Edoras? But a shout from Gandalf, who had been quietly staring into the distance, convinced him they weren’t.

“Ride, Théoden! Ride straight to Helm’s Deep. Await me there.” With a few more words he was gone, Shadowfax a silver arrow passing over the grass, leaving only a murmur of where he had been.

“Helm’s Deep?” Éomer said. “Why would they attack our greatest fortress when the courts of Edoras are much less defended? Does the White Wizard already know that Théoden King rides out?”

“Gríma could not have got there yet,” Aragorn replied. “But you do not doubt that Gandalf is right?”

“No never,” Éomer said. “And however large Saruman’s army, we have a chance there. Never has the Hornburg fallen when there have been good men to defend it.”

“Then maybe,” said Aragorn, “Saruman will have cause to regret his choice of battlefield.”

Éomer stared out west, past his king to where a lingering shaft of light glanced off the glistening coat of Shadowfax as he sped into the advancing gloom. “Who knows how the night will end.”

“Be sure it will end with my axe buried in an orc’s head,” Gimli muttered from behind.

Éomer laughed. “I hope it does, Master Dwarf. And I hope Legolas here will pierce them full of holes.”

Winking at him from the back of Arod, Legolas fingered the great bow of the Galadhrim he carried. “One hole is all that is needed.”

Riding on into the dark night the host turned away from the road and headed up the Westfold Vale. Soon they heard horn blasts and the scouts came riding back. Now they heard reports of scattered men all over the valley trying to reach the fortress; wolf Riders and groups of skirmishing orcs ahead. “But behind us,” one scout shouted, “coming from the fords, a great army marches for Helm’s Deep.”

“And Erkenbrand?” Éomer asked.

“None have seen him, lord.”

“Then let us fight through the foes that lie before us and make our stand at the Hornburg,” Théoden King said.

Looking for action, Éomer and Aragorn led the men forward at a faster pace soon coming upon a roving bands of orcs. But swords were returned to scabbards as Saruman’s spawn fled before such a force.  Slowly the king’s men climbed the coomb, higher and higher into the arms of the mountain. While behind them came the sound of harsh singing, staining the air with its echo of evil. Looking back they saw the valley filled with flickering lights. Every now and again one would flare and flames whoosh up into the sky.

“Damn them!” Éomer spat. “They burn as they come.”

“Homes can be rebuilt,” Théoden said. “Pray all the folk of the Westfold have sought shelter in the Hornburg.  For they come to destroy us, man, woman and child.”

“Then why are we fleeing before them?” Gimli grumbled. “Put me down and let them feel the bite of my axe.”

“Aye,” said Aragorn. It grieves me to run from a fight.”

“Soon we will stand and give battle, Éomer answered. “And our resolve will be swelled by such stout companions. Three maybe the number, but the count added to our strength will be a hundredfold.”

On up they went, and the sides of the coombe closed in, funnelling the riders up to the Dike. But with the brewing storm hiding moon and stars, only high towering black shadows could be seen. Suddenly a rampart loomed in front of them, and a sentry’s challenge rang out.

“The Lord of the Mark rides to Helm’s Deep,” Éomer answered. That set up a tumult of joyfulness in those who held the Dike: greetings ringing out with voices gladdened by hope.

“We have a thousand armed men here,” Gamling, an old warrior, told them as he led them over the causeway to the Outer Court. “Your coming has made it possible to defend the Hornburg, although even now the spread will be thin, and we could do with more. Many have fled from the fords, but we watch for Erkenbrand, our lord. So far he has not come.”

“Nor will he now,” said Éomer. “For behind us the vale fills with Saruman’s filth.”

“That is hard on all of us,” Gamling replied. “But most for Lady Winfrith. She and Welwyn, their daughter, are settling the women and children into the caves. Although, Welwyn would prefer stalking the Deeping Wall with her bow, or defending the Keep, to dispensing food and blankets.”

Éomer smiled to himself, he remembered Welwyn as another Éowyn. In fact on one of Erkenbrand’s visits to Edoras the two girls had spent most of the time sparring. And Welwyn had held her own against his taller sister.

“Éomer!”

“Yes, lord.” He answered swiftly. Théoden had let his horse be led inside, and was gathering his guard around him.

“I will make my stand here, in the keep. But the Deeping Wall and outer defenses need to be manned, that will be your charge.”

Éomer handed over Firefoot and called to Aragorn. “Come, let us position our forces as well as we can. The Wall is long, but it is smooth and high. The enemy will have ladders, but they will find no purchase with good men on the battlements.”

Later, when he could do no more, Éomer stood with Aragorn and Éothain on the middle rampart. Arrayed to his right and left were the Mark’s best warriors. But spread too thinly, and not enough bowmen. Where was Erkenbrand, and Elfhelm and Déor? Had they survived? However much he wanted it Éomer knew he could look for no help from them. Even if they lived they could not fight their way through. No, those who had made it to the fortress would have to face the might of Isengard with not much more than courage to aid them.

Beside him, deep in their own thoughts, his companions gazed out down the vale, mostly silent. Until Éothain hissed in his ear, “What’s the dwarf doing?”

Éomer looked to his left, nudging Aragorn in the ribs. All three of them stared to where Gimli and Legolas had staked their place. Gimli was jumping up and down and stamping his foot, as if testing the hardness of the stone. Then he peered, or tried to peer over the parapet. But the height defeated him, so he stomped back, pretending he’d just been easing a stiff neck, and mumbling what sounded like curses into his beard. All this time the elf said nothing, just caressed his bow, looking down on his companion with the inscrutable expression that characterized his fair face.

“He is eager to use his axe,” Aragorn said. “Give him some orc necks to hew and he will be happy.”

“He won’t have long to wait,” cried Éothain. “Look!” 

Éomer involuntary drew in his breath, letting it out between his teeth in a long, low whistle – line after line of torches wound their way towards the wall.  A vibrant flash of forked lightning rent the sky, and in the eerie light it seemed that the whole floor of the vale heaved upwards. Again heaven’s fire seared the clouds, and the watchers saw a moving black mass that gradually separated into individual, discernable shapes. Hideous they looked: twisted and distorted beings carrying great pikes and spiked shields, the White Hand of Isengard splattered across their high helms. Sickened to his core, Éomer locked his gaze to Aragorn. “Evil moves this way, but the men of the Mark will destroy it.” He hoped he sounded confident, his Riders needed to believe they could win.

Aragorn nodded, “We will destroy it, and then we will destroy that which comes from the East.”

“So be it!” Éomer raised his hand and shouted. “Let them come close! Do not release arrows until my command. Pass the word!”

In silence they waited, just the odd cough and shuffle and the scrape of a weapon on the stone, coming from the watchers on the battlements. But the harsh stamp of heavy feet echoed through the very rock on which they stood. Then, at the sound of a mighty horn, wave upon wave of orcs charged towards the wall. Suddenly the sky cracked, and the thunder rolled. The clouds sundered and opened. But still Éomer stayed the archers, not moving as the rain poured over him, running down the front of his helm and dripping off the end of the nose piece.  He stayed them until Aragorn, watching through a cleft in the stone, signaled the enemy was under the walls. Then his arm came down, and high the arrows went, finding a mark on unprotected backs. Heavy stones were hurled over the parapet that knocked shields from clawed hands. But still they came on, trampling the bodies of the fallen in a relentless surge that pounded against the stone.

Another flash lit the whole area from the wall to the causeway, and in that moment Éomer and Aragorn saw the danger to the gates. Great rams were being brought up, the wielders protected under a roof of mighty shields. Stones thrown from the ramparts above knocked off a few, but they were replaced by others. A constant supply of orcs to dance to Saruman’s tune.

“We need to stop them!” Aragorn shouted. “The gates will not stand that. Can we get out there?”

“The postern-gate!” Éomer yelled back. “It opens on the west of the Burg. There is a narrow path that runs to the gate.”

“Then let this be the time we draw swords together,” Aragorn cried, already starting to move.

Together they ran, calling Éothain and other swordsmen to their side. Along the wall, up the steps and across the Outer Court, until they reached the postern-gate. As one they leapt through, their men behind, swiftly running along the path and falling on the enemy with a flash of sharp steel. So great was the force of their attack that the shield-wall was driven apart. Orcs and tree trunks cast down into the water below. Other orcs stumbled and were hewn down, covering the causeway with their bodies.

The rams had gone, but more orcs and wild-men were pressing towards them.  The immediate danger had been thwarted, but seeing the great hinges buckled, Éomer shouted. “We must get back inside and strengthen what we can!”

The group turned and dashed back to the postern, but suddenly Éomer, at the rear, was swept off his feet. Two stinking, heavy orcs landed on top of him. Pain exploded in his chest as his breath left his body. Not here! He thought. Not like this! But he heard a mighty cry, and the orc on top of him went limp, its head rolling onto the stone causeway and plopping into the stream below. Éomer pushed up the other orc and as he did so there was a hiss of wind and its head flew off, showering him with filthy, black blood.

Éomer, coughing painfully, was tugged to his feet by Aragorn, who had returned to help him. “What was that?” he asked between his coughs.

“Gimli came to watch our swordplay. Lucky he did, they played dead and tripped you.”

The assault on the gates had been stopped, but it only gave a moment of respite. The sky cleared, stars peeking between the clouds and the moon lighting the vale. But it brought no comfort to the men of the Mark: the enemy a vast horde that hurled itself against the Deeping Wall and swarmed over the causeway to batter the gates. Ladders they flung up, and for every one that crashed down another took its place. Time after time Éomer and Aragorn rallied their men, until all arrows were shot, every sword was notched, and shields fell in pieces around their feet.

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March 3^rd   Midnight.

Dol Amroth

Only incarcerated for a day, and Lothíriel already felt the restrictions of the siege. Out of choice she sometimes didn’t leave the city for days, but with the influx of refugees from the port, and knowing she could not even go to the beach, she felt the walls closing in on her. That was probably why she could not sleep, and looking out at the sea brought little relief. The horizon blurred, she couldn’t tell where sea ended and sky started. The moon and stars veiled by low hanging clouds.

Unable to bear the confines of her bed-chamber any longer, she threw a dress over her shift and took a warm, dark cloak from her wardrobe. Quietly she slipped along the passage and down the main staircase, with only the busts of long dead princes to keep her company. But reaching the bottom she stopped: already smelling the fetid odour of people sleeping close. She could hear the sounds of heavy breathing, punctured by the odd cough and as she hesitated a baby started crying. Swiftly she turned around, hurrying back up the stairs. Whole families were sleeping in the hall and many would be awake. But having helped all day, just for this moment, she needed to be alone. She wanted to gaze out towards Minas Tirith, where somewhere along the road Amroth and her father would have made their second camp. And Elphir? He would be nearing the fords, eager to join up with Angbor and the men from Lamedon. Of Erchirion and Faramir she did not really want to think, only pray that they were still safe.

Reaching the gallery, Lothíriel headed for the back stairs. Normally filled with chattering servants, now she passed through silent, empty spaces, with only a few lamps throwing flickering shadows onto the ancient stone. But neither housemaid’s giggling ghost, nor stalking, headless ancestor, caused her to fear. It was outside these walls that danger lay. Skirting the outer hall, with its imposing statue of Imrazor, she reached the side door. The heavy hinges creaked as she pulled it open, so the guard was ready for her.

“You be careful, Princess.” He told her when she said she was going on the wall. “Keep yourself covered, they might not all be asleep.”

 Lothíriel nodded, and pulled up the hood on her cloak. She quickly crossed the courtyard to the Palace gate. Another guard to mollify – yes, thank you, she would take care – before she passed out into the cobbled square, soon realizing she should have changed her slippers for boots. Her feet were already cold. Shivering in the chill night air, she hurried up the stone steps that led to the ramparts. Normally torches were always kept burning, and in happier times couples would stroll in the evening after supper, but now, with the moon obscured, all was in shadow. She stopped for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, and then to her right she heard a cough – a watchman on duty. Lothíriel walked towards him, identifying herself as he swung around.

 “You as well, Princess. Can none of you sleep?”

“Oh, who else is up?” Not Meren, surely.

“Lord Sergion is on the battlement over the gates, with his son.”

Thanking him, Lothíriel turned around and headed to the high point above the gates. She passed another guard, piles of rocks, huge stacks of spears and leather buckets full of arrows, all readied for their defense. But the Haradrim were not going to attack, were they? At least not until Minas Tirith fell, and there was no hope for any of them.

“Sergion,” she called softly as she reached the bottom of the steps to the upper battlement. “Are you there?”

A figure appeared, a dark shape towering above her. “Lothíriel, is that you?”

“Yes, I am coming up.”

“Well keep covered. They have sentries posted, and I don’t want you seen.”

 A hand reached down and pulled her up the last high step. “I couldn’t sleep. I felt stifled indoors,” she said as she reached the top. “What about you two?”

“Just thinking,” said Oríon from behind his father. “Mostly if there is anything we can do to get rid of them.”

“And have you come up with anything?”

“Apart from poisoning the stream and telling them we have the plague, not really.”

Plague? That might not turn out to be a lie with the city so crowded. Her mind then went to what poison they could use, the stream that passed through the paddock fed the port. Luckily their water issued though the rocks. But Oríon hadn’t finished.

“But we would like to make them think there are more of us than there are.” He laughed, sticking out his chest and standing tall. “Father is going to rig me up as a warrior tomorrow.”

Grinning – and suddenly glad she was not up here alone – Lothíriel stood up on one of the stone blocks to look over the parapet. The Haradrim had set up camp out of arrow range, in the home paddock. She could see the dark shape of their tents, and dotted around, the glow from small fires stabbed red shards into the black of the night. If she couldn’t look out in the daytime she’d have to look out when they couldn’t tell she was a woman…of course, what a fool not to think of it. Slowly she turned around. Sergion was right behind her. “Sergion, I have an idea…”

“I know,” he said before she could voice it. “I’ve had the same one. We will dress as many woman up as possible, making them think we are much stronger. The longer we can hold out, the more chance there is of something happening to relieve us.”

March 4^th  3019  Early Hours

Helm’s Deep – The Riddermark.

Great gashes appeared in the gates, but still they held, barricaded by stone and stout timbers. Éomer and Aragorn took a moment to rest, leaning on their swords as the noise of battle clamored around them. But the Hornburg stood fast – a rocky island, battered by a raging, tumultuous sea.

“You said it had never been taken,” said Aragorn.

“So the songs say.”

Aragon clapped him on the shoulder, “Then, Son of Éomund, let us defend it, and hope!”

But suddenly a dozen trumpets blared out. Then there was a great flash of flame and smoke. Rocks were hurled skyward and, hissing and foaming, the waters of the Deeping-stream gushed out through a gaping hole blasted in the wall. With shrieks of triumph, the rats of Isengard poured in.

“Devilry of Saruman!” Aragorn cried. “They have crept into the culvert, while we talked, and have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet.” Shouting, “Elendil, Elendil!” he leaped down. Éomer followed, and with him went Éothain and Gamling. Gimli and Legolas behind them. Orcs were everywhere, already many Riders were being swept back into the caves.

They were too many. Thick and fast the orcs came, wielding heavy clubs and fearsome pikes. Éomer realised the escape route up to the Burg would soon be closed. He heard Aragorn shout for them all to retreat to the citadel, but the filth were fighting his Riders amongst the horses. With fear fuelling his arm, Éomer started to cut his way through: after the horses it would be the women and children. He wasn’t having that. No orc would touch another woman. Not while he lived! Éothain must have thought the same, because with a great yell he ran his sword through a huge Uruk that stood, legs apart, blocking his way. Éomer pushed another aside, slicing into its solid neck and stamping on its face as it fell. They were in the narrows now, but still there were orcs in front, and a great horde of them coming behind. He heard a clamour ahead, and suddenly he heard what sounded like a woman shouting. Rounding a rock he saw gleaming steel flash in an arc, and an orc fell at the swordsman’s feet. But three others crouched in a semicircle, waiting their chance. Not a man, but a woman! Welwyn! Eyes wary, her long blonde plait swinging from side to side, she swayed on agile feet, watching for her attackers’ first move. Probing and pushing, they closed in on her. She slashed at one, felling it, but another grabbed her. As she pulled away it caught her by her plait.

“Nooo….!”  Éomer heard his own voice screaming. The scum wouldn’t have her hair! Whatever happened, not that! He was too far away! But anger launched him into a mighty leap and he fell on the back of the orc. As he wrestled it to the ground something charged past him – Éothain smashed the third into the rock face. No time to see if Welwyn was all right, because a great press of fighting men were being herded into the rock passage by the sheer numbers of orcs. In the middle of the skirmish he saw Gimli, his axe slicing into black flesh with unfailing success. Gradually they pushed back the first wave of orcs, who regrouped. They rushed at them again, others coming to join them in a constant stream. Éomer knew they could hold the narrows with only a few men. But those few men grew weary. When the orcs fell, there was fresh strength to replace them.

“How long?” How long can we hold on?” Gambling panted, stumbling as the orcs charged again.

Éomer heaved him up, pushing him out of the way. He didn’t know, and he didn’t know what was going on above. He only knew that there were women and children huddled somewhere deep in the caves and somehow they had to keep fighting, even though the defenders diminished. Gimli and Éothain still stood, but many of his Riders were injured, or dead. Then, as a huge Uruk bore down on him, a whooping cry came from behind. “Out of the way, Éomer! Let us through!” Sword raised, Welwyn came hurtling past. And behind her women of the Westfold. They had stuffed their hair under helms and in their hands they held the swords of the fallen warriors. Éomer stared astounded, as the Uruk who had targeted him fell under a battle-fury unrivalled by any warrior.

Startled into retreat the orcs fell back, grouping some yards away and arguing loudly together in their loathsome tongue. A lull only, already he could see they were making ready for another assault. “Welwyn, they are coming again. Get back!”

Welwyn turned to face him. Her breath coming in gasps, she wiped a bloodied hand across her forehead. “I’ll not let them near the children, Éomer. Not while I can still stand.”

Éomer smiled at her, knowing it would be impossible to stop her fighting for her people. Fair-faced, resolute and brave – the Pride of the Riddermark. With old men like Gamling and women like Welwyn, Saruman would never prevail. “Come then, stand by me.”

To be continued.

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar -                    Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Princess Meren -   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Oríon-                     Friend to Prince Amrothos. Son to Sergion. Expert on ships and shipping.

ROHAN:

Lady Winfrith -       Wife to Lord Erkenbrand of the Westfold  

Welwyn -                   The daughter of Winfrith and Erkenbrand             

Déor-                         Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. Now a Rider in Elfhelm’s éored.

Chapter 16

There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in white, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on foot; their swords were in their hands. Amid them strode a man tall and strong. His shield was red. As he came to the valley's brink, he set to his lips a great black horn and blew a ringing blast.

'Erkenbrand!' the Riders shouted. 'Erkenbrand!'

'Behold the White Rider!' cried Aragorn. 'Gandalf is come again!'

'Mithrandir, Mithrandir!' said Legolas. 'This is wizardry indeed! Come! I would look on this forest, ere the spell changes.'

The hosts of Isengard roared, swaying this way and that, turning from fear to fear. Again the horn sounded from the tower. Down through the breach of the Dike charged the king's company. Down from the hills leaped Erkenbrand, lord of Westfold. Down leaped Shadowfax, like a deer that runs surefooted in the mountains. The White Rider was upon them, and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness. The wild men fell on their faces before him. The Orcs reeled and screamed and cast aside both sword and spear. Like a black smoke driven by a mounting wind they fled. Wailing they passed under the waiting shadow of the trees; and from that shadow none ever came again.

The Two Towers. J. R. R. Tolkien

March 4^th 3019 – Dawn

Helm’s Deep – The Riddermark.

“We will all stand with you, Éomer.” Welwyn said. Assuming the authority of the daughter of the Lord, she directed the other women to take up positions behind him.

Chattering together, as if they had used their bloodied swords for no more than butchering game, her recruits were flushed with success. But Éomer knew the horror would come later: the Uruk hacked to pieces in anger and fury would invade dreams and haunt quiet moments of those unused to killing. Even a Shield-maiden like Erkenbrand’s daughter would find that the training grounds were a poor substitute for the terrible carnage of battle.

Welwyn must have caught his thought for she leant towards him, her voice low. “There is no choice for us, Éomer, no point in doing otherwise. These women have children hidden in the caves. They will fight to the death for them.”

He nodded, setting his face to show none of the turmoil that raged in him. It might come to that. And having sworn to himself that he would protect the women, the prospect tore at his heart. But Welwyn was right: there was little choice with so few of his men still standing. He could only put himself at the front and take the brunt of the assault, hoping to hang on until some relief came. Gimli stood like a rock to his left, and Gamling had rallied. Éothain would be the last to fall, but many of his Riders had been pulled back into the caves, to die or recover, he did not know.

Not wasting any more time mulling on something he couldn’t change, he positioned the defenders he had. Welwyn took up a place on his right, with Éothain on her other side. Lips drawn into a tight line, her breath came rapidly, but it was determination and not fear that showed on her face. The other women stood amongst the few men left, swords ready. But the orcs didn’t charge and stayed huddled in a group, a couple with their backs to him.

“We are glad to have you, Welwyn. You have joined the Mark’s finest éored.” Éothain voice was edged with laughter. Only he could find anything to joke about in such a situation.

“Finest! My father would have something to say about that,” she muttered, but her grim expression lightened a little.

Éomer stopped listening as they bantered on; concentrating on watching the orcs who still clustered together. Why didn’t they attack? What were they doing? Suddenly he saw a small flicker of flame. Bema! What was that? The truth came quickly when he saw the ball of iron one had in its claws – they’d already blown a hole in the Deeping Wall with some devilry from Isengard, now it looked like the orc commander meant to blast the entrance to the caves, knocking them all out at the same time. Not waiting to have his suspicions confirmed, he charged forward, dimly aware of the others following him. He bowled the first two orcs over just as Éothain landed on a third, giving it a great push. It dropped the iron ball, the taper sparking on the damp, rocky floor. Éomer tried to reach it with his foot, but was instantly set upon by two more orcs. “The taper! Douse the taper!” he yelled at the top of his voice. Welwyn ran her sword through one of his attackers. He chopped the other in the throat and then dived to the ground, landing his whole body on top of the burning taper. The force of his breast plate hitting against the metal squashed the flame, and knocked the wind from him.

“That was foolish!” Gimli hooked his arm and pulled him up.

Not so foolish as letting it burn! But thankfully his quick thinking had given them some respite: with their plan gone awry, the orcs retreated along the narrows – to consider their next move, probably. Then some of the injured men reappeared from the caves. Stitched and bandaged by Winfrith and her team, they wanted to rejoin the fray. Taking advantage of the lull, Éomer sent Gimli back to have a gash on his head seen to. It was not serious, but blood had run down his face and congealed in his beard. Bread, cheese and ale appeared, welcome, but eaten with one hand, none of the warriors wishing to put down their swords for a moment, fearing the orcs would launch a surprise attack.

They did just that as Éomer shoved the last mouthful in. With new determination, the orcs fell on them in a furious assault, spitting and cursing their hate. The attack was so fierce, and the numbers of assailant so great, that fighting to the death became a harsh reality. Never had Éomer fought with such desperation. No fancy sword play here: he hacked at orc after orc as they hurled themselves at him, until his arm and shoulder burnt with fire. And no chance to take account of any of his companions except Gimli, who had returned just in time, and stood like the mountain itself — solid and indestructible. It couldn’t go on, he knew that. But worse, echoes of blasts above reached them through the rock. For all he knew the whole Burg could be crumbling. Then, without warning, a mighty noise assaulted his ears. The clamour reverberated around the rock wall, bouncing back and forth in an orgy of sound which set his ears ringing. What the..?

“They’re sounding the horn,” Éothain shouted in his ear, adding to the pain.

Of course! The Horn of Helm Hammerhand! Something must be happening up there! With sudden hope Éomer raised his sword.

“For the Mark,” he yelled, charging straight at the panicking orcs, who had their claws over their ears and were looking wildly around for escape. But one of the Uruks rallied them, and the fighting was fierce again. But then the horn sounded once more, and at the same time the Uruk fell with Gimli’s axe buried in its stomach. The remaining orcs turned and fled.

Éomer dropped his head, he felt sick. No euphoria of triumph – they had come too close to disaster to feel any joy. If it hadn’t been for the women, orcs would be plundering the caves, slaughtering the children and raping their mothers. He looked up, those mothers had…No! No, not that! A woman had been thrown against the rock wall, the blood from her head-wound matted in her long fair hair. He couldn’t see who it was as Gamling was bending over her. But whoever, it was too late: she was dead. He’d seen too many bodies not to know. And then he gasped again, a knot of fear twisting in his guts: Éothain stood a few yards from him; he had Welwyn in his arms. Her skin pallid, blood ran down her face from a gash that went from her forehead down the side of her face, just missing her ear.

Éothain’s eyes glistened with tears. “Get someone, Éomer! I am not going to let her die!”

Two things happened before he could react – someone shouted from the direction of the entrance that it was over, they had beaten the enemy back, and Lady Winfrith appeared from the caves, her linen apron covered with blood. She took one look at her daughter and her face blanched, her hands clenching at her sides. But when she spoke it was with firm authority.

“If the Burg is still standing we will set up the healing station in the hall. Éomer, you had better go and find out what is going on, and send me some uninjured men to carry the casualties I have in the caves.” She turned to look at the burden in Éothain’s arms, her body stiffening. “Éothain, put her down, and I will take a look.”

“Not here, I won’t. She’s no weight, and I am not putting her down in the muck.”

With one glance back to where Éothain cradled Welwyn against his chest, Éomer hurried off. His hardnosed friend had finally managed to surprise him.

Bodies everywhere, they filled the Deep. Riders, orcs and horses. Firefoot! His stomach lurched; he’d left him in the Inner Court. Had that been breeched? But more pressing, he rounded up some men to help Winfrith. By then, Gamling and Gimli had caught up with him. The gash in the dwarf’s head must have opened up, because the bandage was soaked with blood, and Gamling was limping, but they ran out through the Dike, emerging into the daylight and a different world. Trees! The vale was full of trees. Éomer gave a great shout of joy as he saw Gandalf – his doing no doubt. Théoden was there also, with Erkenbrand, Aragorn and Legolas.

Amazed and overjoyed, Éomer listened to the account of the parts of the battle he had missed – Théoden and his guards riding out; Gandalf arriving with Erkenbrand and the Westfold men; the strange trees that Gandalf claimed had little to do with him. Now he heard they were going to Isengard to confront Saruman, but as he listened to Théoden’s instructions, something Aragorn was saying took his attention.

“I will tend it while you rest, Gimli.”

Aragorn still had his great sword in his hand, the mail Théoden had given him was bloodied and rent, and his hair was matted with gore – an image of the fierce warrior he had proved to be. But the care in his voice alerted Éomer, confirming his suspicion that Elendil’s heir could do more than fight. “You have skill in healing?” he asked

Aragorn nodded, a wisp of some unsettling memory passing over his face. “I was brought up in Rivendell. Master Elrond has great power, and what knowledge he could, he has passed to me.”

Éomer motioned with his head, drawing him away from Erkenbrand’s hearing to speak softly into his ear. “Welwyn, Erkenbrand’s daughter, has been injured, maybe unto death. She fought bravely defending the children. If there is any chance of saving her...”

Aragorn did not hesitate. “I will come. There will be many that cling to life and need only a hand to pull them back from the abyss. But I will need my pack.” He looked around, “Hasufel carries it for me.”

Surprising Éomer, Aragorn gave a low whistle and Hasufel, who was searching for a few pieces of untrammelled grass on the edge of the stream, looked up with ears pricked. Another whistle and the horse trotted over.

“You speak to them as one of us,” Éomer said. Moment by moment this Ranger from the North impressed him more.

Aragorn raised a dark eyebrow. “Did I not say that I knew your father? I have ridden this way before. But we must talk later of these matters. For those who lie close to death, and for us who have to leave with the King, time presses.”

Taking their leave of Théoden, the two men headed towards the Burg, but as they went to cross the stream Éomer stopped. A flood of relief surged through him: Garrick was leading Firefoot out. The stallion pranced and posed, giving his handler a hard time. Then the horse saw his master, let out a loud whinny in greeting and yanked his head to the side, almost pulling the reins from Garrick’s hands. Éomer shouted a command and the horse quietened, shaking his head in frustration.

“He didn’t like being left,” Aragorn told him. “Wanted to come with us when we rode out.”

“I bet he did!” Éomer waited for Garrick to lead him over, admiring the way his stallion moved. “I’ll just give my squire some instructions.”

Aragorn started to undo his mail. “Do that. And I will clean myself up a bit. We need to hurry, but I cannot attend to the sick like this.”

By the time Éomer had told Garrick to take Firefoot to graze, Aragorn was bare-chested. “It seems the older one gets the more scars one accrues,” Éomer remarked, taking in the criss-cross of raised lines that marred Aragorn’s muscled body.

“A life spent as a warrior comes with a price,” Aragorn answered. With a wry grin he knelt down and plunged his head into the icy water of the Deeping stream, washing hair, face and hands in one go.

Éomer looked down at himself, screwing up his nose at the sight and smell of orc blood. So following the ranger’s example, he took off his pauldrons, vambraces and breastplate, struggling with blood-soaked straps. “Garrick! Come back afterwards and see to this lot will you!” His squire stopped and looked back, nodding when he saw Éomer gesturing to the growing pile of armour.

Another effort and the mail dropped in a pool at his feet. He put his helmet right on top, the white horsetail staking claim to the stinking heap. No clean shirt to hand so he would have to manage without. But anyway, it would have to be a quick clean up. “Great Bema!” He gasped for breath. Perhaps ducking his head straight under the water hadn’t been such a good idea: it must be pure snowmelt.

“You’ve been living too soft.” Aragorn threw at him. He rummaged in his pack and pulled out a crumpled, greyish-colour shirt, holding it up to his nose and sniffing, before pulling it over his head. “Slightly cleaner, I think.”

Éomer stood up, running his hands backwards through his mane of hair and twisting it to get the water out. The worst of the filth had gone, but that was about all he could say. The rest of him would have to wait: he needed to get Aragorn to Welwyn. Not quite sure why he had such faith in the healing powers of a man who had fought so ferociously beside him. But being brought up with the elves must mean something. An unheralded longing coursed thorough him: for the time to talk together; for tales to be shared around a campfire; for peace.

But for now he had deal with the aftermath of their fearsome fight, and Welwyn in particular. She deserved to have every chance, but, besides that, he wanted to rid Éothain’s face of the despair he had glimpsed there. First though, they had to get to the Hall, which meant winding their way between rubble, the discarded weapons of Saruman’s army and the throng of men moving bodies – orcs and Rohirrim. Already the fallen Riders were being put into two piles, East-mark and West-mark. Éomer averted his eyes, not wanting to name the dead yet. He would cope with that later, for the moment the living had priority. But then he stopped with a jolt, recognising the remnants of the uniform of the King’s Guard on a mutilated body. A strong hand grasped his arm.

“I am afraid so.” The sorrow in Aragorn’s voice mirrored his own pain. “Háma fell before the gates, right at the end.”

“Damn!” Éomer clenched his fist until it hurt. “He was a good man. A true friend.”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

Nodding abruptly, Éomer started walking again. Everyone had lost friends. And sons, husbands, fathers, even daughters. It went on and on. When would it stop! He strode through the Outer Court in a daze. Théodred! Hama! How many more of those close to him would he loose? Had already done! No doubt he would find out soon.

The injured crowded the Inner Court. A makeshift roof of canvas was being hastily erected. Fires had been lit, and water put to heat in cauldrons suspended over them. Grim, grey faces on those who laboured with practised skill. All in the Westfold were used to this, having taken the brunt of Saruman’s malevolence these past months.

Éomer led Aragorn on through, the most seriously hurt would be inside. As he thought, the wounded had been laid out in rows in the hall. He’d never shirked visiting his injured riders, but it was the smell and the noise that always got to him: the whimpers of men in pain, trying to hang on to their dignity with their guts spilling out; the screams when the healers cauterised their wounds; the stench of charred flesh; the fetid odour of fear that came from the terror of dying, and the panic spawned by the thought of being maimed and useless. The awful aftermath of battle, almost forgotten in the midst of the struggle to survive, was now laid bare all around him.

“I will see Welwyn first and then assist here.” Aragorn said.

The sight had affected Aragorn too, Éomer could tell from the tightness around his lips and the way his chest heaved. But speaking of it would do no good. “She’ll be up there, I imagine.” he answered, gesturing to the end of the hall where woven screens had been put up around the dais. He just hoped she still lived and they were not too late. As they got closer he saw that Éothain was sitting on the steps, head in hands. He still wore his bloodied armour and Éomer wondered if he had fallen asleep. But as they approached, his friend looked up; eyes dull with fatigue and misery.

“Is Welwyn there?” Éomer asked, gesturing to the screens, and dreading to hear the answer.

Éothain nodded. “She’s not woken up. It’s like she is in a deep sleep. But they won’t let me near her.”

Éomer dropped his hand on Éothain’s shoulder. “I am not surprised, the state you are in. Go and clean yourself up. Aragorn is going to tend to her.”

Éothain made a sound like a snort. “What does he know about it?”

But Aragorn did not take offence. “I was brought up with the elves. My foster father is Middle-earth’s most gifted healer.”

Straightening up rapidly, a light appeared in Éothain’s eyes. “You can bring her out of her torpor?”

“I can try. Go and wash up, as Éomer says. And I will do my best.” With only a slight hesitation and a longing glance at the screen, Éothain obeyed. Aragorn’s eyes followed him for a moment and then he turned to Éomer. “He has feelings for her?”

Éomer shrugged. “It seems so. Although not before today to my knowledge. If fact, the last time he saw her in Edoras they had an argument, some disagreement about stable-craft when he tried to tell her how to look after her horse.” He grinned at the memory. “She told him he was an insufferable know-all, and he said she was an opinionated sauce-box.”

Aragorn returned his grin. “Sounds promising. So let us waste no more time.”

Lady Winfrith was sitting on a stool, sponging Welwyn’s forehead. She looked up frowning when she saw the two men appear, soaking the cloth again and wringing out the water. “Éomer, if that friend of yours is still hanging around outside, then take him away, will you. He’s doing no good at all. We have cleansed and stitched the wound, and she may wake, or she may not. Only the Valar can help her now.” Winfrith’s unemotional words belied the desperation that crossed her face when she looked at her daughter.

Hair covered by a linen kerchief, the line of neat stitches stood out vividly against Welwyn’s pale skin. She looked young and vulnerable. Eyes closed, she lay completely still, her breath ragged and shallow. To Éomer it looked hopeless: all life had drained from her face.

“Has she woken at all?” Aragorn asked.

“What?” Winfrith stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she tried to work out who he was.

“Aragorn has come to help, Winfrith. He was brought up in Rivendell with the elves.”

Winfrith stood up, pursing her lips as she sought to get the measure of the stranger. “Well, I suppose any help is welcome. She has been unconscious all the time. But Healer Sigeweard says we can do nothing but wait.”

“I agree it is the normal treatment, but I may be able to bring her back to us, if you would allow me to try.”

Coming to a decision Winfrith gave him a curt nod, gesturing with her hand to the vacated stool. Aragorn sat down, but before doing anything else, he fumbled in his pack, bringing out a scruffy package of oilskin. When he unwrapped it on his lap, Éomer saw that it contained a few dried, withered leaves.

“I need some bowls of hot water, Lady Winfrith. One for Welwyn, and a couple to spread amongst the other wounded. In my hands the essence of the athelas plant sometimes has the power to draw back those in danger of releasing their hold on life.”

Winfrith opened her eyes wide, but without comment she quickly disappeared around the screen. Still with the athelas on his lap, Aragorn reached out his hand and placed it on Welwyn’s head. He closed his eyes, muttering something Éomer could not hear.

The muttering seemed to go on for ever, and Éomer kept his gaze fixed on Welwyn. She hadn’t moved, but he was sure her breathing had become stronger. An eyelid flickered just as Winfrith returned, a bowl of steaming water in her hands. Aragorn must have sensed her presence because, with his hand still connecting to Welwyn, he opened his eyes and motioned Winfrith to put the bowl down by his feet.

A sprinkling of the leaves in the water produced an uplifting, fresh fragrance that blotted out the noxious odours coming from the sick-hall. Aragorn spoke some words in a language that Éomer guessed was a form of elvish, and, as though struggling with a heavy weight, Welwyn’s eyes slowly opened.

She blinked a few times, and then let out a deep groan struggling to pull her hand from under the blanket. Aragorn smoothed his hand across her forehead. “Does your head hurt?”

She nodded, wincing with the pain of movement. Her eye-brows drew together as she searched a face she did not recognise, and her voice came out hoarsely. “Who are you?”

“I am Aragorn. You have been unconscious, Welwyn, but you will be well soon.” He took his hand from her head moving down to clasp her fingers, which released from the confining blanket were scrabbling towards the wound on her face.

“Leave it now; your mother will give you something for the pain, and to help you to sleep. When you wake again the headache will be gone.”

But the scar wouldn’t, Éomer thought. He hoped Welwyn would be able to wear it with pride.

Aragorn got up to give the seat back to Winfrith just as they heard a commotion outside. The screen moved sideways and a bulky warrior shoved his way past, filling the gap with his large frame.

“What’s this about my daughter,” he bellowed. “Éothain said she was injured and …”he stopped as Éomer’s and Aragorn’s presence registered. “So it’s true…”

“Keep your voice down,” Lady Winfrith ordered. “You are in a place of healing.”

But Erkenbrand didn’t need to be told, looking down at Welwyn he had gone rigid, the colour draining from his face. Éomer’s heart went out to him: the most hardened warriors were thrown by the sight of injured women and children, and for a father to see his own daughter lying wounded from battle would be devastating. The screen rocked again and Wilheard appeared, almost an image of his father, but still in his mail and carrying his helm. His craggy face blanched to a pasty-white when he saw his sister. Saying nothing, Éomer stepped backwards towards the opening, wanting to give the family some peace and privacy. Aragorn followed him, with only a grateful smile coming from Winfrith to acknowledge their departure.

Still on the dais, but the other side of the screen, both men surveyed the hall. Women, helpers and healers clustered around the wounded, but even so, some calm had descended. Éomer wondered if it was the result of the pungent scent of the athelas that was stealing outwards from the bowl Aragorn held. As they stood there a woman appeared at the foot of the steps carrying two more bowls of steaming water. “Lady Winfrith said you wanted these, lord.”

“Yes, thank you.” Aragorn added some athelas to them, shaking out the last few leaves from the oilskin, and asked her to take one bowl to the opposite end of the hall and the other outside to the Inner Court where more wounded were being treated. Soon the fresh tang of this surprising plant filled the hall, and heads turned looking for the source of the unexpected comfort. “You’d better introduce me to Healer Sigeweard, Éomer, and I will make a start.”

Any thought that Aragorn’s presence might be resented by the Westfold’s healers could not have been further from the truth. With the vast numbers of injured, anyone who could bandage, stitch and cleanse gruesome wounds would have been welcome. Aragorn could do all of this. But also, to Éomer’s wonder, he possessed the ability to draw back from death those whom the healers had given up on.

Éomer stuck with him, not because he was able to assist in any other way than pass a pad or a needle, but because he could tell his riders appreciated him being there. Most of the Westfold men had their wives and families around, but for the men from his éoreds their loved ones were back in Aldburg. Lying on a pallet lonely and hurt, wondering about the future, they needed the personal contact.

Row after row they went down and all the injured tugged at his heart, but when he looked down on a pallet to see the familiar face of Guflaf, his stomach twisted. All that remained of the man’s left arm was a bandaged stump.Guflaf recognised him, but his eyes were bright and feverish, and immediately Aragorn started to bathe his forehead with the athelas water.

Accepting this without comment, the veteran rider took some deep breaths as though gathering his strength. “It looks like you’ll have to manage without me, lad. I don’t think I will be up to riding with you again.”

Éomer smiled at the familiarity. He might be a Marshal, but he would always remain a lad to this man. Guflaf had taught him so much since that first unforgettable patrol when he was only sixteen.

“No, perhaps not. But you will be able to take the time to teach that new grandson of yours to ride. And there will be plenty of others to benefit from learning from an old warhorse like you.”

Guflaf nodded. “Maybe,” he murmured, but his eyes were already closing in sleep.

Éomer sought Aragorn’s eyes in question. The ranger shrugged, not committing himself to an answer. Infection only too prevalent in such conditions. They moved away to the next man, and Éomer caught sight of Éothain. His armour removed and looking decidedly cleaner, he headed purposefully towards the dais. In spite of the horror around him Éomer chuckled to himself. His feisty friend must be serious if he was prepared to brave Erkenbrand and Wilheard.

They went on, man after man. Many past even the help Aragorn could give. Until eventually Éomer caught hold of his arm. “Come, you have done enough. You must eat and rest, for soon we are to ride to Isengard.”

Aragorn stretched wearily, rubbing the back of his neck with long fingers, cleaned and softened by the constant washing and bathing. He blinked away his tiredness, a hint of a smile forming on chapped lips. “And you, Son of Éomund. You need rest also; I doubt that mettlesome beast you ride will be content to let you fall asleep on his back.”

Éomer laughed into his teasing eyes, grateful that with all the horror and loss of the night past, he had gained what he knew would be an enduring friendship. “I am hoping Gandalf will put a spell on him.”

March 8^th 3019

Dol Amroth

Only wanting a bit of exercise, sea air, and relief from the crowded palace, Lothíriel still had to don uniform to walk on the wall, lest the sight of a woman incited more vulgar reactions from the riff-raff Umar had employed. She was lucky: Amroth had long grown out of the tunic she wore, and being tall, it all but fitted her. But the seamstresses had been busy with many of the others. A lot of alteration had been needed to fit Meren out in men’s clothes. Not that her sister-in-law had taken a turn patrolling, but dressing as a man was the only way she was allowed on the wall. And not surprisingly, like Lothíriel herself, many were drawn to it. The enemy were out there - they couldn’t be ignored – so you wanted to look.

Spared most of the ceaseless pacing of the battlements because of the increasing number of sick children to deal with, Lothíriel only went up to gaze out when her duties permitted. Childhood illnesses always thrived when families lived in such close quarters, and she supposed they were lucky it was nothing more serious than the itching-pox. Although unpleasant, when treated with salves made from oatmeal and comfrey to combat the discomfort, and willow-bark to ease the fever, it normally left no lasting effects.

The square thronged with children. Lothíriel had to jump back when a group ran past her, squealing and shouting, deeply involved in some chasing game. For those who were sick there were twice as many with boundless energy, competing with the dogs in their noise and squabbling. Then she saw that a long line of women had formed in the far corner. What were they doing? She craned her head. Soap! They were waiting for their ration of soap. Lothíriel gritted her teeth: clothes could manage without being washed for a while, but the soiled linen couldn’t. Diapers and pads that would normally be bleached clean on the rocks had to be soaked and hung in the palace gardens. All this upset because of one insane man!

Irritably, Lothíriel put on her helm as she made her way across to the wall – it was heavy and uncomfortable – how ever did the men fight wearing them? Peering up to the ramparts through the eye-slits, she could see the members of their bogus army in position. At least the thought of that got her lips twitching – not only the women had embraced the idea of fooling the besiegers into thinking the city was more heavily defended than it was, the old men had joined in as well. Fishermen and carpenters, weavers and scribes, all enjoyed dressing up as guards and marching up and down, clasping long spears against their shoulders. It relieved the monotony of the siege, as normal life had come to a halt. At least, it had cheered everyone for the first few days, now despondency had settled over the city. The women from the nearby villages chafed at the forced inactivity, considering marching up and down a waste of time when weeds grew in their gardens and seeds remained unsown. Those from the port worried about their little boats pulled up on the hard, the planks parting as they dried out in the sun, and the nets left open to the ravages of the birds.

Lothíriel had sympathised when they loaded their problems onto her, biting her lip to stop the retorts that entered her mind. If that was all they had to worry about, they should be dancing a jig! What did the people think was going to happen! That her father would come back and chase the Haradrim away, the Swan-knights running their great spears through the loathsome mercenaries, choking off the vile insults before they formed in their filthy mouths! She stopped, one foot on the first step that would take her up to the wall. No-one could hide from her what would happen. Did anyone really think Gondor’s armies could prevail against the awesome power of the Dark Lord? No! Umar would come for her – he would bring siege engines, catapults and ladders. The food would run out and however much the sham warriors looked the part – they would not be able to fight off trained soldiers storming the walls… and then what? A great bolt of fear jabbed at her, and she stumbled clutching the cold stone for support. Whatever Sergion said, shouldn’t she be giving herself up to save all the grief and horror from descending on her people?

Lothíriel stood still for a moment and closed her eyes. Chest heaving, she willed herself calm. She must be overtired because she realised the unrest in her had been building all day: unusually a couple of servants had felt the lash of her tongue that morning. She mustn’t let it get to her, not let a madman turn her into a frightened rabbit. She wanted to be brave but, even with friends about her, with all her family gone she felt so alone. But her father wouldn’t let her sacrifice herself, she knew he wouldn’t. The only thing was to keep going and not think of the uncertain future… deal with the problems of the moment – the sick children…the rationing of the food…the squabbles over bedspace…the pressure of living in an overcrowded city from which none could escape…

“Excuse me, Princess.”

Lothíriel jumped; startled out of her reverie by a guard bounding down the stone steps. Her garb might fool the watchers outside the walls, but this man had known her from childhood. He’d recognised her easily, as only a few of the women wore the everyday uniform of the Swan-knights. Mostly those, who like herself, were wearing their brothers’ cast-offs.

Reaching the top of the wall, Lothíriel took one of the spears kept in readiness for any fight; even though she had her bow across her back it was necessary to look the part of a serious defender. Sergion wanted no messages to go to Umar saying that they were weak. But neither did he want the men outside inflamed, which might encourage the firing of the port, or even reprisals against the villages further along the coast. So since the first day no arrows had been loosened, with the result that gradually the besiegers had moved nearer to the shelter of the walls, seeking respite from the salt-laden wind.

Not wanting to get involved in conversation with the cross-section of ‘guards’ who lined the ramparts, Lothíriel walked purposely to one of the raised battlements where only one watchmen – a real one – kept station.

He touched his helmet when she climbed up, winking at her. But it didn’t matter: he would have saluted one of the knights anyway. “Come for a bit of peace, Princess?” He chuckled. “I don’t blame you. I’m glad to be up here, all those whingeing children are driving me crazy.”

The children couldn’t help it, poor things! And a lot of them missed the freedom of the sea and the beaches. She missed it! Smiling her response, Lothíriel moved to the far side of the small space to look out over the wall. The Haradrim not actually on sentry duty sat in quiet groups, many playing a game with their neighbours. It looked to be a form of Tabula, it certainly appeared that the board folded together to make a carved wooden box, but it was difficult to tell at a distance. Dropping her eyes from the scarlet-clad warriors, she fixed her gaze on the crowd of ragged mercenaries who had clustered nearer to the wall. Being less warmly dressed than the Haradrim, and with no tents, the stone offered them some protection from the elements. One looked up, saw her watching him and made a rude gesture with his finger – filthy pig! But getting no reaction, he carried on with his game. No fancy boards here, just dice and stones. Sniffing, as she caught an aroma other than salt and sewerage on the wind, she looked across to the far side of the camp. An ox had been hoisted onto a huge spit. Where did they get that? With the stables virtually empty Sergion had ordered as much stock as possible to be brought inside, the rest had been driven into the hills to take their chances until better times.

And better times would come – she just had to believe that or…

“Lothíriel! Oh, thank goodness you are up there.” Meren’s anxious voice wafted up.

Lothíriel looked down to see her sister-in- law on the first step. “Meren don’t come up! Not carrying Alphros, he is getting too heavy.”

She might have saved her breath, by then Meren had nearly reached her. Dressed in a page’s outfit, she still looked much like a woman, and although a velvet hat covered her light-brown hair, curls were already escaping. “I think Alphros has it! He’s been grizzling all day. There are some red spots on his middle and he feels hot. No one can soothe him like you and …”

“You should have put him to bed and sent a servant, Meren.” Lothíriel admonished. But she smiled when she saw Meren’s stricken face, and Alphros cuddled against her breast with his thumb in his mouth. All mothers panicked. She softened her voice, “Go back down and I will follow.”

With a grateful smile, Meren turned, but as she did so, a rogue gust of wind caught her hat, sending it up in the air and right over the wall. Hastily pinned curls tumbled down over her shoulders. Immediately there were howls of derision and vulgar words shouted from down below. Red-faced, Meren hurried to get out of sight, but angrily Lothíriel went to the wall. How could men be so vile! And Meren with a child in her arms! As she looked, wanting desperately to hurl insults back— she’d learnt some good ones from her brothers – one of the men, a revolting looking specimen with huge ear-rings and a straggly beard, ran forward. Thrusting out his hips he pulled down his trousers, exposing a huge, engorged member. Yelling obscenities, threatening all the women in the city, he grasped it with one hand and waved it from side to side.

Something snapped! Rage filled her mind and swept away all restraint. With no further thought Lothíriel hurled the spear. The heavy weapon fell short by a few feet, but by then she had nocked an arrow to her bow. The terrified man scrabbled to get his trousers back up, whilst taking a dive to the side, but the arrow took him through the neck. The other mercenaries scrambled to their feet, shouting curses. Damn them! She wanted them right out of here. They’d rue the day they tangled with Dol Amroth! Her second arrow hit a man right in his chest. In the resulting panic she didn’t see where the next struck, but one of them fell, trampled under many feet in the rush to get out of range. The bow twanged again and again, until she was pulled roughly away.

“Let me go!” She tried to shake off his arm, not wanting to stop. She’d go on and on until…

“No Princess! Heaven knows, I’ve wanted to do it myself. Worse than animals they are. But Lord Sergion will be mad.”

To be continued.

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar - Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Princess Meren - Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion - Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

ROHAN:

Lady Winfrith - Wife to Lord Erkenbrand of the Westfold

Welwyn - The daughter of Winfrith and Erkenbrand

Wilheard - Warriorson of Winfrith and Erkenbrand.

Garrick- Éomer’s young squire.

Sigeweard- Chief healer in the Westfold.

Chapter 17

Aragorn was silent for a moment. ‘Three days,’ he murmured, ‘and the muster of Rohan will only be begun. But I see that it cannot now be hastened.’ He looked up, and it seemed that he had made some decision; his face was less troubled. Then, by our leave, lord, I must take new counsel for myself and my kindred. We must ride our own road, and no longer in secret. For me the time of stealth has passed. I will ride east by the swiftest way, and I will take the Paths of the Dead.’

‘The Paths of the Dead!’ said Théoden, and trembled. ‘Why do you speak of them?’ Éomer turned and gazed at Aragorn, and it seemed to Merry that the faces of the Riders that sat within hearing turned pale at the words. ‘If there be in truth such paths,’ said Théoden, ‘their gate is in Dunharrow; but no living man may pass it.’

‘Alas! Aragorn my friend!’ said Éomer. ‘I had hoped that we should ride to war together; but if you seek the Paths of the Dead, then our parting is come, and it is little likely that we shall ever meet again under the Sun.’

‘That road I will take, nonetheless,’ said Aragorn. ‘But I say to you, Éomer, that in battle we may yet meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor should stand between.’

The Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

March 9^th 3021  Dunharrow – the Riddermark

Saddened by Aragorn’s departure, Éomer rode east with a heavy heart, his mood only lightened by the continual swelling of their numbers as men from the high valleys of the Ered Nimrais answered the call to arms. He had no doubts the Rohirrim would give a good account of themselves on the battlefields of Gondor, but as well as losing the services of a masterly warrior, he would personally miss the comradeship he had enjoyed with Aragorn. Their journey to Isengard, and the confrontation with the traitor Saruman, had given him time to enjoy conversation with the one-time ranger, and learn a little of his life when he rode with Éomer’s grandfather, Thengel. Yes, he would miss the companionship of such a mighty man and thus joy leapt in him when, upon reaching the crossing over the Snowbourn to start the last part of their journey to Dunharrow, he picked out Elfhelm’s tall figure amongst the group of riders coming towards them. One friend he had not lost.

Dúnhere, Lord of Harrowdale, stopped in front of Théoden to give his report, but Éomer, a wild surge of relief coursing through him, didn’t wait to hear. Kicking Firefoot past his king he rode straight up to his old friend, holding out his arm in greeting.

“You made it!”

Elfhelm clasped his hand tightly, whilst managing to keep his gelding out of the range of Firefoot’s teeth. The Marshal’s stern face broke into a smile. “Gandalf sent me to secure Edoras, and compared to you my battle was light.”  He paused, the smile leaving his face and a look of sadness and regret clouding his clear eyes. “I am sorry, Éomer, about Théodred. I got to the Fords too late.”

The familiar jolt of anguish tore though his stomach, but although he tried to hide the desolation he felt at the loss of his cousin, Éomer knew Elfhelm had perceived his pain when the other man’s expression hardened, and his lips drew into sneer. “Damn Gríma! I should have gone by my own instincts.”

“No.” Éomer determinedly shook off his grief: whatever the cost, the Mark had survived. “You could not have disobeyed the king’s orders. It is something we will always regret. But Saruman’s intention was to destroy the House of Eorl and we have Gandalf to thank that he failed.” He slapped Elfhelm’s arm with deliberate cheeriness. “We will talk of each others’ deeds later, now we must prepare to ride to war. But I wish to see Éowyn; I presume she is safe at Dunharrow.”

“She is, and the people of Edoras with her.” Elfhelm confirmed.

That was good news, but there was one other he wanted to know about. Fearful of the reply his voice dropped involuntarily. “Is Déor here?”

Elfhelm’s face relaxed and he jerked his head towards the mountain. “I sent him up to the Hold, to check everything is ready for the King’s party.”

Éomer followed his gaze. Way above he could glimpse the white tops of tents on the Firienfeld, the green swathe of grass and heath that provided a cushion between the rocky crags. And behind the Firienfeld the Dwimorberg rose as a black wall, a menacing fortress barring passage. Éomer shuddered: had Aragorn really gone under the mountain, braved the Dimholt road? Shaking off the uneasy thoughts, he turned back to Elfhelm. “Déor’s not injured?”

“No, he came through unscathed. But I thought Éowyn could do with a friend up there.”

 His mood lightened further. “That is good news, so let us join them.”

They followed Théoden up the long road through Harrowdale. Éomer’s heart swelled at the sight of the hundreds of tents that clothed the sides of the wide valley, and the companies of Riders that lined the side of the road, calling greetings to their king. Not only were there those from the Emnet and the Wold who had answered the call, but the myriad of fluttering standards convinced him that Gandalf had spoken the truth when he said that not so many Riders had lost their life at the Battle of the Isen as they had feared.

“Most were scattered, not killed.” Elfhelm answered in response to his queries. “Against such odds I felt prudence to be the best course: better to retreat and live to fight again. Thus we will be able to take many spears to Gondor.”

The sun slipped behind the mountain as they started to climb the steep road that wound its way up the Hold of Dunharrow. Soon the camp was way below them, the tents disappearing in the murk as they rode up through the lines of Púkel-men, the stone images of a forgotten people that lined the ancient way.

The camp had been set to the right and left of the line of standing stones that strode across the short upland grass marking the way to the Dimholt. But rather than huddle against the shelter of the high rock wall, the tents crowded the edge of the cliff, as if wary of being drawn into the mountain. From the king’s pavilion on the left, a warrior came riding to greet them – coming out from the shadow, mail gleaming in the lingering light. Belatedly, Éomer realized it was his sister – long braided hair flowed out under her helm and on her hip a great sword hung. Dressed for war, her horse, Windfola, held his head high, eyes glowing like black coals through slits in tooled leather. She stopped in front of Théoden and held up her hand. “Hail, Lord of the Mark!”

Éowyn welcomed Théoden with all ceremony and warm-hearted greetings, but Éomer, watching her closely, saw that her eyes were heavy with sadness. Now why was that, when they had just won a great battle? His clue came when he witnessed her reaction to Théoden asking for news of Aragorn: her upright bearing imperceptibly sagged, perhaps unnoticeable to all but him. And as she spoke her eyes dulled further. But he had reckoned without Théoden. Knowing Éowyn so well he picked up on her frame of mind straight away.

“You seem grieved, daughter,” said Théoden. ‘What has happened? Tell me, did Lord Aragon speak of that road?” He pointed away along the darkening lines of stones that led to the Dimholt. “Of the Paths of the Dead?”

“Yes, lord,” said Éowyn. “And he has passed beneath the mountain from which none have returned. I tried to stop him, but he has gone.”

Éomer’s heart fell, somehow he had hoped that Aragorn had changed his mind and he would be riding with them. He could not stop his own disappointment from surfacing. “That is ill news, for our paths are now sundered. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles.”

Éowyn stared at him, her eyes glistening tears. He could tell she was just holding on to her composure. Damn! He was right: there was more to her sadness than the loss of a fine warrior. He would have to find time to speak to her before they left for Mundburg. He did not want her to have any false hopes, better to put Aragorn from her mind now when the attraction was still new, than spend fruitless time yearning for a man she could not have.

The evening had waned by the time all reports were heard and counsels given and received. So it was late when they sat to eat, and only after all had partaken of their fill and Merry sat next to Théoden entertaining him with stories from his homeland, did Éomer take Éowyn’s arm and lead her out into the darkness. “Come and walk with me, for soon our ways will part for a while. It may be many weeks before we will be sitting in Meduseld together again.”

She lifted one delicate eyebrow in scorn at his attempt to make light of the conflict to come, but let him guide her anyway – away from the tents to a group of tumbled rocks where they could look out over the encampment below. But all was in darkness, for Théoden had ordered the muster to be in secret, lest the enemy learn of their plans. Éowyn stared down to where they knew the éoreds had gathered.

“Éomer, do not try to ease my mind with platitudes. You and I know that the Rohirrim will be riding to a battle such has not been fought before.  There is evil abroad. Evil which has never been seen in the Mark in all the long ages. The men say that all hid their heads when the winged shadow passed over Edoras.” She paused, and a slight sob caught in her throat. “And the hope we had rode to his death under the mountain.”

Éomer suppressed a sigh. How did he reassure her without giving false hope? He did not wish to ride away leaving his sister distressed. But as always he could only speak the truth as he knew it. “Éowyn, I am loathe to see Aragorn go, for I had hoped we would ride into battle together. But he is a man with a great destiny on him, and as such maybe he rides a road that is closed to lesser men.”

“You do not believe that!” She threw at him, pulling her arm away and turning to stare wildly into his face. “No one has taken the road under the Dimholt and lived. He is a man, not a wizard or some immortal being. He can bleed and die like any other!”

“Éowyn, listen to me.” Éomer pulled her back against him, smoothing his hand across her hair. “That is true, but he is also Elendil’s heir – the true king of Gondor. And as such the road may be open to him. Elladan and Elrohir brought a message from their father, Elrond of Rivendell. It was that message that made Aragorn think he could take the Paths of the Dead. Also he has received some insight into the enemy’s plans that convinced him the risk was worthwhile. We must trust that he has taken the right course.”

Éowyn dropped her head, her voice coming out in a whisper. Her fingers dug into his arm. “I wanted to ride with him, but he would not even consider it. He took the elf and the dwarf, but he would not take me.”

Now what did he say? He hated to do it, but he could not let her think there was some glorious future awaiting her. “Éowyn, there is something you must know.”

She raised her head, her eyes seeking his expectantly. Éomer let out a long sigh he had been holding in; he was not finding this easy.

“Well, Éomer, what should I know?”

Éomer drew her against his chest, hugging her against him and speaking softly into her ear. “Éowyn, I would not like you to wait in vain for Aragorn to come back, for if he lives, and if he wins the throne of Gondor, still he will be removed from you.”

Eyes open wide, and with trembling lips, Éowyn, clutched at his shoulders, the cloth of his tunic bunching in her hands. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t want to do this, and his heart hammered a protest. But he could not shirk his duty to his sister. Small pain now might save great torment later. Hoping his decision to tell her to be the right one, he launched in. “Aragorn’s kinsman, Halbarad, brought him a standard. It was the standard of the King’s of Gondor – The White Tree on Black. Arwen, Elrond’s daughter, fashioned it with her own hands, with silks and gems, they said. Painstakingly made for the day Aragorn will reclaim the throne. I saw his eyes, Éowyn, when her name was mentioned. They were eyes filled with longing and love.”

The body in his arms stiffened. Éowyn let out a low wail of misery, before she roughly shook off his enfolding embrace. But he reached out to grab her hand: small and cold, he warped warm fingers around it. “Éowyn, I am sorry.”

“No, Éomer! Let me go. You have said enough.” Reluctantly he released his grip and she ran stumbling back towards her tent.

-----------------

March 10^th 3021 Dol  Amroth.

Lothíriel raised her head from the pillow, but the headache had not lessened. Some giant clam must have caught her in its grip, and the more she tossed and turned, the tighter it held her. The tisane hadn’t helped and she daren’t take any more, somehow she had to force herself to get up. She had to do her daily check on the children living in the Palace, so many were sick and the numbers mounted each day. There was no excuse for lazing on her bed in the middle of the morning with so much to be done. No excuse except that she had not slept properly for three days, ever since…No. Put it out of her mind, shut out the horror.

Struggling to push aside the painful remembrances, she rose, only will power making her get to her feet. She stood for a moment before half-heartily attempting to smooth out the creases in her dress. What a mess she must look – she certainly felt it. The water in the bowl was cold, but she splashed it over her face and then soaped her hands. The smell of sweet-jasmine reminding her of happier times, when she would spend hours quietly reading amongst the fragrant flowers in the palace gardens, perhaps waiting for her father to come home.

But that seemed an age ago, the remembered peace all gone – her father at war and she… caught in a trap of her own making. Her temper and loss of control had led her into a dark tunnel from which there was no way out. She could find no rest anywhere: every time she tried to sleep the demons would invade her mind, worming insidiously into her dreams. Dripping blood, they tormented and jeered at her. And in her waking moments the anguished thoughts crowded in, giving her no rest from the constant lashing of self-recriminations – she was a healer who killed. A healer who laughed and shouted at death, who enjoyed seeing men run from her arrows…

Angrily, Lothíriel threw down the drying towel and stared at herself in the glass. Umar had done this to her! His evil had touched her, and now she was no better than him. Shuddering, she quickly turned her face from the mirror and hurried out of the door of her chamber, slamming it shut behind her. She stopped outside to take a deep breath, desperately trying to thrust all this from her mind. She had to ignore the people staring at her and whispering about a princess who had brought all this trouble upon them. Resolutely, Lothíriel started walking down the long passage, but at the end, where the passage widened into a large embrasure in the corner tower, she stopped, drawn by some force to look out one of the slit windows. High above the other buildings in the city, the window looked across the Haven towards Edhellond, where after sweeping down from the far Ered Nimrais and across the uplands of Gondor, the Ringló River spilled into the sea. Then suddenly an all too familiar rushing noise started in her ears. No!  Not now! She didn’t want one of her visions, but in no state to send it away, the images flooded her mind. Reeling from the horror she was seeing, Lothíriel grabbed at a pillar for support. But insistently, and without mercy, row after row of men with sightless eyes marched in front of her face. An army on the move – an army of dead men!

“Lothíriel! Oh, there you are.”

Meren’s anguished voice came from along the passage, breaking the spell. Lothíriel blinked a few times to clear the awful vision. But banishing it left her dazed and shaky and Meren was right in front of her by the time she had regained some composure. She looked into a face white with shock. “Meren, what is it? What’s the matter?”

Meren opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Lothíriel took a step towards her sister-in law, firmly grasping her arm. “Meren, tell me what has happened. Is Alphros not well?”

“No, he’s fine,” Meren managed to get out in a strangled voice.

“Then what is it?”

“Lothíriel, I don’t want to tell you, but there is no way you will not find out…”

“What, Meren? Find out what?” Lothíriel clutched at Meren in panic – her father – her brothers... “Tell me please!”

“It’s the Haradrim. They have taken their revenge for your killing. Some farmers who didn’t manage to get into the city. A father and two sons…” Meren paused, tears running down her pale cheeks. “They cut their heads off!  Right in front of the gate, with those awful curved swords.”

The walls around her spun, vaguely Lothíriel felt Meren grab her shoulders, before she doubled up and vomited over the floor.

---------------------

March 14/15^th  Drúadan Forest – Gondor.

“What think you, Éomer?” Théoden asked when Ghân-buri-Ghân had finished speaking. “Can we trust a savage?”

Éomer let his eyes lock with the man sitting crossed legged on the ground in front of him. Ghân held his gaze for a moment, and then his face relaxed into a toothless grin. Éomer’s lips quivered with amusement, now he was under scrutiny from this relic from an ancient time. He had seen his like before: old Ghân bore an uncanny resemblance to the Púkel men of Dunharrow. Squat of figure, with dark leathery skin, his belly protruded over the scrap of cloth that served as his only clothing. His arms and legs were adorned by bracelets that appeared to be made of bone, and his body decorated by intricate drawings in blue and red pigments. Long black hair framed his wrinkled face, but deep set eyes glittered intelligence. And in them Éomer could see no lie.

Coming to his decision quickly, he turned to Théoden. “I feel he is trustworthy, lord. Why should he lead us to death now?  His people could have harried us when we entered the forest, their poison arrows picking us off whilst we chased shadows in the trees.”

“That is true, Éomer, my son. And time presses. We have ridden for four days, and to be thwarted at the last will be ill indeed. If we have to battle through the army in Anórien then maybe Mundburg will have fallen ere we ride beneath her walls.”

“And we will have less warriors to go to her aid,” Éomer agreed.

“We need to get there with numbers enough to fight. I would not see Gondor’s fair city reduced to dust whilst I have the strength to protect it.”

Éomer marvelled at the change in his uncle. He could only thank Gandalf that the Riddermark had a strong king once more. “Then I say, lord, that we take up the offer for the Wild-men to lead us through the Stonewain Valley and past the army in Anórien. Ugly they may be, but true of heart, I deem. And although we cannot hope to come to Gondor’s aid today, then maybe we shall be there soon enough to save some portion of the City.”

---

Passing through the dense trees like ghostly serpents, the strings of horses and Riders gradually advanced east, every winding snake trusting the silent Wild-man at its head to lead it safely past the enemy. From the wood around them, drums throbbed out their messages – no orc scout would take back news of the fighting force on its way to Minas Tirith. But neither would that city have the comfort of knowing the Rohirrim were so close, for the Errand Riders of Gondor, who had brought messages to Théoden, were found slaughtered on the road. Denethor would not hear of the éoreds riding to the relief of the City.

Frustrating: moving so slowly, but the paths that led down to the old wagon road that ran through the Stonewain Valley were treacherous with tangled roots and snatching creepers. No quicker pace could be made. But before the day was out, Éomer, riding beside the king, rounded a tree and saw the ancient track below him.

Ghân’s gurgling laugh showed his satisfaction that they had outwitted the orcs he hated. “Kill orcs!” he ordered Théoden. Then with a shout that the wind was changing, he disappeared into the trees.

But now they needed no guide, for the track followed the floor of the valley until it joined with the Great West Road that swept around to the North Gate in the Ramos Echor, the wall surrounding the Pelennor fields that spread out before the White City.

Night had fallen when they reached the main way from the Riddermark to Gondor, and they could travel swiftly now. Éomer breathed in the air, fresher than it had been for days. Old Ghân had been right — the wind had changed, blowing away the stink and murk that had been issuing from of Mordor since before Helm’s Deep. But then the men cried out in horror – flames shot high into the clear sky – the City of Kings was already burning, and the enemy swarmed like black ants around her walls, intent on subduing their prey.

Éomer tensed, his muscles bunching in fury. “We must make haste,” he said to Théoden, “or we will be raking through the ashes to find our friends.”

Théoden nodded, but his gaze was far away, and Éomer saw that an answering fire had been kindled. The Lord of the Mark raised his hand, and in the old blue eyes the flames burnt bright and true. “Rohirrim,” he called in a voice of thunder. “Oaths ye have taken, now fulfil them all – to lord and land!”

Spears clashing upon shields – the éoreds roared their answer.

March 15^th Early hours – Minas Tirith

Alerted by a slight stiffening in the body posture of the man next to him, Amrothos swung around just as the bow twanged. The arrow hissed past his unprotected ear and almost immediately a wail of agony wafted up on the wind.

“How do you do that!” Amroth was full of admiration for the two brothers. They had been picking off individuals all night, where possible going for the captains, who tended to strut around bellowing orders. But all had been relatively quiet for some time; the bombardment had stopped, giving the fire watchers a chance to douse some of the flames. Even so, much of the lower level of the City still burnt.

Derufin grinned, his eyes glowing white in the darkness. “He made the mistake of moving out of the shadow, his helm caught the light of the flames.”

“Still,” Amroth said, “I have never seen such fine shooting. Keen eyed must be the men from the Blackroot.”

Laughing, Derufin nocked a further arrow, just as his brother, Duilin, loosed one of his, the cry of anguish confirming a hit. “The mountain hares give us good sport, and teach patience and perseverance – miss, and the pot stays empty. And my sister and mother go hungry.”

Amroth wasn’t quite sure he believed that, for although the brothers’ raiment was plain, it was of good quality. “Duinhir has shown his loyalty: marching so many of you here. The vale must be empty of men.”

Derufin sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Not all came. Our cousin chose not to let his people answer Denethor’s call, even though my father tried to persuade him. As my father said: if Minas Tirith falls, what use will it be to hide in the mountains, eking out a miserly existence. What joy would we find in life, knowing Gondor’s jewel to be overrun by stinking sewer rats.” He grinned suddenly. “But anyway, if the Dark Lord prevails it would please me to imagine fat cousin Alhael living off the land and trying to survive in the wild.”

Before Amroth could reply, the clash of a mighty drum rang out across the Pelennor. All ran to the wall, staring out to see what new horror was about to be unleashed upon them. The awful sound – a monotonous drone that set teeth on edge – continued, beat after beat. Soon they could see lights flaring a few hundred yards out from the wall, and gradually a roadway lit by torches was marked out, leading a straight path to the Great Gate of the City. Out of the gloom a mighty structure appeared: a great ram hauled by huge trolls. Its head had been fashioned into the shape of a wolf, and from its open mouth fire sparked and flamed.

“Amroth!”

Amroth turned sharply at the sound of his father’s voice. Imrahil stood at the top of the steps that led down to the main square, beckoning impatiently. With a nod to Derufin and Duilin, he hurried over. His father wasted no time with greetings.

“Amroth, gather your company together. They are bringing up a ram, and Gandalf thinks the gates will not be able to resist the force of hardened oak when powered by spells woven by the Witch King. We have to be prepared for them breaking through. I and my knights will stand in the centre. I wish Erchirion and his men on my right, and you are to hold the left. They must be contained to the lower levels to give us a chance when Rohan gets here.”

“They will come?” Amroth asked, his heart pounding with hope.

“Gandalf says they will. But our danger comes from the terror that the Nazgûl incites in us all. And their leader personifies evil. You must stop your men from fleeing from his malevolence. I am trusting that my sons will stand firm.”

With that his father clasped his arm, the grey eyes conveying without words a message of love and support. Amroth swallowed, determined not to show any fear. A half smile of understanding, and Imrahil turned quickly, bounding back down the steps.

Amroth called to his captain: the time had come. Great Ulmo, give him strength!

-----------------

March 15^th  Before Dawn – Dol Amroth.

Her shoes in her hand, Lothíriel crept along the passage, praying all the servants were still in their beds. She hadn’t dared to use the main ways: the chance of bumping into a guard outside the hall was too great.

Pausing at the end of a side passage, she looked right and left. No option but to cross the wide, tiled corridor. She weighed the key in her hand before taking the half-a-dozen steps that got her to the door of her father’s study. In one fluid movement, she grabbed a burning torch from a wall sconce and fitted the key in the lock. The door opened noiselessly inwards. With a last glance along the corridor she slipped in and closed the door behind her, quickly crossing to pull the heavy curtains before anyone saw the light. She sat and pulled on her shoes, but there was no time to waste – she could be discovered at any moment. Shoes on, Lothíriel went to the bust of Galador that stood on a marble plinth. Going around to the back, she wriggled her fingers into the small crevice between statue and plinth, withdrawing a slim key.

Clutching it in her hand, Lothíriel went to where a large cupboard had been built into the corner. The key fitted, as she knew it would, but before opening the door she stopped, turning back to look at her father’s chair.

“I am sorry, Father.” She whispered aloud. “I love you.” Silent tears started to roll down her cheeks, but she let them be. If her family survived they would understand. She had to give herself up – too many had died on her account. She could not be responsible for any more of her people suffering. She couldn’t eat – couldn’t sleep for thinking of the murdered farmers. And if the siege went on the food would run out, and the thought of the children going hungry twisted her insides. But besides that, what would happen when Umar came? Lothíriel shuddered with loathing – he wouldn’t spare anyone.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight together. Sweet Elbereth, what would he do to her? 

The only thing was not to think of it and tell herself it didn’t matter – giving herself up would allow her people to escaped north - surely the Haradrim would keep their word on that. How long they could hold out she had no idea, but at least her actions would give them a chance. Her fingers involuntary went to the locket around her neck – after the city had emptied there would be no reason for her to stay alive. She’d cheat the swine in the end!

Before her courage failed, Lothíriel turned the key in the lock, and torch in one hand, eased into the cupboard. Inside hung a thick curtain, behind which was another door. She reached for the key hidden up on a ledge. Two bolts to slide back before she was through to the dark stair. Dry and musty this high up, but as she descended the rocks felt cold and damp. Something scuttled down the steps beside her, but after jumping with surprise she ignored it – mice and rats wouldn’t hurt her, only men had the power to do that.

Abruptly, around a corner, the steps stopped. A flat tunnel ran for a few yards, and at the end a door. She held up her torch: Amroth had opened it the only time she had been down here before. The key was in the lock, but two bolts and a bar held it fast. Remembering, she looked above her head – she had to disengage the warning bell or the guards would be alerted. She reached up, just able to reach the rope – the bell meant to warn against intruders, not escapees. Lothíriel jammed the torch in a split in the rock, held on to the rope with one hand, and unhooked it from the door. She carefully kept the tension on the rope hooking the end onto the ring Amroth had shown her, breathing out in relief when she had done it.

Now the door – a struggle with the bolts and the bar. Finally the key. It turned easily, the lock kept oiled and greased, like all other ironwork in the Palace. Retrieving the torch, Lothíriel passed through the door, locking it behind her and putting the key in a crevice above her head. Unlikely anyone who didn’t know would find the entrance at the back of the cave, but she couldn’t leave a way into the Palace unlocked. Now the steps were steep and slippery, water trickling from the rocks made every footstep treacherous. Many years ago a wooden rail had lent support, but now it was split and broken. She went down slowly, feeling the side so she could clutch at the wall in need.

Soon Lothíriel could hear the sea below her and the air smelt of salt and fish. If she had timed it right the cave should just be free of water, with enough beach uncovered for her to reach the path that led up out of the cove. It could not be better: the path reached the cliff top only a few hundred yards from where the Haradrim had their camp, and it should soon be getting light.

Pools of water remained in the cave, and her feet got soaked. But ahead she could see the white surf of the ocean and the dark shape of clouds against the lighter sky. Emerging onto the beach Lothíriel shivered, drawing the dark cloak tightly around her. The cold hour before dawn, and misery seeped into her bones. Choking back a sob and telling herself it was too late for a change of heart, she searched the rocks on her left, trying to pick out the path. It all looked different in the dark. Pretty sure where it was, still she tarried, unable to take the first step that would end her freedom for ever. But then she thought of all the women and children in the city – only yesterday a sweet baby had been born. If Umar came it would spend its life in slavery.  Blanking her mind from her own precarious future, Lothíriel started the climb up the path.

She would have to be careful. Go quietly down the road and enter the camp as dawn broke. She had to avoid the mercenaries. Give herself up to the Haradrim commander or Umar would never get a chance to claim her. Puffing a bit – she’d not had much exercise lately – Lothíriel saw the top of the cliff outlined against the sky. Was there a hint of lightness?

Reaching the top she kept low, hiding behind a bush while she made sure which direction to go. Seeing the shapes of the tents ahead she flitted from bush to bush, making for the road, but a faint noise behind her made her stop. With no other warning a hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged roughly to the ground.

To be continued.

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And so the companies came and were hailed and cheered and passed through the Gate, men of the Outlands marching to defend the City of Gondor in a dark hour; but always too few, always less than hope looked for or need asked. The men of Ringló Vale behind the son of their lord, Dervorin striding on foot: three hundreds. From the uplands of Morthond, the great Blackroot Vale, tall Duinhir with his sons, Duilin and Derufin, and five hundred bowmen.

The Return of the King  J. R. R. Tolkien  

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar -                    Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Princess Meren -   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Alhael-                Nephew to Duinhir – plays a prominent role in the next part of the story.                

ROHAN:

Déor-                       Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. Now a Rider in Elfhelm’s éored.

Chapter 18

The drums rolled and rattled. With a vast rush Grond was hurled forward by huge hands. It reached the Gate. It swung. A deep boom rumbled through the City like thunder running in the clouds. But the doors of iron and posts of steel withstood the stroke.

Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone.

Thrice he cried. Thrice the great ram boomed. And suddenly upon the last stroke the Gate of Gondor broke. As if stricken by some blasting spell it burst asunder: there was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground.

In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, grown to a vast menace of despair. In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face.

All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, sat Gandalf upon Shadowfax: Shadowfax who alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror, unmoving, steadfast as a graven image in Rath Dínen.

‘You cannot enter here,’ said Gandalf, and the huge shadow halted. ‘Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!’

The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

‘Old fool!’ he said. ‘Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!’ And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.

And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

The Return of the King. J. R. R. Tolkien

March 15^th 3019

Minas Tirith

The Witch King vanished, and all around the square cheers rose in a growing crescendo. One moment his shadow had towered over Mithrandir, a merciless predator intent on pulling the entrails from his prey, and the next the space in front of the sundered gates was empty of all save the White Wizard.

Mithrandir’s shoulders sagged for a moment, as though the effort of confronting such awesome power had utterly overcome him. But then he raised his own sword in triumph, acknowledging the coming of Rohan with a mighty shout.

The surprisingly strong voice that came from those old lips stirred Amroth from his immobility. The horror of witnessing such a confrontation, even from a fair distance, had rendered his limbs almost useless, for no battle ever fought could be greater than that struggle between light and dark. Many of his men had fallen to the floor, burying their heads in their knees and covering their ears with their hands. Some had scuttled back up the streets that led down into the square, unable to bear even the sight of the evil wraith. Only fierce pride, and seeing his father standing upright, had kept him from doing the same. That and the need to stop his horse from fleeing as Erchi’s had done. Gilroch still trembled, and Amroth smoothed his hand down the quivering neck, whispering words of reassurance. A miracle that Shadowfax had carried his rider so close to the terror! Amroth knew his own skill with horses to be unsurpassed in Gondor, but none would have done that for him.

Mithrandir turned from the gate and immediately the halfling, Pippin, ran up to him, speaking urgently. Amroth saw his father join them, and as Mithrandir whisked Pippin onto his horse – what was all that about – Imrahil jumped up onto a stone plinth, issuing orders in a loud voice that cut through the mounting confusion. Men ran forward from their hiding places, struggling to pull the broken gates fully open, and others ran back up the streets to recover the horses. Within minutes his father mounted Sea-Lord, and those of his knights who had found their steeds were lining up for the first charge out onto the Pelennor. Amroth got up on Gilroch, summoning his men to prepare for battle. A look across to his brother confirmed they were ready to go. Erchirion had managed to calm his horse, although it still sweated badly. He caught Amroth’s glance, and twisted his lips into a grimace, mouthing just one word before he pulled down his visor – Umar!

Amroth raised his had in acknowledgment, and then fastened down his own helm. Whatever else happened that day, they would get the bastard.

“Don’t worry, lord. We’ve all vowed that slime will not see another dawn.”

Grateful for the support of his captain, Amroth looked around to check all were ready. Loyalty ran strong in Dol Amroth, and Umar’s treatment of his sister had upset more than just the family.

With a blast of trumpets the Swan Knights charged through the gate. Amroth would have liked to follow them, but he had to wait and go behind his brother. The delay chafed him, for already he could hear the clamour of battle, and the horns of the Rohirrim which still rang out their challenge. A tense few minutes, as fear churned his stomach. He’d be better when he was out there, and the action gave no time for thought. But watching Erchi’s company march out, the standards flying proudly, he thrust all worry away. It might be their last day, but it would be a great day. The men of the West would give all to defeat such darkness, and he would not falter.

They were pushed forward now, as the soldiers from the city formed ranks behind them. The moment had come. Amroth raised his horn and blew the advance. Recovered from his fright and eager to join the fray, Gilroch plunged ahead, snorting with excitement. Dol Amroth for Gondor! The battle cry filled the square.

Amroth ducked a few shards of broken wood, holding Gilroch in check until he could see what was happening. His men followed him, charging through the gate and whooping out their challenge. Great Ulmo! The plain to his left was covered with heaving clusters of battling groups. Like boils they swelled and burst, discharging the dead and wounded before the living moved on. Already the Rohirrim had hammered a wedge of green through the northern flank of the enemy, and had reached the road. Amroth saw his father amongst the war machines beneath the wall, where huge trolls flung stones at the horses. The Swan-knights were driving them into the path of a group of galloping Rohirrim, in an effort to assail the formidable opponents from both sides. But then his eyes were drawn to the scarlet-clad horsemen and the standard – black serpent on red - that proclaimed the whereabouts of their prince. There he was, the filthy sod, and Erchi was already leading his men in his direction, mowing down the orcs in his path like a scythe through dry grass.

Realising that he had the chance to take advantage of the trail his brother had carved through the foes that spread south-east from the gate, Amroth raised his horn again, but spluttered in astonishment before a note sounded. For a group of Rohirrim had galloped ahead of their fellows, driving all before them. Skilled with sword and spear, their mail gleaming in the sun and the tails of their horses streaming out like banners. But one out-rode them all – his golden shield glowing and his great, white horse shining. With sword raised high he fell upon Umar, slashing and hewing. An old warrior he might be, but the battle lust burned in him, and under the ferocity of his onslaught the Black Serpent of Harad was trampled to the ground.

Gone! Just like that! The King of Rohan had done what he and Erchi planned to do – remove Umar from the face of Middle-earth. The bane of Dol Amroth existed no more. Amroth wanted to laugh out loud, but celebration could wait, if ever there came a time they could celebrate. For now battle had overtaken him, and in a surge of wild exhilaration, he put lips to horn, blowing a great blast.

---------------

Dol Amroth

Lothíriel huddled behind a rock, head buried in her hands. She shivered uncontrollably, even though someone had thrown another cloak around her. The sound of men dying horrified her – the screaming and the ring of steel upon steel – she had never been so close to such slaughter. Then the blare of trumpets cut thought the clamour and she looked towards the gates of the city. They were opening, and a dozen mounted men rode out. She recognised Sergion in the lead. A few dozen more followed on foot, all the fighting men they had left in the city. Now the Haradrim were caught between two forces. Elphir had attacked just as it had got light, surprising the besiegers with the suddenness and unexpectedness of his offensive. Surprising Lothíriel too: she had no idea how or why he came to be there, and had had no chance to talk to him.

Pushed out of sight and told to keep quiet, she realised she was lucky not to have had her throat slit – the man who had netted her stunned when he had identified his catch.

Now she just wanted to get back to the palace, away from the smell and sounds of death. But she daren’t move, not even to scurry back down to the cove and up the secret stair, because she’d seen two men thrown off the cliff, scarlet splashing against the grey rock as they fell screaming.

Gradually she became aware that the sounds were lessening. The clash of weapons giving way to the moans of the injured. A few yards away a pair of terns scolded, their nest in the short grass on top of the cliff saved from the crushing, booted feet that must have destroyed a hundred others nearer to the carnage. Lothíriel stared along the sea-cliff, where the birds that had been disturbed swept along the edge, tilting their wings back and forth at lightning speed. Not so bad – this early in the year they had time to build again.

Drawing her eyes away from the screeching birds, she raised her head above the rock. No trouble picking out her brother, his breast plate and saddle cloth proclaiming his identity to all. Sergion rode up to him, sword still in his hand and some intense conversation ensued with lots of gesturing towards the small group of beaten Haradrim, who had been circled by Elphir’s men. Something must have been decided, and then her name probably mentioned because Elphir pointed her way. Sergion spurred his horse in her direction. Now she was in for it!

Lothíriel stood up, shaking from relief. Because facing Sergion and her brother would be nothing compared to what she might have had to endure from Umar. But whatever telling off awaited her, it wasn’t about to start. Sergion had sheathed his sword by the time he reached her. He looked unharmed, but blood was splattered over his chest, completely obliterating the Swan-ship device on his breastplate. Reaching down, he grabbed her hand, no expression other than resignation showing on his face. “Come on. There is work to do. Many are injured, including Elphir.”

“He’s hurt!” Lothíriel cried. Letting herself be swung up behind her protector.

“Yes, but the wound was treated at the fords. Although it is still giving him pain. He’s coming straight to your father’s study, so you had better get your things.”

The Pelennor Fields. Gondor.

Death! Death! Death! The anger overwhelmed him with its intensity, driving any rational thought from his mind. His head pounded, and the urge to kill, to slash and hack at anything in his path, became the only reality. Éomer spurred Firefoot on, away from his sister’s broken body. No longer caring whether he lived or died, he led his men on an orgy of destruction that took him far into the lines of the enemy, and nearly up to the Harlond.

With the first flush of his fury assuaged, Éomer realised he had cut his force off from his allies. Mad with himself now – his grief for his sister should not have let him put his men in danger – he needed to assess the situation coolly. A look around confirmed his fear: Grimbold’s company was on his left flank, way behind, and Elfhelm under the walls. And outpacing the rest of the Rohirrim had put his section beyond the help of Gondor’s forces. Even the elite warriors of Dol Amroth had no chance of supporting him anytime soon, their Prince and his knights way behind and under attack from the reserves hastening out of Osgiliath. But their footmen had fought through the Haradrim infantry and were now doing their best to break a way through from the side. Éomer watched for a moment as the young commander in silver and blue drove his men forward to try and come to his support. The Gondorian had lost his helm and his black hair flew in the wind as he hacked his way through a large group of scarlet clad warriors, but then, to Éomer’s dismay, the horse stumbled and its rider was pulled to the ground. Damn! But he couldn’t watch anymore because his own situation had turned dire and he needed to take some defensive action to try and hold together until aid could get to him.

King – Théoden had called him. King – his men had echoed. King…! Damn fool! At the moment it looked as though his reign might be the shortest in the history of the Mark. And then any stray thought they could last out until relieved, shrivelled and died, for coming up the Anduin he saw a fleet of great ships rounding the bend below the Harlond, black sails bellowing with the following wind. On they came, and the last lingering hope that he might survive the day came crashing around him in a great avalanche of despair.

“Morgoth’s balls!” Éothain sputtered, drawing alongside him. “Now we’re for it!”

Éomer stared for a moment. But grim determination took hold of him. “Set the standard on that hillock,” he ordered. “We will form a shield wall. Make a last stand the like of which has never been seen before. Songs will be sung of our deeds that will stir our bleached bones.”

“That’s if there are any bones left to stir,” Éothain quipped. “Those damn monsters are heading our way. I doubt there will even be dust.”

Dismissing the mûmakil, – bowmen already stood in their path – Éomer reached over and grabbed his friend’s arm. “Come; let us cry a battle chant to give heart to those who stand with us.” So they rode to the hillock where men gathered around the standard, and as the wind took the material and flapped it back and forth it seemed as if the White Horse was galloping across the plain. Éomer held his sword high above his head. “The last King of the Mark stood here,” he shouted, before blasting out a song of Eorl the Young in a voice that carried far over the battlefield.

“Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising
I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.
To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking:
Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!”

But then Gúthwinë flew into the air, and Éomer’s shout of joy drew all the eyes around. For from the lead ship a great standard unfurled, the White Tree upon Black, the colours of the sea-kings of Gondor, and the gems so lovingly sewn, glittered in the sun.

“He made it! He made it,” Éomer shouted, feeling a joy unknown before.

“Well. I’ll be darned.”

Éomer grinned. He’d rarely heard Éothain in awe of anything. Then, standing high in his stirrups, sword still raised, he cried in a mighty voice. “All spears to me!”

But Éomer looked at the ships as he shouted, and unsheathing his great sword Aragorn raised it in answer. Sunlight struck the legendary blade, and sharp steel flashed its warning. He put one leg onto the guardrail, ready to jump off the ship as it reached the dock. And behind him, crowded over every part of the deck, fighting men waited with swords drawn. Éomer kicked Firefoot forward, between him and Aragorn the enemy thronged in confusion, their captains whacking and cursing to rally their troops back to battle. But the Rohirrim were having none of it, heartened beyond measure by the sight of their champion who they had thought buried under a mountain, and gladdened by the blue and silver warriors cutting their way towards them, they advanced with awesome speed. Given no quarter, the hosts of Mordor fell beneath stamping hooves, or fled from the field in terror.

“Did I not say we would meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us,” Aragorn said when at last they met. They clasped hands, the grey eyes holding a deep twinkle that Éomer had thought he would never see again.

“So you said,” Éomer agreed. “And never have I been so pleased to see a friend. You have come just in time. It has gone ill with us, and we have lost much.”

“I can see the grief in you”, Aragorn said squeezing his arm “But let us avenge it, before we speak of it!”

Side by side they rode back to battle.

--------

Dol Amroth.

Even though Lothíriel had to fetch her healer’s satchel and scrub her hands, she got to the study before Elphir. Wanting her to attend to him there must mean one of two things: either the wound couldn’t be that serious, or he wanted to shout at her in private.

Both probably! Lothíriel sat down on the edge of a chair and eyed the corner cupboard uneasily – should she go down the stair and barricade the door, or just remind Sergion to do it? Perhaps it would be better if she secured it herself – she had been the one to leave it open. But in the few short steps it took to get to the handle, she changed her mind. Better not to go down with Elphir due to arrive, and anyway, she was not sure she could. Her previous courage had completely deserted her, and the thought of braving that dark passage started her shaking again.

She didn’t want to be here! Why couldn’t she just run to her room and hide! The relief of having Elphir back and the city no longer under siege, combined with the growing realization that she had acted like an idiot, threatened to have her crying like a milksop. Cross with herself for her weakness, she spun away from the cupboard just as the door from the corridor flew open. Meren tore in, looking as though she had dressed hastily, curls tumbling over her shoulders instead of being neatly tied back, and the neckline of her dress slightly askew.

“Sergion says Elphir is injured!” Her eyes wide with fright she looked frantically around the room as though expecting to see her husband already there.

Pushing her own distress aside, Lothíriel immediately stepped forward to hug her. “He’s on his way, Meren. And don’t worry. It can’t be troubling him that much because he got the injury at Linhir, and he’s been fighting since.”

Meren visibly relaxed, but shot to the window to look out, turning back when she saw nothing to interest her. “Oh, did he? Then you are right. I suppose if he’s not going to the Healing House, it isn’t too bad. He’d go if it were serious, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course he would,” Lothíriel reassured her. That was if her brother didn’t feel the need to shout at her outweighed everything else. But although she kept that thought to herself something must have alerted Meren because she scanned her eyes over Lothíriel’s outdoor clothing.

“Lothíriel, where have you been?”

“I…” But the door flew open again, with such force that it slammed against a misplaced cupboard.

Lothíriel flinched – from his anger, and the inevitable smell of sweat and blood. Perhaps removing his armour had been painful; Elphir had certainly worked up a temper. Ignoring his wife who put out her hand expecting him to acknowledge her, he glared straight at his sister.

“Lothíriel, I ought to tan the hide off of you, whatever do you think you were doing! I thought you learnt your lesson the last time you took off!”

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. And before she could collect her wits to make some sensible rejoinder, Meren grabbed at her husband’s arm.

“Elphir are you all right? Sergion said you were injured…”

“I am fine; it’s just a flesh wound.” He brushed off his wife's concern impatiently, and turned his attention back to Lothíriel. Instinctively she took a step away: she had seldom seen him so angry. And she knew he had good reason. Also, it had taken him weeks to get over her running away all those years ago. Shame made her drop her eyes, and then she noticed his feet. He had removed his boots. Somehow him shouting at her in his stockinged feet made her want to giggle.

That must have shown because he got angrier. “I have known you do some odd things, Lothíriel. But I never actually thought you were mad before!”

“Elphir!” Meren tugged at his sleeve again, getting mad herself. “Whatever she’s done there is no need to speak like that!”

He rounded on his wife. “You don’t know what she has been up to?”

“No, I don’t. But…”

“Oh!” That surprised him, and he looked guilty for shouting at her. “Then let me tell you that my idiotic sister was just about to give herself up to the Haradrim. Of all the stupid…”

“Oh, Lothíriel! You silly girl! Come here.” Meren dragged Lothíriel into her arms and hugged her tight. “I knew you were upset, but I never thought…”

It was too much; Lothíriel’s dignity crumpled and she sobbed quietly into Meren’s shoulder. “Now look what you’ve done.” Meren admonished her husband over her head. “How can you be so unfeeling when she’s already had so much to put up with?”

Lothíriel sniffed, and came out of Meren’s embrace. The last thing she wanted was the two of them arguing over her. Wiping a hand across her face she sniffed again, stammering out some kind of apology. “I couldn’t seem to help it. I am sorry, Elphir.”

Elphir drew in a deep breath, but his eyes softened slightly. “All right. Tell me why you did it.”

Why? Wasn’t it obvious why? “The Haradrim commander said he’d let everyone go if I gave myself up.”

That set him off again. “Go...! Lothíriel, just where do you think everyone would go?”

“Now don’t get cross all over again.” Meren said, taking hold of her hand. “She must have thought it through.”

“Thought it through!” But then he made an effort to lower his voice when he caught sight of Meren’s warning look. “In the name of all that’s good, Lothíriel. There will be nowhere to go!”

“I thought north,” Lothíriel stammered.

Elphir shot his eyes skywards in pure disbelief. “How far to you think our people, mostly women, the old and the young, would get with the hosts of Mordor pursuing them? Because that is what will happen if the West falls. They will be here in their thousands, and there will be nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. And all that’s assuming the Haradrim would have kept their word. Which I doubt!”

Lothíriel hung her head. He spoke sense of course. Whatever had she been thinking of? But surely that would be better than starving to death in a city full of disease. But as she hesitated to say that, Meren answered for her.

“She hasn’t been well, Elphir. Not since she killed those mercenaries.”

“Killed some mercenaries! What mercenaries?” Elphir snapped

“They were rude to me when I had Alphros in my arms. Quite vile in fact. Lothíriel got mad, and she shot three or four of them…”

He suddenly let out a guffaw of laughter. “Well, that’s the first sense she’s shown.”

He didn’t understand, did he! None of them understood how she had let herself down by losing her temper and killing. But that hadn’t been the worst. “They took revenge, Elphir,” Lothíriel said in a whisper. “Captured some farmers and cut their heads off. I couldn’t bear it.”

Elphir let out a long sigh, and his body slumped. He sat down in the nearest chair suddenly looking very tired. “Lothíriel, I can maybe understand that you thought it would help, but let me make it clear why it was exactly the wrong thing to do. Besides the horror you would have had to endure, once they had you they could have done anything – burnt down the port, poisoned the water supply or shot fire arrows into the city. Sergion didn’t have enough men to combat them, and keeping the situation calm until help arrived was the only course. On top of that, if I had been a day later, and you had followed through with your plan, they could have used you as a hostage.”

“But we weren’t expecting you,” Lothíriel said. “We had no idea help would come. How did you know?” A knock came at the door at that moment and Sergion came in. He stared at her with that enigmatic look of his. She felt about two inches high. “I am sorry.”

He jerked his head to the cupboard. “Did you leave the door open?”

She swallowed. “I locked it and put the key in a crevice, but it needs securing properly. And I disabled the alarm”

“Quite resourceful, then. You must know how foolish you have been, Lothíriel. But I also blame myself for not realising how disturbed you were by the death of the farmers. We will talk it all through later, when we are calmer. And you are going to have to see Master Nemir, I want to make sure that you never do anything like that again.”

“I have not lost my mind, Sergion!” Lothíriel retorted. “I can see I was wrong now, but I just wanted to do what was best for everybody.”

He drew his brows together, eyes searching her face. Lothíriel forced herself to meet his scrutiny. “All right,” he said, coming to a decision. “If Elphir’s finished with you then we will say no more about it. I will make sure everything is all locked up.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel put in quickly. Relieved that she had got away so lightly, she changed the subject. “Elphir was just going to tell us how he knew to come home.”

Her brother looked as though he had more to say on her escapades, but for whatever reason he chose to follow Sergion’s lead. “It’s a long story, so do you think you could re-bandage my wound while we talk? And send for something to eat.”

“It’s coming,” Sergion said. “No one has had anything this morning.” As if to agree Lothíriel’s stomach rumbled, she’d hardly eaten for days.

“Where are you hurt?” she asked her brother.

Elphir didn’t answer because the food arrived at that moment. Meren loaded a plate for him, and then pulled up a chair so she could sit close to tell him about Alphros’ illness. He tucked into some bread and ham, nodding occasionally in response to Meren’s chattering.

Lothíriel nibbled at a piece of bread and butter, waiting until he had eaten something before she asked again.

“Your wound, Elphir. Where is it?”

“Oh!” He stood up, and now Lothíriel could see a rent in the material of his tunic just below his right arm. “I will have to remove my tunic and shirt. It was bandaged up, but the fighting with the Haradrim must have opened it again.”

Lothíriel ate some more bread while Meren helped Elphir take off his clothes. But before she could tend him she had to wash her hands again. Knowing she had given them a good scrub earlier, she used the water from the bottle in her satchel and then rubbed them with spirit. By that time Elphir was ready. He took a gulp of ale as she studied the bandage. It was stained where the wound had started to seep blood, but had been wrapped around his shoulder to give support extremely neatly. “Who put it on, Elphir? Someone skilled by the look of it.”

“His name was Aragorn.”

“A healer?” she asked.

“A strange expression washed over Elphir’s face, one of wonder and disbelief tinged with joy. “No, a king! Gondor’s king!”

He enjoyed that. Lothíriel knew her brother well enough to recognise the look of satisfaction at three stunned expressions. Sergion was the first to speak. “I think you had better tell us. The men said something about an army of dead souls, but I dismissed it as nonsense.”

With a gasp of astonishment, Lothíriel dropped the scissors. They narrowly missed Elphir’s foot.

“Now what!” Elphir picked up the scissors, handing them to her impatiently. “Are you trying to cause me another injury?”

“I saw them,” she said, her heart pounding with amazement. “I saw an army of dead men. They were marching to war.”

“Yes, and a damn good job they were,” Elphir replied, “or I might not be here now.”

Sergion threw up his hands, sounding unusually exasperated. “Start from the beginning, will you.”

Elphir took another mouthful of ale, and Lothíriel, recovering from the shock that her strange vision had been true, began to cut away the bandage. Wincing a bit, Elphir started talking. “I knew about the siege because a couple of our men were outside the city when the Haradrim arrived. Not knowing what else to do, they commandeered some farm horses and rode to Linhir.”

“Ah,” said Sergion. “I thought they had been captured.”

“No. They took a few days to get to me, but at least I knew what was happening. Although I couldn’t do anything. Not then. We were fighting men from Umbar and Harad who had sailed up the river, and not having an easy time of it, I might add. In the middle of some fierce fighting someone spotted what looked like a thick mist rolling towards us. As it got closer the noise was fearsome. We had no idea what it was, but even from a distance it made our flesh creep. Many fled almost straight away.” He grinned suddenly. “Not the Umbrians, though, because the tide was out, so their ships were stuck on the mud. Anyway, Angbor held his lot together and most of mine stayed. I was injured by then, so wasn’t going anywhere.”

Then the smile left his face and he shuddered. “The feeling was terrible, as though we were going to be totally annihilated. The mist thickened around us and from out of the shadow came a group of grey-clad men. They rode dark, rough-coated horses. Tall they were, and grim of face, wearing only one silver ornament to lighten their gloom, but as they approached I felt no evil from them. The one in the lead raised his sword and cried out something I could not understand.” Elphir shook his head and sighed. “I still find this unbelievable – but he led an army of ghosts. They fell on our enemies. And in their haste to get away, the men of the south stumbled and fell screaming, hacked down by swords wielded by phantoms! They were utterly destroyed.”

Lothíriel gaped; she had given up trying to get the bandage off. “What happened next?”

“Those of our forces that had not fled threw themselves on the ground in fear. Angbor alone stood tall before them, holding me up by his side. The leader came up to us and from that moment I felt no fear. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, he said. Elendil’s heir of Gondor. I ride to war and have need of men to follow me.”

“Of course!” Lothíriel cried. “I remember reading something in one of the old tomes. About the men of the mountains who broke an oath to fight against Sauron. They could never rest in peace until they fought for the King of Gondor.”

“Well, they will have fought by now. Aragorn led them away to Pelargir where the main fleet of the Black Ships were preparing to sail to the Harlond,” he replied. “But while they took an hour to rest, he bandaged up my wound, and advised me to come back to Dol Amroth.”

“You told him about the siege?”

“I did, but he already had some inkling. For riding with him were three elves.”

“Elves!” Meren and Lothíriel gasped together.

“Yes. Two were the sons of Elrond of Rivendell. Even I have heard of him,” he said in response to Lothíriel’s eyes opening wide with wonder. “A fierce light burnt in their dark eyes. Fell, yet handsome to look upon, they were. The other not less so, but fair of hair as well as face – a wood-elf from the far north. It was he who saw something of your plight when they crossed the Ringló. Evidently he looked down towards the sea, couldn’t actually pick out Dol Amroth, of course, but Aragorn knew its location. And Legolas, that’s the wood-elf’s name, said he saw a black cloud hovering. And also he heard someone in great distress calling out for help.”

“When?” Lothíriel shook his shoulder excitedly. “When was this?”

“Oh.” Elphir frowned. “I am not quite sure.” He counted back on his fingers. “They got to Linhir four days ago, so it would have been the day before that.”

“Sweet Elbereth,” Lothíriel leant against the desk, totally taken aback when Elphir confirmed her suspicions. “That was the day I had my vision. The day the farmers were murdered.”

“There, Lothíriel.” Meren’s face lit up, and she giggled. “You have snared an Elf.”

“Meren!” Elphir glowered at her.

Meren went bright red and her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry.” But then she shrugged. “Well, she must have had some kind of connection with him.”

Elphir stared at his wife but luckily Sergion stepped in. “How did you get here so quickly?”

Elphir drew his eyes away from Meren, frowning. “Oh, by boat. We seized a couple of fast galleys, and with the following wind nobody had to row much. We were lucky, and managed to beach them yesterday evening just as the wind changed.” He thought of something else. “And that reminds me. There’s a dromund coming. We loaded all the wounded on board, so you will be busy, Lothíriel. Could you tell Nemir,” this to Sergion. “He’ll need to make preparations.”

Sergion nodded, but his attention was far away. “A king for Gondor,” he mused. “After all this time. Let’s hope he is not a lost to us before he can claim the throne.”

A king! What ever would her uncle say? Somehow Lothíriel couldn’t imagine Denethor being too pleased at having his power usurped, whatever oath of stewardship he took each year. Elphir must have been thinking the same because a smile tweaked the corners of his mouth, the cheeky grin making him look like a naughty boy.

“Even if he saves Minas Tirith single handed, I can’t imagine our uncle being too pleased. But it struck me that Aragorn has the strength to deal with anything. Even our proud Steward.”

“He’s certainly unusual if he has elves for company.” Lothíriel remarked.

“Oh,” Elphir’s grin widened, “I didn’t tell you, but besides the elves he had a dwarf with him.”

“A dwarf!!” came from all three.

-----------------

To be continued.

For info.

Southward beyond the road lay the main force of the Haradrim, and there their horsemen were gathered about the standard of their chieftain. And he looked out, and in the growing light he saw the banner of the king, and that it was far ahead of the battle with few men about it. Then he was filled with a red wrath and shouted aloud, and displaying his standard, black serpent upon scarlet, he came against the white horse and the green with great press of men; and the drawing of the scimitars of the Southrons was like a glitter of stars.

Then Théoden was aware of him, and would not wait for his onset, but crying to Snowmane he charged headlong to greet him. Great was the clash of their meeting. But the white fury of the Northmen burned the hotter, and more skilled was their knighthood with long spears and bitter. Fewer were they but they clove through the Southrons like a fire-bolt in a forest. Right through the press drove Théoden Thengel’s son, and his spear was shivered as he threw down their chieftain.

The Return of the King. J. R. R. Tolkien

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar - Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Princess Meren - Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion - Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war

Nemir- The Master Healer in Dol Amroth.

Chapter 19

Hard fighting and long labour they had still; for the Southrons were bold men and grim, and fierce in despair; and the Easterlings were strong and war-hardened and asked for no quarter. And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still they gathered and rallied and fought until the day wore away.

Then the Sun went at last behind Mindolluin and filled all the sky with a great burning, so that the hills and the mountains were dyed as with blood; fire glowed in the River, and the grass of the Pelennor lay red in the nightfall. And in that hour the great Battle of the field of Gondor was over; and not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. Few ever came eastward to Morgul or Mordor; and to the land of the Haradrim came only a tale from far off: a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor.

The Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

15^th March 3019

Pelennor Fields.

Amroth didn’t want to fall: afraid that he would be lost amongst the piles of bodies that covered what must have once been a field of early wheat. He just wanted to get away from this vile place – too many he knew had ended up trampled into the ground. All around him men were searching for their friends, and not far way he saw Duinhir, desperation on the man’s face as he turned over body after body looking for his sons. Amroth would have liked to help, but making sure all his own wounded had got on the carts had finished him off. The world spun, and aware he should have begged a lift himself, he made a last effort to stay upright.

Digging his sword into the ground, Amroth put one hand each side of the hilt and leant on the guard. His weight pushed the point into the soft earth. He almost doubled over, the pain in his side making him gag, and if anything had been left in his stomach he would have vomited again – but he managed to stay on his feet.  And closing his eyes shut out the sight if not the smell of the carnage.  Maybe if he rested for a moment he might be able to put one foot in front of the other… but the city gate looked so far away…  

“Can you get on a horse?”

What…! His heavy eyelids struggled open – great white teeth were inches from his face, foam and blood slathered around black leathery lips. Amroth screwed his eyes back shut. When he opened them again the teeth were still there. Cautiously he lifted his head a bit, and blinked, his eyes fixing on a dented helm. A white horsetail hung from it, tangled and grimed. He’d seen that helm earlier today, but it had been on someone’s head. Now it hung from a saddle.

“It doesn’t look as though you can, just hold on a moment.”

With a supreme effort Amroth straightened his back. The Rider looked down with a flash of white teeth – smaller ones this time – the skin around his deep blue eyes creasing in response to Amroth’s effort, just before he slid off his horse to land with a thump on the ground. Stumbling, he grabbed the saddle to steady himself, looking very surprised. “Damn! I’m wearier than I thought. But I can just about heave you up.”

Up? His head hanging with exhaustion, the owner of the teeth – the big ones – didn’t look as though he’d take two. But then Amroth realised another horse stood patiently to one side. No rope or lead, it just stood there. Probably too worn out to do anything else.

“Léofwende has still got a bit in her. If we can get you up she’ll make the city.”

“But it means I have to move,” Amroth found his voice at last.

Another grin from the big man. Now that he was on the ground beside him, Amroth realized just how tall he was. “So you can speak,” the Rider quipped. “That’s good, because I want to know your name.”

He had to answer – only fair if the man was going to put him on a horse. You never put someone you didn’t know on your horse. His tongue twisted around the familiar words. “It’s Amrothos… of Dol Amroth.”

“Ahh….” That seemed to confirm something to his rescuer. “You related to the Prince?”

“Son…youngest.” Answering the questions gave him a headache, but the fog started to lift from his brain. Amroth stared at the white horsetail and then at the tall man. Young, now he could see him close and bare-headed. A long mass of fair hair: lank, and darkened by sweat.

“I’m Éomer son of Éomund. Third…”He stopped. The slight readjustment to his facial features hinted at the change to his life. “I’m the Lord of the Mark.”

“Yes.”  Clarity returning, Amroth had worked that out. He’d seen the standard raised and heard the Rohírrim cheering their new king.

“I’m grateful for you coming our way. We got into a difficult position. Too much anger and not enough thought.”

“It happens,” Amroth agreed. “I came out behind my father and my brother, so I had more time to see what was happening. I spotted a weak point in the enemy lines and headed for it, hoping to take the pressure off your flank.”

“Glad you did. Thought you were done for when your horse went down. But I was relieved to see you on your feet and breaking through those red-coated bastards.”

 Horse went down – Amroth closed his eyes again. The agony of Gilroch’s death throes would be with him always.

 “You must have known you’d lose him, but expecting something doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No.”  He was right there – one mounted warrior leading a company of footmen – the horse had little chance. But the men needed to be able to see him. They had always gone into battle that way, but now he doubted. He wondered what the Rohirrim thought about the almost deliberate sacrifice, but the eyes watching him showed only sympathy. Amroth swallowed the cloying chunk of regret in his throat, too many men had died to mourn an animal.  But he would miss him. “He was a good horse.”

The Horselord waited for the moment of grief to pass before he clicked his fingers in the direction of Léofwende. The mare plodded over, nuzzling against his hand. “Her master fell, and she is bewildered by her loss. Giving her something to do will help.”

Amroth nodded; incapable of saying any more. His benefactor must have realized because he left the subject alone. Amroth thought he had better move, the Rohan King couldn’t be expected to haul him onto a horse without him making some effort, but as he reached an arm to Léofwende’s neck pain lanced through him.

Éomer gripped his arm, just stopping him from toppling over. “You’re injured! Why didn’t you say?”

“Flesh wound,” Amroth gasped. “Slammed a field dressing on earlier, but it’s starting to trouble me now.”

“Get your breath back and I will try and lift you.” But before they combined their efforts, Éomer suddenly bellowed right next to his ear.

Amroth winced: that had done nothing for his headache!  And whatever had been said he only caught what he thought was a name, which sounded like Éothain. A quick glance behind him showed various groups of Rohirrim making their way towards their king. One man not far away must be Éothain, because at Éomer beckoning to him, he encouraged his poor mount to move a bit faster.

Another thump to the ground, but this man looked as if he could lift a horse, not just a Dol Amroth Prince. Looked as though he might eat a prince too, Amroth decided – Éothain’s face was completely covered with blood. Only his eyes were a different colour, glowing blue through the dark red, and his teeth gleamed white in contrast when he grinned. “You’re tougher than you look.” he said in Westron, with a surprisingly cultured accent, remarkably like his new king. “Didn’t expect you to get up again.”

“Neither did I,” Amroth conceded. “And I hope that’s not your blood.”

“Nope, I’ve hardly wasted a drop of mine.” Éothain said, getting the other side of him, “But I stuck one of those fellows with the fancy earrings, and he burst all over me.”

Amroth had to smile: the words didn’t fit the accent. “You two must have learnt Westron together.”

“We did,” Éomer confirmed, as between them they hoisted him into the saddle. Amroth couldn’t speak for a moment, concentrating on holding on as the pain made him sway. The two Rohírrim waited with eyes adverted until he had recovered and then Éomer carried on. “My mother taught three of us together. But she didn’t manage to teach Éothain any more refinements. She had better luck with Déor.” A pause before he spoke again and Amroth sensed a stiffening of Éomer’s large frame. “Did you find him, Éothain?”

“Yes. He’s bruised and battered, but all in one piece. Which is more than I can say for his riders.”

Éomer’s broad shoulders relaxed and his fingers, which had been clutching tightly to Léofwende’s mane, released their grip. “They gave Déor a bunch of volunteers from the Emnet to lead,” he told Amroth in explanation. “More enthusiasm and bravery than skill. And Elfhelm, where’s he gone?”

“Into the City with some of the Gondorian commanders to sort out accommodation for everyone. He said he’d see you later.” Éothain then dropped his voice, speaking in his own language. Whatever he was saying the Rohan King didn’t like it. His eyes narrowed and his lips compressed with anger, but a shout from a short distance away banished any ill humour from his expression.

“Éomer!”

Amroth saw a few grey-clad men leading their horses, and amongst them his father. They were winding their way towards them. The tall man in the front had his hand raised in greeting.

“Aragorn, are you ready to go in?” Éomer shouted back.

The man that had arrived in the nick of time and turned the tide of the battle shook his head. Amroth stared at him, wanting to take a good look at a legend. But his eyes wouldn’t focus properly and once again the world around him started spinning. From a long way off he heard his father’s voice barking out orders. Nothing new there, he remembered thinking, before a dark mist descended.

--------------

Minas Tirith – City of Kings

They had done all they could for now, and Éomer knew that the full cost would only be counted later. As for Éowyn – he closed his eyes for a second as the bile rose to his throat – nothing in his life had prepared him for that. Not even finding Bergit butchered had horrified him more.  His lip curled – and to think she had ridden with Elfhelm. He found it hard to believe, but Éothain was sure the rumours were true. Well, friend or not, he would have it out with him. 

They reached the shattered gates, and Imrahil led him through into the square, heading towards the street that wound up into the heart of the City. But progress was slow. Hampered not only by blocks of fallen masonry but by citizens – all men Éomer noted – who broke off from their labours of clearing away the detritus of the recent bombardment to salute the warriors of Dol Amroth and the Riddermark. Some even attempted to grab the hands of their saviours, eager to convey thanks for deliverance. And having negotiated the square to start the climb up the steep street, the horsemen had to keep moving aside to allow passage for the constant stream of carts. Still they were finding wounded on the battlefield. But for now the dead would have to be left, sorting bodies would have to wait until first light. All they could do was guard them from the tearing beaks of the carrion birds, already clustering around the battlefield in anticipation.

Éomer couldn’t quite understand why Aragorn refused to enter the City and insisted on putting up his tents on the Pelennor amongst the stinking debris of battle. Although Imrahil seemed to agree with him. But to Éomer, a man who had proved his claim to kingship by his command over an army of ghosts and had brought relief to the over pressed armies of Gondor, had no need to skulk outside the walls.

But diplomacy had never been at the top of the list of his good qualities. In fact not often on the list at all, so perhaps he had better start learning. And if he needed a teacher, then he already realized that he could find no better than the man riding next to him. As he had felt an instant rapport with Aragorn, so he did with the Lord of Dol Amroth.  Even though the prince must be more than twice his age he felt drawn to him. Also to his sons, especially the younger one who had so quickly assessed his predicament and done all he could to come to his aid.

“I should have realized Amrothos was more badly hurt than he let on,” Éomer said. “But he hid it well.”

Imrahil shrugged. “The wound does not seem that serious. I think exhaustion played a big part, and lack of food. I doubt he felt like eating this morning, or last night. But you are right: he does not like to admit to any weakness. In fact all three are the same.”

“Three? You’ve got another?” Éomer asked. “Is he here?”

“No,” the Prince replied. “Elphir, my heir, is back in Dol Amroth. He was at the fords with Angbor, but took a dart in the side.  Nothing too serious, so when  Lord Aragorn got there with the Dead Army he was able to return home to relieve the siege.”

“Siege?” Éomer queried. Not quite sure what the prince meant.

“Yes. I didn’t know until Lord Aragorn passed on the news, but some of the Harad forces were diverted to Dol Amroth. The city had been under siege since a few days after I left.  Elphir had intelligence from some men who escaped the city. He took a good force back with him so I am confident he has routed them.”

“But why would the Haradrim split their forces to go to Dol Amroth before Minas Tirith was won? It doesn’t make sense.”

Imrahil’s lips thinned, and Éomer sensed deep down anger.  “One can’t expect sense from desert riff-raff.”

Éomer waited for the rest of the explanation – he had a distinct impression there was something else —but whatever it was, the prince kept it to himself, relapsing into silence. Accepting his companion’s reticence, Éomer concentrated on his surroundings – it kept his mind from reliving the horror. He had not seen much on the lower levels as the squares and alleyways had thronged with horses, carts and soldiers. But up here he got a chance to look around, wanting to see all he could of this ancient City of Men which he and his Riders had come so far to defend. A past glory tarnished by the ravishes of time and neglect, he decided. Through niches in old stone walls he glimpsed abandoned gardens overrun by rank weeks and along side alleys saw statues of  long-ago heroes, their fierce faces softened by powdery lichens as they guarded the junctions of  the cobbled ways.

Éomer pulled Firefoot to the side, avoiding a rut worn in the stone by the incessant bite of iron shod wheels. The horse stumbled, and quickly he slipped from his back. “He’s had enough. I’ll lead him the rest of the way.”

“Yes, me too.” Imrahil dismounted from his own horse, a massive, grey gelding named Sea Lord. The warriors behind them did the same. Both men stretched the stiffness out of their legs. But neither had the energy to talk much as they trudged wearily towards the higher levels of the City.  But here they made better progress, the press of people lessening as they neared the Citadel. 

“Not enough people to fill the houses,” Imrahil said as he caught him looking at a carved oak door, barred and nailed shut. “But at least there will be space for your warriors to bed down, and the City is well stocked. They will not go short of rations. You can stay with me,” Imrahil carried on. “We have a family house on the sixth level. It is always kept ready for occupation.”

Éomer blanched inwardly at the mention of family – something he had been avoiding thinking about. But the higher they went up this carved stone mountain, the nearer he got to having to face the truth, and it terrified him. He had no family left! Somehow he had to accept life without Éowyn.  First he had to look upon her broken body, and then he had to rule their people without her support. But, he admitted grimly, that problem might never arise for although they had won the battle there was still a war to be fought…

“We are nearly at the Citadel,” Imrahil broke in on his anguished thoughts. “Do you wish to go to the Healing Houses first?”

Éomer shook his head. “I will pay my respects to Théoden before I visit the wounded.” It was really that he wished to see his sister’s lifeless body sooner rather than later. No point putting off the dreadful moment, even though the prospect turned his guts inside out.

Imrahil looked surprised, but signalled his agreement by pointing to the tunnel that cut through solid rock to emerge on the Place of the Fountain. “We will have to see to the horses first. They are not allowed up there. The stables are just along the street, under the wall.”

“And Firefoot will be glad to get there.” Éomer agreed.

---------------

The Healing Houses

Éowyn’s hand was a lot warmer now, but after their brief conversation she had fallen back asleep. However, this time her breathing was near normal. Éomer did nothing to stop the tears that had been falling from his eyes from trickling down into his beard.

 “Thank you,” he mouthed to the grey-clad figure that still lingered in the doorway. Aragorn hesitated to leave, his eyes still full of worry and compassion. But Éomer waved him away: the Hobbit, Merry, needed   him, and Éomer would do nothing to jeopardize that brave little warrior’s chance of full recovery. Aragorn smiled, touching his forehead with his hand in farewell before he followed Gandalf out of the door.

Still clutching Éowyn’s hand, Éomer looked up into Imrahil’s dark eyes. The Prince stood just to his side, weary he must be but still his back was unbent. “And thank you.” Éomer said in an undertone. “I thought her dead. If you had not noticed she still clung to life she might well be lying with Théoden, and not here.”

Imrahil drew his brows together in a frown. “I am sorry, Éomer. I would have told you before and saved you much anguish. I thought you knew she had been brought to the Healing Houses.”

“No matter,” Éomer replied dismissing his apology. “She is here now and here she will stay. If I have to chain her to the bed. Whatever she says, there will be no more war for my sister.”

“I do not know how her reasons for riding, and how she managed to do so without you knowing, Éomer. Although from what I have heard here she was in great distress. But it is not my business, so I will only say that with Mithrandir caught up with Denethor’s troubles, we would have been hard put to win the day without her contribution.”

“Maybe, but she should not have been allowed to ride,” Éomer said, the anger rising in him. “Many must have known of her intentions, but none told me. I find that difficult to comprehend, and will be seeking explanations from those I consider responsible.” True he had upset Éowyn by telling her of Elrond’s daughter, but that did not excuse Elfhelm. It was him he blamed, and their friendship would suffer for it. But it was something between the two of them and he did not offer any details to the Prince.

But Imrahil picked straight up on his wish for discretion. “I am sure you will do what’s right. But these are strange times, and sometimes we cannot see all the reasons behind the actions of others. Take a deep breath before you jump to conclusions, Éomer.”

“A homily from the Lord of Dol Amroth?” Éomer said cocking one eyebrow.

“One thing I have learnt, Éomer, is that words are powerful weapons, and the hasty thrust cannot be withdrawn. It is always best to take some time for thought before one flays another with them.”

Éomer didn’t answer that, and the Prince picked up his gauntlets from a chair. “I must go to see Húrin and others. With Denethor gone, and Faramir likely to remain on his sick-bed for some time, we have to look to the ordering of the City. Also, as long as the weather holds tomorrow we will be sending a great number of the wounded from the Southern Fiefs back to Dol Amroth on the first tide. We are going to assume the siege has been broken. They just cannot deal with all the injured here. They are full to bursting so many have been billeted in the empty houses. There is a large Healing House and much skill in Dol Amroth.”

“Send the wounded by ship!” Éomer declared astounded.

The Prince grinned. “Much quicker than wains, or even horses, when one has favourable winds. And a trained healer can travel on every ship. Hopefully most will survive the journey.  But enough of that, we are all tired and need rest and food. I will return shortly to collect you. Éowyn will receive the best care here, and you can come back in the morning.”

Éomer knew Imrahil spoke sense: body and mind were both weary, and his stomach cramped from lack of food. But Éowyn was all he had left, and as he had lost others – his mind went immediately to Bergit and Théodred – he had so very nearly lost her. “Leave me for an hour, and then I will come. I wish to sit with her for a little time.”

Imrahil dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Very well, but it is sleep she needs now. Do not fret; I will make sure there is someone to attend to her through the night whilst you rest.”

Éomer pulled the chair closer after Imrahil had gone, propping his elbows on the bed and pulling Éowyn’s hand to his lips. She murmured and moved slightly, but her eyes did not open. And then as he studied her face he caught the glisten of a tear that had been trapped between her long lashes. She was crying in her sleep. “Éowyn,” he whispered. “Éowyn don’t cry, you are safe now and I am here.” Still she did not wake, only turning her head to nuzzle into his hand. He stroked back a few tendrils of hair from her forehead, exposing a thin scar on her hairline. A surge of guilt took him as he recalled how she had come by it: he’d been chasing her down the steps in front of Meduseld after she had annoyed him, as she often did. But in her haste to get away she’d tumbled down the bottom few, landing on the stone path. Fourteen he had been, and had thought her dead then. He still remembered the relief of seeing her opening her eyes.

The old healer – long dead now – had patched her up. His stitches neat even in his dotage. But thank Eru Aragorn had been here this time, his skill evident when he had healed Welwyn. Éomer knew no one else could have drawn Éowyn back from the horrific place she had been taken. Or Faramir! Éomer shuddered with revulsion at the thought of what had nearly happened to him. But how could he blame Denethor when Théoden had all but succumbed to the will-numbing darkness. None should have to face such evil, and whatever Imrahil said, it appalled him that Éowyn had been pitted against a foe so far beyond her strength.

With that Éowyn moved, and he put her hand gently down on the bed. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable, and Éomer tucked up the pillow to give more support to the other arm, the one broken when she had warded off the blow from the huge mace. Satisfied he had eased her, he stood up to stretch, afraid he would fall asleep if he remained sitting, and at that moment a soft knock came at the door. It swung open quietly, and Éomer looked up to see a familiar craggy face. But instead of the jolt of pleasure he normally felt at the sight of Elfhelm, this time his muscles tensed with anger. That emotion shot him the short distance to the door, and his hand connected with Elfhelm’s chest, pushing the Marshal back into the passage.

“Outside,” he spat, only just stopping himself from punching his long time friend in the face.

“Whoa, Éomer. Peace!” Elfhelm held up his hand palm outward.

“Peace!” Éomer hissed. “When you led my sister almost to her death!”

Elfhelm’s eyes clouded and he slowly shook his head. “No. Calm down, and we can talk.”

Releasing his hold on Elfhelm’s tunic, Éomer gestured with his chin toward the side door that led into the garden. He followed Elfhelm through, and once outside took a deliberate deep breath, willing himself to deal rationally with his old mentor. However much he felt betrayed.

The breath calmed him, and out here silence reigned. A blessed relief after the horrendous noises he had been subjected to all day — on the battlefield the terrible squeals of the horses as the pikes got them, and the screams of men, stuck by swords or trampled by mûmakil, had filled his head until he thought it would burst. Then since he had been in this place of healing, the groans and whimpers of the wounded had not given him any peace, invading even Éowyn’s quiet chamber. But out here only the chirp of crickets disturbed the night air. He looked up to the heavens, a star sprinkled canopy that seemed to be hanging just above him. Another breath and his nostrils started tingling, picking up the pungent smell of some unfamiliar herb wafting on the breeze. He sighed; feeling Elfhelm’s eyes on him.

“All right,” he said, surprising himself with his restraint, “tell me why. Why didn’t you send her back? You must have known. A commander knows all who ride with him.”

Another deep sigh, but this time from Elfhelm. “Normally yes, Éomer, I would not deny it. But I swear I did not know she was riding until we entered the woods. No listen,” he said at Éomer’s snort of derision. “I had extra men with me. Some rode in from the Wold without a captain at the last moment, and as my numbers were short after the Fords, they joined with me.  And don’t forget, I didn’t have Déor. He had been given his own command. Had he been with me Éowyn would never had got away with it.  She must have made it undetected for the first few hours and then,” he shrugged, “you know what she’s like: the young ones are in love with her and the old ones in awe. She bullied them all into silence.”

Éomer said nothing, searching Elfhelm’s face. He knew such a man would never lie to him, but his faith had been shaken.

“By the time I found out it was too late.” Elfhelm continued. “What would you have had me do? Send her back to Edoras on her own – or lessen our forces by providing her with an escort?”

“You should have told me.” Éomer said through gritted teeth.

“I know. But she begged me not to. I have never seen her so desperate. And to be honest I thought we were all done for anyway. I had no expectation we would come through even the first battle.”

Éomer ran his hands through his hair, his thoughts in confusion: he knew full well how persuasive his sister could be, but she shouldn’t have been there. And even though she was recovering, the sight of her prostrate on the Pelennor still haunted him. He didn’t want to let it go, but neither did he want to lose a friend. Especially a friend he needed in his new role as king.  Great Béma save him! He was starting to think like a king already – valuing people by their usefulness.  But no, it was not really that, more like deep down he knew he shared some of the blame. If he had not told her so brutally that Aragorn loved another – she might never have been so reckless. “She should not have ridden and you should not have let her,” he declared, but his anger had waned.

“Éomer, I am not making excuses after the event, but think what might have happened had she not. Fate took a hand. Éowyn slew the Witch King! Something no man could have done. Who is to say she should not have ridden.”

“You didn’t know that,” Éomer said, unwilling to admit Elfhelm might be right.

“No. But more than once I made up my mind to tell you or Théoden King, yet something stopped me. It is unlike me, and I feel there may be more to this than we will ever know. Let us be thankful she is recovering, forces are at work here that we cannot understand.”

That was true enough, and Imrahil seemed to think more or less the same. But some kind of miracle would be needed to let them triumph in the next battles.

---------

Prince Imrahil’s House. Minas Tirith.

The first clear sky he had seen for days, and as always the view from the balcony was tremendous. But tonight Amroth deliberately kept his eyes high, shunning the Pelennor way beneath him. Even though much was obscured by the outthrust of the lower levels of the City, he wanted to imagine the fields as they had been before the battle. Afraid that if he looked down now he would see the dark shapes of the mûmakil, their gruesome remains rising like small mountains from a stinking mire. Dead or alive, he never wanted to look upon one again – their crushing feet responsible for the death of so many. So with a grimace of pain he turned and moved stiffly to the southern end of the balcony where he could avoid looking across to the menacing crags of the Ephel Dúath that hid the might of Mordor, and instead gaze out on the Anduin. He let his eyes follow the silver ribbon as it wound its way to the sea. Already news of their victory would be travelling to Dol Amroth down the watery highway.

But ignoring the horror of the day didn’t work, and even shutting his eyes, he couldn’t banish the sights and the memories – men he had known since childhood with their limbs torn off by trolls, or hacked into so many pieces they were barely recognizable. And those he had only just met like Duilin and Derufin, two brave men who had led their bowmen right up to the mûmakil to shoot out their eyes. In another life he would have valued them as friends, but now they were dead. Crushed and flattened into the earth by the stamping feet. Their father would have to return to the Blackroot without his sons, and he would never forget the agony on Duinhir’s face as he searched the battlefield trying to find them…

“I am surprised to see you on your feet.”

Amroth didn’t need to turn around to discover who had joined him: no Gondorian spoke Westron with that particular drawl. “The wound wasn’t bad and they have filled me with some powerful herb, but instead of knocking me out it just makes me feel lightheaded.” He grinned at Éomer, glad of the interruption to his macabre thoughts. “Food helped.”

“I am sure it did.” Éomer grinned back. Coming alongside him and placing two large hands on the stone balustrade, the Rohan King swept his gaze in an arc, taking in the complete vista. “I feel a lot better for partaking of your father’s hospitality.”

Amroth studied him: wearing a tunic of Erchi’s, and having washed the grime from hair and body, he had to be considered a handsome man. But his face was drawn, and his eyes were weary. “I would have thought you’d be getting some sleep. You rode for days and then fought a hard battle.”

“Tried it,” said Éomer, shrugging. “But I’ve got too much on my mind. Your father is the same, he’s gone off somewhere. But your brother Ercri.. ?”

“Erchirion,” Amroth supplied. “We call him Erchi.”

“Yes, well he’s snoring loudly.”

Amroth laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me. Life is very simple for Erchi – fight hard, eat heartily, down a mug of ale, find a wench and sleep.”

That got Éomer laughing. “Don’t know where he found the wench. Apart from the healers, the only woman I’ve seen is the one in your kitchen.”

“Old Niram? Even Denethor’s orders couldn’t make her leave. She hid in the pantry. And I am glad she did. No one makes better tarts. But you are right: Erchi will have to forgo the wenching for a time.”

“He reminds me of Boromir,” Éomer mused.  “A warrior through and through.”

Amroth thought for a moment. “Yes, there is a similarity.  But brothers do not always share the same traits. You have not had chance to get to know Faramir yet, but Boromir is, or was,” he corrected himself with a pang of regret, “very different. Faramir is no less a skilled warrior, but he is also a thinker and a scholar.”

“A bit like you,” Éomer said, eyebrows raised

“Not much of the scholar,” Amroth answered with a grin. “But I suppose I’m not the out and out warrior either. I fight as needed, but it is not the sole reason for my existence, as it was with Boromir and is with Erchi.”

“What do you like doing when you are not warring?” Éomer asked.

“Well, there has been a lot of warring lately. Our coasts have not been free of threat for sometime. But when I can, apart from riding and hunting, I like to sail.”

“Sail? Those huge boats they have berthed at the Harlond?”

Glad to talk about something removed from war Amroth started to explain. “No, small ones, for one or two people. Powered by a sail, which you move around to catch the wind. They skim across the waves very fast. It can be extremely thrilling.”

Éomer looked doubtful. “I know nothing about the sea. I was very surprised when your father told me they were sending some of the wounded to Dol Amroth. I thought wains would have been better.”

“No, not unless the weather is against them. But it will be a few days before Elphir and my sister know the outcome of the battle. A fast boat has left already with news, no horses were fit enough to make the journey.”

“You have a sister? Your father didn’t say.”

No surprise there, it had been a habit not to mention her lest Umar got wind of her whereabouts. But although they did not know it at home yet, Umar was dead, so no harm to tell Éomer. “Yes, Lothíriel. She will be kept busy. She is a very skilled healer and works tirelessly. We have had many battles these last years, so our people have a lot of experience in dealing with wounds.”

“Having seen the healers here, I can’t imagine a high-born lady doing the same job.”

“Lothíriel is different from others.” Amroth replied, unwilling to say too much. He stretched, feeling a great yawn coming on. Suddenly he felt very tired and his side started to ache badly. “She has had many trials to bear and finds solace working with the sick.”

-------------------

Dol Amroth.

She tossed and turned, not able to fall asleep in spite of bones aching with weariness. Finding no rest, Lothíriel pushed back the covers and wriggled her feet around on the floor until they connected with her slippers. She would just sit on the window seat for a while and look at the sea – that usually relaxed her.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, Lothíriel wrapped her arms around her legs and leant back against the worn panelling. Many princesses must have sat in this spot, in both their happy and sad moments. The timeless song of the ocean calmed her as it always did. And what a wonderful clear night, the first for ages.  One could almost forget about war and suffering. But the tranquillity lasted only a short time, as with nowhere else to vent its energy, her mind whirled buried misgivings into a maelstrom of confusion. Dealing with the wounded, both from the fords and the fight against the besiegers, had stopped her thinking about the ridiculous thing she had done, but now the magnitude of her stupidity was laid bare before her. Elphir was right: she would have made the situation far worse by offering herself as a hostage. When had she stopped thinking straight? It seemed that she lost control of her actions anytime that vile pig Umar impinged on her life.

Lothíriel shuddered; her moment of peace shattered. The worst was the killing. She knew she would never forgive herself for that. How could someone with such a gift to heal deliberately take a life? 

No one really understood how she felt about it. And Elphir applauded her actions. If it was safe to travel she’d go and talk to Aunt Ivriniel, the old lady understood most things and they’d always got on. But there was no way Elphir or Sergion would let her go anywhere until the outcome of the war was known. She’d just have to put it from her mind, hide her doubts in an enveloping blanket of work, until there was no room in her life for anything else.

At peace again, Lothíriel stared up at the stars – so many of them, glittering in an inky sky. When she was a child she used to try and count them, but had usually fallen asleep after the first few dozen. She’d wake up in her bed, her father or one of her brothers having been summoned to lift her.

Lothíriel gasped as a shooting star burst into glory, its fiery trail blazing a pathway across the heavens. What were they doing now: her father, Erchi and Amroth? Were they safe? Had the battle been won or lost?  The unclouded sky must have some meaning, but for once she could see nothing; no clue came to her as to Gondor’s fate.

To be continued.

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar -                    Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel. Killed on the Pelennor by King Théoden of Rohan.

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Niram-                  Old cook in Prince Imrahil’s house in Minas Tirith.

ROHAN:

Déor-                       Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. A Rider in Elfhelm’s éored, given his own command for the Battle of the Pelennor.

Bergit -                Daughter of the horse-breeder, Egbert. Raped by orcs when her family’s camp was attacked. Later married Edwick and bore him two children – Éomund and Félewyn. Started a relationship with Éomer after her husband was crippled. Killed by orcs in a raid on the village of Eastfeld.

Welwyn-                Daughter to Erkenbrand and Winfrith. Wounded in the Battle of Helm’s Deep and healed by Aragorn.

Chapter 20

March 21^st. 3019

And when they had reckoned up all their strength and taken thought for the journeys they should make and the roads they should choose, Imrahil suddenly laughed aloud.

‘Surely,’ he cried, ‘this is the greatest jest in all the history of Gondor: that we should ride with seven thousands, scarce as many as the vanguard of its army in the days of its power, to assail the mountains and the impenetrable gate of the Black Land! So might a child threaten a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow! If the Dark Lord knows so much as you say, Mithrandir, will he not rather smile than fear, and with his little finger crush us like a fly that tries to sting him?’

‘No, he will try to trap the fly and take the sting,’ said Gandalf. ‘And there are names among us that are worth more than a thousand mail-clad knights apiece. No, he will not smile.’

‘Neither shall we,’ said Aragorn. ‘If this be jest, then it is too bitter for laughter. Nay, it is the last move in a great jeopardy, and for one side or the other it will bring the end of the game.’ Then he drew Andúril and held it up glittering in the sun. ‘You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought;’ he said.

The Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

Dol Amroth.

The maid approached the room reluctantly, opened the door, and peeked into the darkened chamber. “Princess, Princess, wake up!” she called softly. The quilt didn’t move, so Hisael padded over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The morning light flooded the chamber, but still the girl in the bed did not wake. Hisael sighed, and leant over, reaching out to gently shake her mistress.

Lothíriel woke with a start. Pushing the covers back, she immediately swung her legs over the side of the bed. “What time is it, Hisael?” she cried out in a panic, seeing the bright light outside. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long enough. Barely three hours. There must have been a fair wind because the ship arrived on the first flush of the tide. I did not wish to wake you, Princess but you made me promise. You were up all night. I am sure the Master will not mind if you sleep a little longer.” Her maid chattered on as she poured warm water into the basin.

“Maybe he won’t,” Lothíriel agreed. “But I will mind a great deal.”

Lothíriel ignored the water for a moment and ran to the window. She could see the great ship berthed at the docks below the city. It had once been a Corsair ship, but now an ensign bearing the White Tree of Gondor flew proudly from the mast. Lines of wains were already lining up along the dockside ready to take off the wounded and the dying.

So many of them. But the decision to send a large portion of the battle casualties back to Dol Amroth had been a good one. The Healing Houses in Minas Tirith could not possibly have coped with the vast numbers of the injured. Most of the men coming back were from the southern fiefs. It eased the burden if relatives could help with the nursing of those that survived. This was the third ship to arrive, and Lothíriel was drained and fatigued by the long hours of grisly work. She might have been helping in the Healing House for many years now, but nothing had prepared her for this: the carnage, the stench, the sheer horror of seeing their soldiers and knights so cruelly maimed, not to mention young farmers and fishermen who should never have had to go to war.

She left the window, and quickly washed her face, hands and neck. There was no time for more.

“You must have something to eat before you go down again, Princess,” her maid said as she handed her a cup and some bread. “It will do nobody any good if you faint from hunger.”

Lothíriel drank the tea and managed a few mouthfuls of bread before donning a clean apron and rushing out of the room. The first wain had already arrived by the time she entered the Healing House.

She walked straight through the hall to what they called their clean room, stopping to wash her hands outside. The Master was replacing a dressing on a large wound in a young soldier’s chest. He looked up when he heard her enter and acknowledged her presence with a slight nod. Lothíriel looked at him expectantly and he gestured to another young lad who lay on a nearby table. He was moaning softly to himself, taking no interest in his surroundings but she could not see an obvious wound. Putting her hand upon his head she whispered soft words in what was to most a forgotten tongue. He quietened immediately: once again she thanked the Valar for her gift. With the upset of the siege, and her lapse from grace, she had feared it might be taken from her. But the power still tingled in her hands.

Lothíriel ran her fingers gently down his legs. There was no response, so she tweaked his toes and then pulled harder, but he did not move. She scratched on the soles of his feet, but still he made no movement. She sighed; no gift however skilfully wielded could heal this malady. How ever would a farming lad survive with a broken back?

Lothíriel worked on. Cleaning, stitching, comforting until her mind and body were numb, leaving no room for worrying about herself, the only important thing to try to give relief to others. Gradually the day waned. The young farming lad died. He had not even tried to fight. As she leant over to close his eyes she heard her name being called softly. Looking up she saw her brother, Elphir, standing in the doorway, worry etched on his face.

 “Lothíriel, I need your help,” he whispered.

“Now?”

“Please. It’s important.”

Accepting this, she nodded and went to excuse herself to the Master, before following her brother from the room.

Elphir waited for her in the passage outside and together they crossed the square towards the palace gates, threading their way through the mass of people. Relatives of those injured crowded the city, some were sitting around and some lying in open wagons. Luckily the weather was fair.

“What do you want, Elphir? Has something happened?” she asked when they reached the relative peace of the palace.

“I have had a letter from Father. It came with a fast supply boat on this evening’s tide. No more casualties,” he put in quickly, seeing her expression. “I think there is another ship due in the morning, but it will be mostly carrying convalescents.” He took hold of her arm. “I realize how exhausted you are, but I know the letter is important. Pelilas carried it personally, and Father made him swear to destroy it at even a sight of the Enemy.  I need you to translate it for me. It would take me hours as you know.”

They reached the door of the study at the same time as a servant carrying a tray of food -soup, bread, cheese and fruit. Elphir waited for the man to leave the room and then took the letter from his pocket and handed to her. Whilst she was looking at it he passed her a goblet of wine.

“You must eat and drink first,” he insisted. “I doubt you have had anything all day.”

“Only water,” she agreed, “but I am not really hungry.”

“You must be. Come on, Lothíriel. You must eat something.  Try some soup.” He moved the small table nearer to her and handed her a spoon.

Lothíriel began to eat, not even tasting what she was putting in her mouth. She scanned the letter at the same time. It was written in the form of ancient elvish peculiar to the House of Dol Amroth, passed down through the ruling family and a very few trusted scribes. Its main value was, as now, to keep messages from prying eyes. Lothíriel had picked up the language easily; as had her father and Amrothos, but Elphir and Erchirion struggled.

She put down her spoon and gave full attention to the letter. After a few moments she looked up at her brother who was sitting waiting in his chair, fingers tapping the polished wood.

“I will read it to you, Elphir,” she said. “Only I wish I did not have to.”

She read it in a flat voice, trying to divorce her mind from the contents, otherwise she would falter and breakdown. Elphir needed her to be strong.

‘To My Son Elphir,

This may be the last time I speak to you, my son, for I feel that we are at the end of our time. The first battle is won, yes, but the Dark Lord has not yet released the armies that lie behind his gates.

We held council, the Lord Aragorn, Mithrandir, Éomer of Rohan, the sons of Elrond and I. Mithrandir has counselled that we, the Captains of the West, should lead an army right to the Black Gates of Mordor. We will assault Sauron in his lair with a force of seven thousand.’

There was a gasp from Elphir at this, but Lothíriel read on.

‘Elphir – remember Eärnil!

Lothíriel stopped, confused. “What’s this about Eärnil?” But her brother unexpectedly grinned.

“He was one of Gondor’s greatest generals. For his deeds they made him king,” Elphir reminded her. “Many times we have played his strategies on the big table.  He was master of the diversion. When the Haradrim massed at the Poros during the war with the wainriders, Eärnil sent out a small force to lure them, and once across, his real strength bridged the Anduin in barges and came behind.”

“Oh, I see. So you think this march is a diversion?”

“It has to be. Seven thousand cannot possible attack the armies of Mordor.”

“But from where comes the real threat?”

Elphir shook his head. “I do not know. Read the rest, maybe Father has given us some other clue.”

Lothíriel dropped her eyes back down to the letter.

‘Lord Aragorn stands beside Mithrandir in this, and I will follow their lead. Aragorn is Elendil’s heir and thus I count him my liege.  You have met him, so you know that there is no man as truehearted and noble.      

Éomer will follow him also, they are as brothers. I envy them, for they share that special bond that comes only when men stand side by side, unfaltering, against overwhelming odds.

Elladan and Elrohir will also go, because this, I think, is their father’s plan conceived by him and Mithrandir in Rivendell many months ago. Remember the riddle Boromir rode to his death to unravel.’

Lothíriel paused, seeing the look of puzzlement cross Elphir’s face. By now she had a fair idea what most of the riddle meant – the libraries of Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth were extensive – although Isildur’s bane still eluded her. “You said Boromir died defending Halflings, but none were with Lord Aragorn when you met him at the fords. A Halfling forth shall stand, the riddle said. So where are they?” she mused.

“A Halfling!” he snorted. “Are you telling me a Halfling is assaulting the Dark Lord whilst our forces draw his eye?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what the riddle says.”

“Well, I suppose if one is creeping up to Sauron, dagger in hand, he’s less likely to be noticed than a full-sized man,” Elphir scoffed.

Lothíriel did not react to that. She had already read the next line and had to blink back the tears. “Listen to what Father says, Elphir.”

‘I have little expectation of retuning, but if by our sacrifice there is a faint hope of survival for the free peoples of Middle-earth, then I gladly give my life.

Erchirion is coming with me, but Amroth is staying in Minas Tirith, as he received a scratch that still needs attention. He will help control the City with Elfhelm of Rohan and Hùrin of Gondor. Your cousin Faramir lies in the Houses of Healing but will recover.

If we are lost, but Sauron is destroyed, then I know, my son that our country is in good hands. If Sauron is victorious all will be dark. You must do as you think fit. To fight to the last or to run in the hope that some shall be saved. I cannot decide for you.

Elphir, you must promise me this: Lothíriel must not be taken. Umar may be gone, but there are many others like him. I have seen their evil. Whatever they promise, however they bargain, do not let them have my daughter.

Sergion knows what to do.

By the time you read this letter we shall be well on our way. Say goodbye from me to our family.

I love you all.

Imrahil.

Lothíriel put the letter down onto her lap; as yet, with the terrible injuries they had had to deal with, Umar’s death had barely registered with her. She had always thought she would rejoice if it happened, but up to now she had felt nothing. Too many other fears had taken her attention. Her hand unconsciously strayed to the locket that she wore hidden beneath her dress. Elphir moved across to her and taking the letter threw it into the fire.

“I am sorry, Lothíriel. If I had known its contents I would not have asked you to read it,” he put his hand on her shoulder and she reached up for it.

“But we needed to try and work out what it meant.”

He nodded. “That’s true. But I fear that for all their manoeuvrings, there is little hope.”

“None…?” She asked, the fear making her voice crack.

Elphir grimaced, but he squeezed her hand. “We must not give up yet. But at the same time we must make plans in case the West does fall.”

She lifted her head, seeking his eyes. “Father and I decided my course long ago.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We came to an understanding, Elphir, before he rode to war, that whatever happened I would never be taken. I might have foolishly decided to give myself up to the Haradrim, but I never intended to live for very long.” With that she pulled at the barrel-shaped locket from around her neck and held it up for him to see. His eyes opened wide and his mouth opened.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Hemlock. I prepared it as soon as father left. I couldn’t let the responsibility rest with Sergion.”

“Sergion! He was in on this?”

“What if Umar hadn’t been killed, and had come here leading a great force? Do you think Sergion would have handed me over? Would you?”

“Father should have told me.” Elphir sunk back in the chair, his healthy complexion greying with revulsion and disbelief.

“There was no need with you gone to the Fords. Did any of us really expect Gondor to triumph? Do we expect it?”

“I don’t know,” Elphir replied slowly. “So much has happened that was not expected. But we will have to plan for the worst.”

“What will you do?”

“My instinct is to fight,” he replied. With that he stood up, punching one hand into the other. Resolution in his step, he strode to the window resting his hands on the sill and gazing out. Then his shoulders slumped. “But where? It is a difficult decision. If I take the able bodied into the mountains, what of the others? I would be leaving them to the mercy of monsters. But the city is vulnerable to siege …”

“I would not want that again,” Lothíriel put in quickly.

“No, and I imagine a small number of us could hold out for some time if we took horses and travelled North, as you suggested. But it could only be a small number. And although I would wish do my best to get Alphros away, I cannot forsake our people.”

Lothíriel knew he would never do that. “I do not think there is an answer, so we must hope that the decision does not have to be made.”

There was a pause, brother and sister deep in thought. “Lothíriel,” he fought for words, “that which you wear around your neck, will you give some to Meren if it goes ill?”

She stood up and hugged against him. “It may not come to it.”

Elphir felt her sway slightly and just stopped her from falling to the floor by scooping her into his arms. Making for the door he realised that she had fallen completely asleep, just like she used to when she was a child. Sighing to himself, he remembered the times her maid had called him to carry her to bed when she’d worn herself out. But it was hardly surprising that she had collapsed now, considering how hard she had been working, and with shock and fear to add to the exhaustion.

Elphir negotiated the door with his burden to meet his wife coming along the passage. She looked so pretty and sweet, and he felt a surge of love for her, but it was closely followed by a bolt of fear.  How could he tell her about what he had asked Lothíriel to provide? And Alphros – what about him? Would he have the strength if all they feared came to pass?

Meren’s face softened when she realised Lothíriel was asleep. “I will call her maid,” she said touching her on the cheek and pushing some hair from her eyes. “She should not have worked for so long.”

Elphir nodded. Wanting to put down his sister and hug his wife to him, but instead he just smiled at her. “Please ask Sergion and Adian to come to me, and then go and rest yourself.” He watched her retreating figure longingly, and wondered if there was any hope of protecting any of them.

---------------

Road to the Black Gate.

‘The King Elessar has returned and all this land that is his, he takes back.’  Three times a day the trumpets blared and the heralds bellowed their message into the gloom. If that didn’t make Sauron think Aragorn came with the confidence of the Ring-bearer, nothing would, but so far the dark cliffs that edged the land of shadow remained silent. Éomer shuddered; what wouldn’t he have given to be back on the rolling plains, galloping Firefoot through the spring grass. Or even routing the orc army in Anórien with Elfhelm would be better. Four days out from Minas Tirith and the slow pace and inactivity, coupled with the growing weight of evil, sunk him deep into the saddle and wound tendrils of doubt through his mind. Only a fool would not believe they were riding to their doom. 

He cast his eyes to the left; there the trees still fought for life, buds preparing to thrust young leaves into the noisome air, and with meagre rays filtering through the open canopy, the determined sun encouraged the spiky leaves of bluebells to a worthy effort. But on the eastward side only a few dark bushes clung to the harsh slopes of the Ephel Dúath, the rocky crags rising like the walls of some fearsome fortress, its battlements wreathed in smoke and mist that hovered threateningly in the heavy atmosphere.

Beside him Aragorn was silent, riding with his head down and his thoughts veiled, but suddenly the ranger looked up sharply as if some change in the air had caught his attention. Éomer felt it too, the back of his neck tingling as his senses registered an unseen movement. Quickly he scanned the trees, searching for any hidden menace. At first he saw nothing, but then what he thought was a shadow behind a tree moved into an open glade. His hand flew to his sword hilt, but before he could react further the shadow materialized into a man, cloaked and hooded and in green. Swiftly he leaped down to the road, followed by another.

Éomer relaxed, waving a greeting. Their scouts returning – Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir’s men – great bows slung on their backs they covered the ground with long strides. Their leader, coming to a halt before Aragorn, nodded his head in a gesture of respect. 

“Lord, foul Orcs and Easterlings have set a trap. They hide on the slopes a league hence, where the road cuts through a deep ravine. Their intention must be to harry your leading companies. We worked our way above them, but there were not enough of us to attack. Captain Mablung suggests,” his eyes flicked to Éomer and then back to Aragorn, “you send a force of horsemen around to the west and assault their flank from behind. He will meet you at the top of that gulley,” he pointed to where a stream chattered through a rocky channel between the trees, “just below the ridge.”

Éomer gathered his reins, already working out whom he would take, but the quiet amusement in Aragorn’s voice stopped him.

“Éomer, you don’t have to go. Send a captain you trust.”

But he wanted to go! Anything would be better than this slow, hopeless march.

-------------

The horsemen returned just before all light left the sky. Unlike his young friend, Imrahil hadn’t felt the need to ride personally. He’d been happy to send Erchirion and some of his knights under Éomer’s command. Watching him ride in now, at the head of a mixed group of mounted warriors, Imrahil almost chuckled aloud: Éomer’s eyes were alight for the first time in days. “No need to ask what happened,” he said as the Rohan King slid from his stallion in front of him and Aragorn, looking as though he had just enjoyed a pleasant country ride, “your face says it all.”

“Trounced them!” Éomer grinned. “And only a few minor wounds.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “They are coming behind.”

“I will tend them before supper,” Aragorn said. “But let us not get too elated over one small victory. I guess our enemy only tries to encourage us further into his lair by false account of his weakness.”

Éomer’s face lost its vitality, and his brows drew together. “You are right, of course. But every stinking orc killed now is one less to deal with later.”

“I’ll second that,” said Erchi, who had dismounted behind Éomer. “And it damn well beats shouting useless threats into the air.”

Imrahil winced. In spite of a noble upbringing, tact and diplomacy had managed to completely ignore his middle son. But their new Liege-lord’s guffaw of laughter caused those nearby to look around in surprise. Aragorn slapped Erchirion across the back. “I can promise you plenty of chance to make good those threats, my intrepid friend.”

A small victory, perhaps, but it signalled a shift in the enemy’s position, for as they sat at supper a wailing cry shrieked high above them. The first heard since the siege of Minas Tirith. There was not one, other than the elves amongst them, and Mithrandir maybe, who did not blanch from the howl of that foul messenger. Imrahil noticed that even Elendil’s heir wrapped his cloak tighter around him.  But as no more was heard, one by one the men relaxed again, huddling around the fires or crawling into their bedrolls to rest when they had the chance. 

However, during the next days when every stride of a booted foot, and every clip of a warhorse’s hoof, took them farther from living lands and into desolation, the wraiths flew high above them. Silent and out of sight from all but Legolas they might be, but so terrible was their aura of evil, and the land through which the host travelled so full of horror and hopelessness, that fear tugged at the will of all, turning the strongest men’s minds to wretchedness and despair.

Six days out from Minas Tirith, their force had lessened in numbers as many young men, far from home and comfort, had fallen down in fright, begging to leave. And even the Captains struggled to maintain their facade of hope. But seeking to chase away the swelling misery, Aragorn ordered large fires to be lit that evening with the plentiful fuel that lay around. Once fair forests had clothed this land, but now trees rotted into the barren earth, their branches scattered like forgotten limbs in the aftermath of battle.

But none seemed to want to sleep in this cheerless land. As though afraid their dreams would slay them in this evil spot, they sat in groups talking quietly of places they had been and seen, and of times when laughter and joy were remembered.

Imrahil leant back against a rock, half listening to the conversation going on next to him. Aragorn and Éomer were discussing the ranger’s early life and his sojourns in Rohan. Looking around the camp his eyes rested on Mithrandir, who although talking to Gimli had the young Halfling at his feet, shielding him from the dark emptiness that stretched out behind the protection of the fires. Imrahil had heard the tale of the seeing-stone and guessed that the nearer they got to the Dark Lord’s domain, the more Pippin would relive his brush with pure evil. 

Nearby the three elves sat together cross-legged on the ground, talking so quietly only another elf would hear what was being said. Over to his right a group of warriors from Dol Amroth and Rohan sat in a rough circle, and occasionally a loud laugh would come from one of them. Erchirion was amongst them, and he and the Rohan captain, Déor, were in deep conversation. An unlikely combination Imrahil acknowledged – the Rohir elegant and neat, giving every impression of a cultured and privileged upbringing, and his own son looking somehow disorderly, as though he marched with the armies rather than led them. Smiling to himself at the vagaries of life, he heard the words ‘Rivendell’ and ‘Elrond’ from beside him, which awakened his interest, and he turned slightly. Éomer must have felt the shift in his position because he moved so that Imrahil could join in.

“Aragorn has been telling me about Rivendell. For years they kept his real identity from him. I am now hoping he is going to tell me about Elrond’s daughter. Talking about a beautiful woman will chase the shadows away.”

“Oh,” Aragorn raised an eyebrow, “how do you know she is beautiful?”

Éomer grinned. “Intuition,” he answered, winking at Imrahil before probing Aragorn again. “So, is she fair of face and dark-haired like her brothers?”         

Aragorn said nothing, only his eyes registering the question. Imrahil didn’t think he would answer but then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly in a long sigh. His face twisted into a lopsided grin. “Arwen is so beautiful that when I first saw her I thought I had stepped into a dream and Lúthien again walked on Middle-earth.” His eyes glazed and Imrahil waited, not having expected such an adoring response. “Her hair shines as black as a star-filled night, and her skin glows like sunlight. And when she walks she floats on air, the soft folds of her gowns trembling like flower petals in the breeze. …”

…Her dress had been blue, and she had glided across the hall towards him, Imrahil lost the rest of Aragorn’s words as memories of his late wife grabbed his mind. So alive in the early days, with sparkling eyes and hair an ebony cloak that framed her pale cheeks to fall streaming down her back. Lovely, and loved, she had been, and he cherished every moment they had spent together. But then the picture clouded as an image of their daughter drifted across his thoughts. When he had last seen her, the morning of his departure to war, she had looked as grey as a foggy morning: her wonderful hair scraped back into a tight plait and the dull linen of her healer’s dress effectively covering any hint of her womanly curves. A great sadness overwhelmed him, quickly replaced by a flame of anger: even if they got out of this mess would he ever see Lothíriel floating on air in a beautiful gown, hands stretched out to greet her husband? He doubted it. Deep in his heart he knew the years of torment from Umar had damaged her.  And only the Valar knew what havoc the siege had wreaked on her equanimity. Some others might be flattered to be harried and chased for their beauty, but not Lothíriel. His daughter too sensitive and high-minded to wish to be valued only for her good looks. 

But suddenly his attention was caught again by a loud gasp from Éomer. “Aragorn!” The young king looked totally amazed. “Say that again.”

Another of Aragorn’s engaging grins. “Elrond will not let me marry Arwen unless I hold both the sceptre of Arnor and the crown of Gondor. He feels he cannot let her relinquish the gift of immortality to wed with any lesser man.”

The reaction of new Lord of the Mark to this confidence lightened the air of even this grim place. Imrahil relished the coming of the inevitable response, watching the palate of emotions — disbelief; incredulity; horror, to name but a few – cross Éomer’s features. 

Saying nothing for a moment, Éomer took a sip from the cup he had been cradling and stared at the Heir of Elendil from over the rim, fixing intense blue eyes on him. “So, you are telling me, Aragorn, that we are camped in this hellhole, preparing to act as stool-pigeons to lure the Dark Lord from his lair, all for the love of a woman?”

Aragorn’s lips twitched. “Not exactly. It is for her father that I have to gain the Crown of Gondor. Arwen’s heart, I already hold in troth.”

Éomer put his lips to the cup a second time, his brow furrowing in thought. “It seems a great deal of effort to go to. I hope she is worth it.”

“Oh yes,” Aragorn nodded, and a beatific smile lit his face.  “She is worth it.”

Éomer frowned, but did not answer, and Aragorn reached over to refill his cup. “Do I gather, my young friend that making any exertion to secure a woman is something out of the ordinary to you?”

The lazy, characteristic smile that lit up the Rohir’s face warmed Imrahil more than any blaze could do in that desolate spot. He laughed aloud, appreciating Éomer’s fun, as the young king raised one mobile eyebrow and held up his little finger, twisting it around to make dancing shadows in the firelight.

March 25^th 3019

The Black Gate Opens.

Folly had brought them to this forsaken place. Great mounds of slag rose up amidst pools of reeking vileness, the earth spewing forth all its evil in a fetid sludge. What could they do here? Only play out the game until the last, and hope that somewhere a player would roll the dice their way.

Bravely the banners flapped their challenge, the trumpets pierced the air with threats, and the heralds raised their voices high over the battlements to where the Nazgûl waited like great, black vultures, knowing their time was near.

Suddenly a drum started to throb back its answer, the dreaded message echoing around the hills. Horns bellowed, assaulting their ears with a terrible cacophony of warning.  And the gates clanged open.

The space between the great bastions of iron was just enough to let out a horseman and escort. Éomer blanched; he had never seen anything so revolting in his life. The most hideous orc had nothing on the abomination in front of him. He whispered an aside to Imrahil, “Is it a man?”

“I think so,” the prince replied under his breath.

So malformed and altered by service to Sauron, its claim to human form remained only as a shadow on the edge of reason. Screwing up his face in disgust, Éomer flicked his eyes to the hideous horse the messenger was riding, and his stomach contracted with revulsion - a travesty of a noble animal, with a skull for a head, and huge nostrils from which flames issued, licking greedily at horny lips. Éomer caught his breath, his anger a dam waiting to burst. Was this mockery an original creation of the Dark Lord’s, or had Sauron taken one of the Mark’s fine steeds and turned it into this vile rendition?

‘I am the mouth of Sauron’ the words came dripping out of the rider’s mouth like liquid venom. Éomer could hardly bear to look at the thing, and tried to close his ears to the back and forth goading that followed between it and Gandalf — it being normal to test the strength of adversaries with words.  As the loathsome creature started to lambast the wizard scornfully his hand gripped his sword, wanting to slice that stinking head from its body. But before he could move the Messenger took a bundle, passed to him by one of his aids. Extracting a small sword, he shook the rest of the bundle out for all to see.

The grey cloak and elven-broach Éomer immediately recognised as a match to those worn by Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas when he had first met them, but he had never seen the miniature mail-coat that the foul creature held up with such assurance.

Pippin had, though. “Frodo!” he gasped.

Éomer realised the garments must belong to the hobbit in whom they had put their faith, because Pippin grasped his sword hilt, leaping forward with a cry of anguish.

 “Silence!” Gandalf ordered, thrusting him back.

“Hold!” Prince Imrahil whispered fiercely, and caught his arm, steadying him after the wizard’s abrupt thwarting of his action. Encased in his own misery, eyes fixed on the shining mail-shirt, Pippin trembled uncontrollably at the contempt that uttered from so depraved a mouth.

‘Live under the control of Mordor...!’  Éomer listened to the demands with increasing fury. Never! Neither would any of his people – they would fight to the last woman and child. He looked at Aragorn willing him to respond, but without warning Gandalf moved. From his raised hand came a blade of pure, white light that dazzled the black mouth of Mordor. “These we will take,” he cried, and snatched coat, cloak and sword. “In memory of our friend.”

Éomer felt like cheering, but now the wrath of Sauron would fall on them!  Rage contorted the face of the Messenger. He bared his black teeth, threats spitting from his filthy lips.  Not a man, but a wild beast set on devouring his prey.

Trumpets blared! The emissary turned sharply, galloping back to the gate. It swung wide, and from its yawing pit a mighty army marched out.  Then, as the captains remounted, Easterlings emerged from their hiding place in the shadows of the towers, and great hosts of orcs poured down from the slag hills, screaming their hate.

Surrounded! Totally surrounded! Even when he had spied the Black Ships coming up to the Harlond, Éomer had not felt so desperate. He drew his sword, and his mind flew to Éowyn: had she been saved only to die as the darkness overtook them all. No! He would not believe it! He would never believe it whilst he still had breath!

The first slice of his sword clove an orc’s head clean from its body, so great was his anger. He plunged Gúthwinë into the guts of another, but then so many foes were around him that all he could do was to swing wide to keep them away, darting in when chance allowed, taking off an arm or slicing into an exposed neck. How long? How long could he keep this up – his shoulder on fire and sweat pouring into his eyes? A Nazgûl cried overhead, and at that moment he slipped.  But as he rolled to the ground, thrusting his sword upwards in a frantic bid to protect himself, he heard a voice shouting.

‘The eagles are coming. The eagles are coming!’

---

To be continued

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Umar -                    Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel.

Princess Meren -   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Hisael -                 Lothíriel’s maid.    

Pelilas -                 A captain of Dol Amroth

ROHAN:

Déor-                       Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. A Rider in Elfhelm’s éored, given his own command for the Battle of the Pelennor.

Chapter 21

Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more in a clear voice:

‘Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.’

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness sprang into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, a long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

‘The realm of Sauron is ended!’ said Gandalf. ‘The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.’

From The Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

March 25^th 3019

Dol Amroth.

“Watch out, Princess!”

Lothíriel jumped out of the way as a loaded cart rumbled past her, gathering speed and careering down the slope towards the gates. Unable to do more than shout, she watched helplessly as two children dove for safety. Her heart thumping, Lothíriel gasped as they rolled away from the heavy wheels, leaving the set of knucklebones they had been playing with to be crushed to dust. The cart continued unabashed, smashing into the wall to the left of the gate. With splinters of woods flying like darts, it collapsed on its side, spilling heavy bolts of canvas over the cobbles. The two men chasing it stopped and stared, dismay smeared over their red faces –  that cart would be going nowhere for a while.

The children ran off, no doubt to recount their narrow escape to others. Shaking her head, Lothíriel continued her journey to the wall, only relieved that no one had been injured. A strange day – she had been restless ever since she had woken, noticing the air humming with something other than just the terror of the citizens.

Of course her father’s involvement in the march to the Black Gates couldn’t be kept a secret. The convalescents arriving on the last ship had brought word of the departure of the armies of the west to Mordor. Soon the whole city had known of the attempt to take war right up to the Dark Tower. And most thought it futile. Tales of the hideous orcs, the Nazgûl and the huge trolls circulated, growing with the telling, no doubt, but it had caused panic. Then the decision Elphir had been agonising over was taken out of his hands when a deputation of elders put forward the wishes of the citizens. They wanted to leave. Migrate north and take a chance on finding a new land. What land? Her brother had argued. No land would be safe if Sauron were victorious. ‘Better than staying here like rats in a trap,’ they said. Lothíriel had sympathy with that view, being incarcerated behind stone walls with the hordes of Mordor braying outside horrified her. Run or fight? Many wanted to run, saying they preferred to take the chance. And others favoured fighting. Now they were going to try doing both!

Studying the maps had led Elphir to believe that going north was useless, and that the only faint chance for survival for more than a few weeks was to cross the Ered Nimrais near its western edge, and settle on the slopes that bordered the uninhabited land of Drúwaith Iaur. Hiding in the mountains gave them some chance of fighting a hit and run defence and no doubt others would join them, both from Edhellond and the villages in Langstrand as they passed through. Another advantage was that they would not have to leave the infirm behind, as those who could not walk or ride the great distance would travel by ship with the bulk of their supplies. With any luck the two different parties would meet up where the mountains sprawled into the sea.

It sounded good, and everyone was happier now a decision had been made. And it kept the citizens busy organising themselves for the long trek. But if they could take ships up there, so could the enemy. And Lothíriel was sure that Elphir had little hope of many lasting until winter, let alone through it. But what else could he do? What could any of them do? But better to hope a few would survive somewhere in a hidden valley, eking out an existence until the world changed, than think the whole of middle-earth given over to darkness.  

Lothíriel ran up the steps and along the battlements, stopping a moment when she saw two familiar figures looking out over the wall. Elphir and Sergion were staring east.

“What is it?” she asked, coming up alongside them and following their gaze. High in the eastern sky, streaked across the heavens, was a huge cloud. It was dispersing in front of her eyes but she could swear the wispy tendrils looked like long fingers clutching at something unseen.

“Not sure,” Elphir replied, his brow creasing with concern. “The watchman called us when he first spotted it, but by the time we got here it was breaking up.”

“It’s gone so quiet,” Lothíriel said, moving closer to him. “As if the very air has stilled. Even the gulls have stopped their squawking.” In fact she could hear no birds at all, and at this time of the year the fields and woods usually rang with song. “Something must have happened. But I don’t feel any evil.”

Elphir put his arm around her shoulder. “We will just have to be prepared…”

 “Wave!”

The shout from the watchtower drew their eyes away from the sky and to the sea. A mile out they saw a huge crest racing towards the shore. Immediately the great bell started tolling out a warning.  Lothíriel looked west along the long beach to where a group of fishermen had already started running, leaving their nets in the surf. Unable to do anything, she watched the churning water chase them up towards the pinewoods, but the slope of the sand swallowed most of the force and only foam swirled around their feet as they hugged the trees.  Relieved, she dropped her eyes to the harbour below the city, seeing the masts of the ships still rocking from side to side where the water had surged over the breakwater.

“Great Ulmo,” Elphir breathed. “What caused that?”

“It has to be connected to that cloud.” Sergion said. “But whether it bodes good or ill I guess we will have to wait to find out.”

The strange cloud had nearly disappeared and the sea was flat calm again. The clanging of the bell ceased, leaving just an echo in an otherwise silent landscape. It seemed as if everything had stopped. No one spoke, they just waited. And then, clear and shrill, its sweet song piercing the air, a skylark rose up from the home paddock. Hovering right in front of them, it sang out its praise of life.  A thrush called from the bushes hedging the road, and the thin piping of the oystercatchers could be heard as a small flock wheeled along the shoreline.  Gradually the normal sounds of spring were returning.

Elphir sighed. “Whatever it was, it is gone. I must get back to work. There are so many preparations to make that my head is spinning. And as I make them, I am hoping every moment that we do not have to go.”

“You regret agreeing to this flight?” Sergion asked.

“I don’t think it matters. If the Dark Lord triumphs, staying or going will make no difference.” His face twisted into a sardonic grimace. “But it is giving everyone hope, and who am I to deny them that.”

Sergion went to leave with him, but half turned when he realised Lothíriel was not following. “Are you coming down?”

“No, I will stay here for a while. I have a few hours off duty.” Once they had gone Lothíriel walked along to one of the seats built into a niche in the inner wall, sat down in the corner leaning her head against the cold stone and closed her eyes. Sleep had been very scarce lately and the sun was warm on her face…

Clang! Clang! Clang! Lothíriel jumped up, disorientated for a moment by the noise, and being so suddenly woken. The bell! They were ringing the bell again!  How long had she been asleep? Sweet Elbereth! The sun was already westering. Fully awake now, but with stiff muscles groaning a protest, she ran to the parapet. Just along from her two guards had bows in their hands.

“What is it?” she called, seeing nothing to shoot at.

“Something huge in the sky,” one answered her.

“It’s an eagle,” someone else shouted. “A great eagle!”

Lothíriel looked up, unable to believe what she was seeing. The eagle was still a distance away but it must be huge, surely a bird from legend. She flew to the nearest guard, grasping his arm desperately. “Put the bow down! History tells us Eagles have always been the friends of men. Put it down!” He lowered his bow reluctantly, and so did the man next to him. At that moment Elphir appeared, panting.

“What now?”

“An Eagle, Elphir. Tell them not to shoot.”

Elphir stared at the gigantic bird, which hovered way above them, and then at Lothíriel.

“It must be a friend, Elphir.”

Nodding, he gave the order for all bows to be put down and immediately the Eagle swooped towards them. At it neared, its yellow beak opened and those on the wall stood mesmerized as it started speaking in the language of Gondor.

Sing now, ye people of Belfalas
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of Dol Amroth
for your struggle hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your Prince hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell in Gondor
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and all  his realm shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

---------------------

The Field of Cormallen – where the host was now encamped was near to Henneth Annûn, and the stream that flowed from its falls could be heard in the night as it rushed down through its rocky gate, and passed through the flowery meads into the tides of Anduin by the Isle of Cair Andros. And all made ready for the return to Minas Tirith. The weary rested and the hurt were healed. For some had laboured and fought much with the remnants of the Easterlings and Southrons, until all were subdued. And, latest of all, those returned who had passed into Mordor and destroyed the fortresses in the north of the land.

FromThe Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

6^th April 3019

The quill scratched, and he had made a blot. Not his best effort. Éomer leant back into a chair that would have graced Meduseld, let alone a tented pavilion after a great battle. But feeling increasing discomfort he rubbed his shoulder, at the same time reaching out for his goblet of rich wine. The pain of the simple action made him wince.

Imrahil, sitting across the carved table, noticed straight away. “Éomer, when are you going to get that shoulder attended to? You are even having difficulty writing that letter.”

Difficulty finding what to say in the letter. How could he put down all that had happened on a piece of parchment? He wanted Éowyn here, the sooner the better. “The healers are all busy,” he answered his friend. “Too busy to bother about a minor injury like this. It’s just a strained muscle.”

Imrahil pursed his lips, frowning thoughtfully. “Strained muscles don’t cause that amount of pain. Why don’t you ask Aragorn to give you his opinion?” 

Éomer shook his head, irritably giving up on the letter. “He is still taken up with Frodo and Sam. He says they are near waking, and he is hoping we can hold the honour ceremony for them in a couple of days. I have no intention of pulling him away from their bedside and being responsible for postponing that event.”

Imrahil looked about to argue, but gave up and sipped at his wine. “Are you writing to Éowyn?”

“Yes. I am surprised she did not come on one of the first boats. Master Raglan said she is well recovered and only stays in the houses for convenience.”

“The ships were loaded with all the tents and medical supplies. I expect she thought it better to wait. Amroth is coming tomorrow; he can be released, now that Faramir has taken up his duties. Perhaps she is waiting for an escort and will come with him.”

The Prince didn’t know Éowyn. If she had wanted to come, she would have jumped on any boat regardless of how crowded or unsuitable it was. Conscious of Imrahil’s eyes on him, he picked up the quill again and started to write, but pain shot from his shoulder down towards his wrist.  Flinching, he drew in breath sharply.

The Prince stood up. “That’s it, Éomer. I am sending for a healer.” He put his goblet down heavily on the table and went straight to the entrance, pulling back the flap. Éomer made no attempt to stop him. A quick word with the guard outside and he returned. “A little wager,” he said, cocking one eyebrow. “That receiving the message that the King of Rohan has a minor injury, Master Raglan will be here himself in just a few minutes.”

Éomer opened his mouth to protest, but Imrahil cut him off. “I don’t think you quite realise what your change of station means, my friend. Nor in what high regard the people of Gondor hold the Rohirrim, and you and your sister in particular.”

Sure enough, with Imrahil smirking behind his goblet, Master Raglan was shown in moments later.

“My lord,” he said nodding his head in a quick bow. “If I had known you had received an injury I would have attended you when we first arrived.” Everything about the little man was quick; already he was opening his satchel and starting to lay out his instruments on a linen cloth. His lips moved silently, as if he was going through a mental list checking he had everything.

Éomer stared at the array of knives and spatulas being laid out on the table. “I have no real injury,” he put in hastily. “Just a muscle strain.”

“Oh, I see.” Bright eyes ran swiftly over him making their assessment and coming to a rapid conclusion. “Your sword arm, no doubt, my lord. Always a danger spot with warriors.”

Éomer had a hard job not to laugh. The way the man’s head bobbed about reminded him of a pecking hen searching for worms. But he had seen the wonders the healer had achieved with his wounded Riders, so he swallowed his mirth and said politely. “You are right, Master Raglan. My right shoulder is very painful, and I am finding even using the quill hurts.”

Raglan’s bushy eyebrows drew together at that. “Is this the first time it has bothered you?”

Fingers were already feeling around his shoulder. “No, to be honest it niggles away after most of my sword fights. But I slipped and fell to the ground in the last battle and had to hold up the whole weight of a huge orc on the end of my sword. The stinking sod would have flattened me otherwise.”

“Ah… much as I suspected. Please remove your shirt, my lord. I need to palpate the tendons.”

The poking and prodding lasted for some time. Éomer gritted his teeth, and avoided Imrahil’s eyes when Raglan lifted his arm to rotate his shoulder. The little healer tut-tutted when it didn’t go anywhere near its full range of expected movement.

“You have damaged the tendons that hold the joint in place. If left, your shoulder might seize completely and would then take months to heal. Very painful. I will make up a tisane that will help to relax the muscles around the joint and so take the pressure off, but you will need daily treatment for a while. The tendons and muscles need to be stretched and softened with deep massage, helped by warming unguents.” Already collecting his gear together, he thought for a moment. “I will send one of my assistants to do this for you. She is not a qualified healer, but I have found her to be particularly skilled with these sorts of injuries. From what I can gather her mother was one of the gifted ones. Mistress Guleth learnt from her as a child and makes her own salves and ointments from the mountain herbs.”

By the time Ragan had finished this speech his satchel had been packed and swung over his shoulder. Another bow and he was out through the flap.

“He knows what he is doing,” Imrahil apologised for his hasty exit.

“Oh, I know that. And he has many to see. He is just so different from the Warden. Who is so slow and pondering, I wonder anything gets done.”

“You are right there,” Imrahil laughed. “But he has a wealth of knowledge and they make a good team.” His mouth quirked. “Now we will have to wait and see who he is sending to attend to you. I didn’t realise some of the women had come here to help.”

“Yes, I saw a couple yesterday.  Mind you, you can hardly tell they are women in those grey sacks they wear.” He pulled a face; not surprisingly, the lack of women had been well discussed amongst his men. “Not that it matters as they are all ancient, about fifty years old each one.”

“I do not consider fifty to be ancient,” Imrahil retorted. Causing Éomer to grin openly. “And not all healers are fifty. Not in Dol Amroth, anyway.”

Éomer suddenly remembered something Amrothos had said about his sister back in Dol Amroth working with the healers, but before he could quiz the Prince a guard poked his head through the partially open flap. “Lady here to see you, lord. Said Master Raglan sent her.”

That was quick. Good job he hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on. Éomer put down his goblet and stood up just as a slim, grey-clad form slipped through the tent flap. He stared, belatedly remembering to close his mouth. She had on the grey dress of a healer, but somehow it fitted a lot better than most he had seen, he could even see a swelling where her breasts should be. She didn’t wear the full coif and veil, only a grey triangular piece of material covered her light brown hair. With smooth, fair skin with just a few freckles, she was definitely not anywhere near fifty.

Dropping her eyes under the scrutiny of two men, the woman bowed. “I am Guleth, lord,” she said in Éomer’s general direction. “Master Raglan asked me to tend to your shoulder.”

Her voice was soft and cultured, but with a lilt that gave away its country origins. In one hand she held a bag, woven in an intricate pattern in blues and reds which reminded Éomer of the designs he had had seen on the Wild-man, Ghân-buri-Ghân. Her fingers fiddled nervously with the handle.

Before Éomer could say anything to ease her obvious discomfort, Imrahil coughed. “Well, I will leave you to it, Éomer. I am sure you are in good hands and look forward to seeing an improvement.” Imrahil drained his goblet and made for the doorway; but catching hold of the flap he stopped, turned, and gave Éomer a broad wink over the top of the woman’s head.

Éomer opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to be left alone with an attractive young woman, but Imrahil had gone. So sputtering on the words he managed to get out. “What do you wish me to do, Mistress Guleth?”

She inclined her head, but this time looked straight back up into his face, although her hazel eyes were guarded. “If you just sit in the chair, lord. I can examine your shoulder and start the treatment.”

Definitely more confidence in her voice, and she let go of the bag and put it on the table. So he nodded and sat down with his back towards her, trying to gather up all his self control. Great Béma! He had not been expecting this. How the hell was he going to cope when she started running her hands over his body?

-----------     

“The King of Rohan? You wish me to treat the King of Rohan?”

“Yes, that’s what I said. You must know who he is.”

Oh, she knew. What woman wouldn’t? Her first sighting of the King of Rohan had been of him rushing through the hall to find his sister, a mixture of joy and concern on his face. Even with his hair matted in clumps and covered in warrior’s dirt, he had gained her attention. Later, clean and with his long, tawny mane shining, she had watched him for a moment from behind a pillar as he took the hand of a frightened soldier, speaking words of reassurance and care. Only by remembering such a magnificent man could lonely nights be filled with satisfying dreams.

Now she was here, standing in front of him. Her eyes had landed on his chest just before she cast them down, and already the sight of the brushing of gold that softened hard muscle had her fingers clutching the handles of her bag with anxiety. She was going to treat this great warrior, knead her hands into his kingly flesh. The thought both exited and scared her -  the practised detachment, necessary for one so young dealing with  rough soldiers, already splitting into shards that spiked her resolve.

Guleth took out a small stone bottle and removed the cork, tipping a tiny amount on the ends of her fingers. “Just a plain oil, my lord,” she said in response to his sideways look. “It will allow my fingers to slide over your skin and move the muscles underneath.”

He shivered at her first touch, although her hands were warm. As she pushed aside the mass of soft hair his fingers clenched his knees, and he drew in a deep breath. Willing himself to relax, she guessed. Her thumb dug in, and keeping the pressure she followed the line of his shoulder blade from its base to apex. The big muscle over the bone was hard and rigid; she needed to soften it before she could attack the sinews that held his shoulder together. Her strong fingers bevelled deep into the smooth flesh and a quiet growl emitted from his throat, quickly changed to a question. “Master Raglan said you learnt from your mother?”

Her hands didn’t stop when she answered him, kneading the solid tissue in small circular motions. He needed to talk: it would keep his mind off what her hands were doing. She had such clever hands. But he was a king, and she did not want to cause him embarrassment. “My mother was a wise-woman, she took her healing all along the high slopes of Lamedon. My father tended his vines, and my mother delivered babies, set broken limbs and cured the ague. As soon as I could ride a pony I went with her. I learnt much, but will never have her skill, whatever they teach me in the City.”

“But you came to learn?”

No, she came to get away. Took the opportunity when Faeldor begged her.  Wanted to leave behind the smell of the must and see more than squat, stone villages that hugged the upland pastures. Even if it meant marrying a man she didn’t love and discovered she barely liked. “My husband wanted to be a soldier. He came to join Gondor’s army, and I came with him.”

“Oh, is he here?”

“He was killed on the Pelennor.”

“I am sorry.”

She knew he was, his voice rang with caring. And she had seen him on his daily rounds of the camp with his two companions – the beefy one with the smiling eyes and witty turn of phrase, and the tall, handsome one with the good manners. These Lords of Rohan had checked on every injured man, their faces hardening when morning brought one less to count.

“Will you stay to work in the Healing Houses, or go home?”

Her fingers stopped for a moment, the question disturbing her. She gained time by pushing his unruly hair back over his left shoulder.

“Sorry, it’s in the way. It’s a nuisance most of the time, but bathing in the river each day makes it worse. I will tie it in future.”

He didn’t need to apologise, most of the hair she had to deal with was smelly, black and greasy. She started again, pushing her hand under his arm to feel the big sinews. The king shuffled in his seat, trying to get himself comfortable, or cover up what was making him uncomfortable. So she started talking once more to distract him. “My mother is old; she would like me back to carry on her work. But trailing between the villages can be lonely, and even on horseback not pleasant in the winter.”

The Horselord grinned at that, glancing back over his shoulder towards her. “But better than walking.”

“Yes, although the pony is ancient and our horses very wide.”

“Horses? You said your father grows grapes?” He said surprised.

“My brother now. He has a good vinery. Regular orders go to the city, which is why we have carthorses. Not that one though,” she indicated the half full goblet. “Ours is a lighter vintage.  If you see a barrel marked with the name Two Rivers, then that is our wine. The vineyard lies in a valley between the Ringló and the Ciril.”

“It sounds a big enterprise. Is there need for your mother to still pursue her healing?”

“No. And most payments to her are in kind. But she is gifted, and stopping her doing the work would be like cutting off her right hand. My father understood that and always respected her calling.”

“Hmm…” He thought for a moment. “What about you? Is your calling so strong?”

A simple question, with a difficult answer. Again her fingers stopped. “I don’t know. Life would be easier if it wasn’t.”

The King of Rohan said nothing to that. Maybe he understood that duty sometimes pushed other hopes aside.

“Have you finished?”

She jumped, her thoughts distant. “No, not yet. I have just loosened the muscles and freed the sinews. Now I have to put on a healing ointment.”

She went to her bag, conscious of his eyes on her. It would have been better had she not been so vain and worn shapeless garb like the other women. But they were old, and she still had the longings of her youth to contend with. It had been pure vanity that made her throw off her top tunic when called to tend the King of Rohan.

“Bema! That stinks!” He wrinkled his nose in total disgust.

“And it is very potent. The spiceberry produces oil that must only be used in small quantities. It is mixed with a strong smelling laurel. I am sorry to say that although the healing properties combine well, the odours do not.”

A shudder ran though him as she smoothed the dark ointment onto his shoulder. “Well, I would be glad to smell something pleasant for a change. I have had the stench of battle in my nostrils for far too long, and when I walked in the woods yesterday the ramsons overpowered everything else.”

He liked to walk in the woods. It didn’t surprise her: there was more to this warrior king than most would ever find out.  She hesitated, undecided for a moment, but the harlots would be arriving soon, and she did not want his clean, warm flesh to be sullied by their dirt. And some opportunities only came once in a lifetime. The decision made, she deliberately ran dancing fingers across his back. Taut muscle quivered under her touch, and his whole body stiffened. “Your shoulder will need plenty of manipulation before it heals. If you wish it, lord, I will return tonight when my duty is finished. I can bring something sweeter that will please you more.”  Had he caught her meaning? The words hung between them.  Then he expelled a long breath, before saying softly. 

 “I will tell the guards to expect you.”

------------

The horror of the past weeks had some recompense in the comradeship Éomer had enjoyed in this place. Every evening they gathered to swap tales around the camp-fire and tonight had been no different with a lively debate taking place between Éothain and Erchirion on the very different battle techniques of Dol Amroth and the Mark. Neither saw the other’s point but for once Éomer was content to listen, and so was Imrahil. But when the two quietened down, the Prince threw another log on the fire looking set for a late session. Éomer thought he’d better move and stood up stretching, draining his goblet.

Imrahil looked up in surprise. “Are you off early tonight, Éomer?”

He didn’t want to raise any suspicions, but the truth was always best so he said as naturally as he could. “I am due another treatment to my shoulder.”

Black eyebrows flew skyward. “Now?”

“Morning and evening,” he replied. . That should cover it in case he got lucky and there were repetitions.

“Ahh…I see.” Imrahil regarded him speculatively with an expression on his face that told Éomer the Prince saw just about everything.

He got back to his tent, marvelling as he had done more than once since coming here how the Gondorians could organise so much luxury in so short a time. Richly woven rugs clothed the ground, the table could have sat eight and what would have been a simple cot in the Riddermark here was a carved wooden bed. Someone had lit the torches and they flickered shadows on the canvas. He blew one out, wondering if he ought to go through with this, but before he could even start to weigh up the possible consequences the flap was pushed aside.

This time a cloak hid the healer’s garb, and besides her bag she carried a small metal can hanging on a leather strap. It looked to be made of copper and glowed in the torchlight. “I have brought the tisane ordered by Master Raglan. You must drink it whilst it is still warm, lord.” 

She put it down on the table and took a goblet, pouring out a good measure. Éomer walked behind her to the flap. He closed it up, tying the laces tight.  His guards would know what that meant, but hopefully would keep the knowledge to themselves.

Her eyes flicked to the closed flap and back to him without comment. “How is your shoulder feeling, lord,” she asked passing him the goblet.

“Better, much better.” He sipped at the warm liquid, looking over the rim into her face. Her hazel eyes sparked gold in the half-light. The tisane had a faintly spicy taste and he could feel the heat of it going all the way down to his stomach. She watched him for a moment, a little smile on her face, before unfastening her cloak and putting it over the back of the chair.

“Finish the drink, lord and then I will ease your shoulder.” 

But the goblet landed with a thump on the table, drops of the dark liquid splashing onto the wood. “Later.”

She smelt so good. After all the death, the filth and the carnage, holding a soft woman’s body against him was the healing he wanted. The healing he needed.

To be continued.

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

GONDOR:

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Master Raglan -    Assistant warden of the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith. In charge of the healers sent to Cormallen.

Mistress Guleth -    An aide in the Healing Houses. Originally from Lamedon

Faeldor -                  Guleth’s husband – killed on the Pelennor

Chapter 22

Cormallen

7^th April 3019

The sun had already sunk to a red globe; soon fires would be sprouting up over the field like miniature beacons as men clustered around to share the evening meal. Éomer threaded his way between the gathering groups and the steaming pots, making for the area near the river where large pavilions formed a huge semi-circle.  But reaching the back of his own quarters he hesitated, knowing that if he joined the others around the big fire it would be difficult to get away. And not only was Guleth due to visit him later, but he had some queries from Elfhelm to answer – getting over four thousand men back home, many of whom were wounded, needed organisation. And as Aragorn was sure the Hobbits would be fit enough for the ceremony in the morning, and he would be unlikely to get anything much done after that, it would be far better to eat supper in his tent and tackle his correspondence. Deciding on that course, he sent the guard to collect some food and slipped quietly inside.

His meal finished and the tray pushed aside, Éomer started to add up the numbers of injured still in Cormallen who would need to be transported home by cart, but in the middle of his calculations he heard a noise outside, and then the guard’s gruff voice confronting a visitor. The candle had hardly burnt down, so it was a bit early for Guleth, and anyway, he doubted the guard would be quite so loud if she were his visitor. Sighing at the coming interruption he put down his quill and looked up just as a tall form blocked the open doorway.

Éomer immediately stood up, irritation evaporating when he recognised the intruder. “Amroth, is that you?”

“Éomer King.”  Amroth stepped into the tent, bowing his head

Really pleased to see the young prince, Éomer pushed back his chair and went around the table, holding out his arm for a warrior’s clasp. “Éomer will do,” he said. “When did you get here?”

Amroth took his arm firmly, and even in the torchlight Éomer could see he looked a whole lot better than at their last meeting when his handsome face had been a dull grey tinged with green. Now it had regained a healthy colour and he stood tall and unbent. Wearing the dress uniform of the Swan-knights he could be mistaken for a younger version of his father. “A while ago, but you weren’t around at supper, so I thought I would seek you out. I’ve brought a letter from your sister.” Amroth took a folded piece of parchment out from under his dark blue velvet cloak and passed it to Éomer.

Éomer stared at it for a moment, recognising Éowyn’s scrawling hand. His last hope faded. “She obviously didn’t want to come with you?”

“No. I made a point of asking her. I even offered to find a lady to accompany her. But she said she was happy where she was and would await you there.”

“Oh well, she must have her reasons.” Struggling to hide his disappointment, Éomer put the letter down on the table to read later, and picked up the flagon of wine, offering it to Amroth.

The Prince grinned. “I’d rather have ale.”

Éomer raised his eyebrows in surprise; it didn’t go with the elegant attire. “Would you? I’ve rather taken a fancy to this. But we have plenty of ale.” He called out through the flap, and moments later a brimming tankard appeared.

Amroth took it and sat down, letting out a little whistle of admiration. “They have made you pretty comfortable, no wonder no one seems in a hurry to return to the City.”

Éomer sat down opposite him and took a deep swig from his goblet. “We have been waiting on the Hobbits, but, besides that, Gandalf insists the crowning should take place on May Day, and Aragorn cannot enter the City until then. Also there are many here that still need healing, of mind and body. Fighting in that evil place is like nothing I have ever experienced before and only yesterday the last came in of those sent deep into Mordor. They need some respite before the celebrations.”

Amroth’s face lit up at that. “And what celebrations there are going to be. Faramir is throwing his heart into it, and many of the ladies have already returned. Excitement mounts daily and,” his black eyes twinkled with merriment, “most seem intent on providing a very warm welcome for the returning heroes.”

“If the ladies are returning to the City, Amroth, them I am surprised you didn’t stay and take advantage.”

“Tempting, I know, but I thought I would get even more luck if I rode back with you. They will all think me a brave conqueror.” He grinned mischievously. “That’s if you don’t tell them I didn’t actually make it to Mordor.”

Éomer laughed at that, sure Amroth would have no difficulty anyway. “I’ll keep your secret. But you might regret spending the next couple of weeks here, females are pretty scarce.”

“So Erchi told me. But a few ladies of pleasure arrived today on the same ship as me. They must have bribed the Captain.  And many are waiting at the Harlond, eager to grab a ride. But I am not sure you would want to meet them,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“I don’t,” Éomer replied. “Harlots I can live without. I hate the stink. And unfortunately it would be better to have none here than just a small number. If there are not enough to go around then we are likely to have trouble break out between the men.”

“Problems between men usually have a woman somewhere in background. And I agree with you about the harlots, I prefer widows myself.” His lips twitched as something amused him.  “And pretty women married to old men are always a good bet.”

Éomer guffawed. “You are incorrigible. Get caught up to those tricks in the Mark and you would be likely to get a sword through your guts.”

 “I can believe that, having become acquainted with your countrymen over the last few weeks. Remind me to be careful if you ever invite me to visit…” Amroth’s eyes suddenly opened wide and he stared towards the door, a slow smile starting on his face.

Éomer turned sharply and smothered an oath. Now he was for it. “Mistress Guleth, don’t go, please come in.”

Guleth hesitantly entered, bowing her head. Her eyes flicked nervously between him and Amroth. “My Lord King, forgive my intrusion, your guard was talking to someone and waved me in.”

She had a cloak over her dress but the hood had fallen back and her hair was uncovered. She clutched her embroidered bag and didn’t look much like a healer, but Éomer made an effort to convince Amroth. “Mistress Guleth has been attending to my injured shoulder, it needs regular massage.”

The prince’s eyes gleamed with amusement; in fact he looked about ready to burst into laughter. But controlling himself he drained his mug and stood up. “Your shoulder, Éomer? Regular massage? How fortunate to have someone on hand to tend to it. I will leave you. I would hate to delay the healing process.”

“Mistress Guleth, Éomer King,” Amroth made a very graceful bow and went to the doorway, but as he went through he turned and gave Éomer a broad wink over Guleth’s head, just before he dived outside.

Imrahil and his youngest son obviously not only looked alike, but shared the same traits! If Amroth didn’t believe him, it couldn’t be helped. But Guleth looked stricken.

“I am sorry, the flap was wide open. And he spotted me before I could retreat.”

“Don’t worry.” Éomer gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “He’s a friend; he won’t say anything to anyone.” At least he hoped Amroth would only share it with his brother. But he didn’t want any talk upsetting Guleth and making problems for her. “Guleth, I very much enjoyed last night, but if you wish our relationship to return to that of healer and patient, I shall understand.”

Guleth glanced at him from under her lashes, a soft smile playing about her lips. “No, I also enjoyed it very much, and how I spend the night hours is my own business. But I think I should attend to your shoulder before any other diversions. It really does need repeated treatments.”

Éomer laughed. Moving close to her, he unfastened the tie of her cloak, pushing it back and running his hands over her shoulders at the same time. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I think you should. And if you don’t mind, I would like to read a letter from my sister whilst you do so. It will stop me from being distracted by those magic hands. But I must close the flap, I don’t want any other callers.”

Not that easy, reading Éowyn’s scrawl by candlelight whilst trying to ignore Guleth’s agile fingers and the soft caress of her breath on the back of his neck. And Éowyn didn’t say much anyway. No real reason why she had decided to stay in Minas Tirith. Most of the letter was about the progress made by various wounded men with whom he was acquainted, and a few comments on the forthcoming celebrations. He sighed deeply, and put the letter down, sure he was missing something.

Guleth’s fingers stopped. “Is everything all right with your sister? She seemed well recovered when I last saw her.”

“Yes, it seems so. But to be honest I had hoped she would join me here. I cannot understand why she does not, and what keeps her in the City.” Guleth’s fingers had recommenced their kneading of his flesh, but at that they paused for a moment before carrying on. “Do you have some idea, Guleth?” he asked, alerted by the slight tension in her hands. “You were there.”

Éomer turned, looking into her face. Small white teeth nibbled at her lower lip and little frown lines had appeared just above her nose. With him watching she dropped her eyes. “Well, do you?”

“I might, but I don’t really want to say in case I am wrong.”

“It could give me some clue. If you are right it will help, and if you’re wrong I will be no worse off. I shall just have to wait until I see her. So you might as well tell me.”

She nodded, her frown disappearing as her eyes softened. “I am only surmising, but we all thought that the Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir had formed an attachment. The Warden was sure of it, and I overheard him telling Mistress Ioreth.”

Stunned for a moment, Éomer didn’t know what to say. It was just about the last thing he had expected. Éowyn had ridden to war because she was eating her heart out for Aragorn and now, only a few weeks later, she had fallen for another black-haired Númenórean. Women were nothing if not fickle.

---------------

8^th April 3019

His first throne. It might be made of green turves, but it had been fashioned like a throne and sat high above the ranks and companies that covered the wide space by the river. Armour and weapons polished to mirror bright, the mighty host gleamed and shone in the noon sun. All quietly waited. Aragorn, on his left, had his great sword resting across his lap, and behind him the White Tree of the Kings of Gondor flowered upon a black field beneath a shining crown and seven glittering stars. The other side of Aragorn, under the shimmering standard of the Princes of Dol Amroth, Imrahil sat, straight and proud, the years fallen from him since their victory.

Éomer glanced above to where, floating on its field of green, the Great White Horse of Eorl ran free. He gave thanks to the Valar that the Mark had gained the friendship of these two great men that sat beside him on their makeshift thrones. Closer bonds between Gondor and the Riddermark could only be good for his people – his people – the thought both terrifying and amazing. He had not sought this, but fate had taken a hand and he would be lying if he did not admit to feeling pride at being lord of a fell people.

In the silence of their waiting, he cast his eyes over the Rohirrim in front of him, some with bandages and some leaning on their friends for support. They had suffered so much, both at home and here on the fields of Gondor. There and then he swore an oath – at whatever cost to himself he would serve the Mark and its people. If it took every ounce of his strength they would prosper again. The children would not go hungry; farmers would till the land and not have to ride to war, and women would walk in safety. All that he could do would be done to achieve this.

A long trumpet blast signalled that the Hobbits were on their way. Men straightened and unsheathed their swords, raising them high in the air and crying out praises in loud voices when they caught sight of them. Éomer felt for Frodo and Sam. If Gandalf had not been behind them he guessed they would have turned tail and ran. And he couldn’t blame them, since they had only risen from their sick beds that morning. He studied the small figures as they plodded slowly towards the three high seats, red faced and clad in rags amongst all this splendour and pageant.

 “Makes you think, doesn’t it,” he murmured to Aragorn.  “All the trained warriors at our disposal, an armoury of fearful weapons to call on, and it took two humble hobbits to walk into Mordor.”

Aragorn nodded. “Great evil has been defeated both here and in your own realm, by the bravery and tenacity of the meek and the mild. It is a lesson for us all.”

As Frodo and Sam approached, the three most powerful lords in Middle-earth stood up.

-----------------

Dol Amroth.

16^th April 3019.

Elphir looked tired, Lothíriel thought. The relief of Gondor’s victory had taken the worry lines from his face, but the responsibly he now had, left him little time for rest. Ship after ship had departed for the Harlond: food gleaned from the farms of Belfalas, clean linen for the Rohirrim, fodder for their horses, all had to be collected and accounted for. Her mind on the horses, she realised Elphir was talking about room on the next ship going to Minas Tirith for wives to join their husbands at the coronation and daughters to seek fun.  Fun! Lothíriel’s heart went out to those who would stand silently watching the leave-taking – victory bitter-sweet to those who had lost their loved ones.

Elphir tapped the table to get her full attention. “We are sending dancers and harpists, Lothíriel. There are to be great celebrations. Lord Aragorn is to be crowned on the first of May. That gives you plenty of time to get there.”

Lothíriel shuffled her feet under the table and pushed the piece of chicken to the other side of her plate. She had known it would come to this, and he was going to be mad. “I don’t want to go, Elphir. There are still many wounded to see to, and anyway with all the grief around, I don’t feel like celebrating.”

His lips twisted in annoyance. “Lothíriel you are twenty years old. You should want to celebrate and join in the fun.” Lothíriel said nothing, staring down at the congealing mass of food.

“Damn it!”  he exploded. “You are a lovely young woman. A princess! It is not right that you hide yourself in the Healing Houses under that awful grey sack. Umar is dead, and you must try and forget all about him. There are many honourable and worthy men out there. They are not like him.”

Lothíriel shook her head. He didn’t understand. None of them did.

“It’s over, Lothíriel. It’s all over. A new age. You have to get on with your life.”

“It’s not over for me, Elphir. I am sorry, but I do not feel like dancing and celebrating. Too many have suffered, and too many lives have changed. Maybe this is my life. I do not know. But I do know that I am not ready for anything else yet.” She got up, dropping her napkin onto the table. “I am sorry, please excuse me.” 

Lothíriel could understand Elphir’s exasperation with her – but if only he would give her more time. But she knew he was trying to help, even if his attempts were clumsy. She would speak to him again when she had got her thoughts together. Try to explain how she felt.

Sighing in frustration at the difficulty of it all, she ambled along the wide passage, not feeling like going to her room. A ride would be good, but she could hardly go and ask Elphir to lend her one of his horses, besides, it was unfair to expect Sergion to come out with her when he had barely finished eating. Idly she ran her hand along the carved wooden moulding that ran along the wall, depicting the story of Amroth and Nimrodel. It ended with the Lord of Lórien disappearing under the waves, right at the entrance to the library.

The door stood ajar, and Lothíriel could easily guess who was in there. Not feeling like being alone with her thoughts, she pushed it open. “I missed you at supper.”

Oríon looked up, startled by the interruption. Great pieces of parchment littered the big table, most of which were covered by drawings of the various parts of ships. A tray of food remained untouched on a small side table, along with a jug of wine. But with no sign of annoyance at her intrusion, he put down his pen and smiled. “I was in the middle of some calculations and didn’t want to stop.”

No change there. He had always been single minded. “Now you have stopped, why don’t you eat something? Here,” she went to the little table, “I will pour you some wine.”

With a resigned grin, Oríon moved his chair closer to the food. Ink stained fingers reached for a piece of chicken and shoved it haphazardly between a folded piece of bread. He took a large bite, chewed it thoughtfully and let the rest drop back down on the plate. “I am also working on some ideas that I wish to discuss with your father as soon as he comes home.”

“Whenever that is.”  Lothíriel couldn’t keep the misery from her voice.

“You miss him?”

“Yes. And Amroth. It’s not the same around here without him.”

“No, I agree there. But why don’t you go to Minas Tirith.” Oríon suggested. “Everyone else seems to be heading that way.”

“That’s what Elphir wants me to do. But he doesn’t understand that I don’t want to celebrate. I am overjoyed, of course, that Sauron has been defeated.” She stopped, letting out a deep sigh. “But so many awful things have happened; I can’t just go on as though they haven’t.”

“Hmm…what is it that bothers you: the years of anguish from that pig Umar, or the fact that you shot the mercenaries and the farmers died because of it?”

Lothíriel dropped her head. Why was he straight to the point when everyone else had been skirting around the real reason for her distress. “Because I lost my temper more lives were lost.  I am a healer, and that is what they – Elphir – doesn’t understand. I am supposed to save life, not take it, but he dismisses that.”

“You are different from what you are expected to be, Lothíriel. Being different from your family is not easy, but you have to stay true to yourself. Do you think I have found it easy staying here in safety and comfort whilst my best friend had to take part in a devastating battle? My father gives me nothing but support. Although sometimes I wonder what he really thinks.”

“He loves you. He’s proud of you!” Lothíriel exclaimed.

“And Elphir loves you. He wants the best for you, and for you to enjoy all the privileges to which you are entitled.”

“I know that. But I need time. If only he could see that I need time.”

“He will realise. Deep wounds don’t heal in a moment, but the scars will fade. Look how badly my father was injured, but although he will always limp along, he has not lost his zest for life.  Your wounds cannot be seen, but they still leave scars. Those scars will lessen if you help them to.”

“You are right, Oríon. I know you are right. And I will try very hard.” She picked up the plate and held it under his nose. “Why don’t you eat this and come for a ride with me.” She would ask Elphir for a horse. He would be pleased.

Minas Tirith

1^st May 3019

Faramir met Aragorn in the midst of those there assembled, and he knelt, and said: ‘The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.’ And he held out a white rod; but Aragorn took the rod and gave it back, saying: ‘That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs’ as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!’

Then Faramir stood up and spoke in a clear voice: ‘Men of Gondor hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?’

And all the host and all the people cried yea with one voice.

From The Return of the King.  J. R. R. Tolkien  

Éomer took Éowyn’s arm as they slowly mounted the steps to the great feast hall of Merethrond. On each side of each step stood an immaculately dressed guard, resplendent in silver and black, spear pointing to the heavens. At least Éomer thought they were guards, for all he knew they could be dressed up statues. He fixed his eyes on one, willing him to move, but not a muscle quivered. “Prepare yourself,” Elfhelm whispered from his other side. “I don’t think you will have ever seen the like of this.”

Éomer grinned at the Marshal. A moment’s awkwardness when meeting him after their altercation in the Healing Houses had been squashed under the memories of years of friendship.

Liveried servants met them in the anteroom; bowing so low they looked in danger of toppling over. They were ushered through great carved doors, the vast hall opening up before them, and the first thing that struck Éomer was the clashing riot of colour. Accustomed at home to seeing ladies dressed in mainly greens, whites and reds, the bright yellows and oranges amongst the purple and blue threatened to give him a headache.  Then the heat hit. The heat and the smell. The heat came from the huge numbers of multi-branched candlesticks that graced every table. The smell probably from the women. He generally liked women to smell nice, but the mixture of perfumes from the mass of people around him assaulted his nostrils. And the paint. Why did most of the Gondorian ladies think they had to powder and paint their faces to the extent that some of them looked like decorated dolls?  Did they think their artistry improved on nature? Or were they trying to disguise it, he mused, as a woman with a sharp face, hawk nose and bright red lips fluttered her lashes at him before she inclined her head.

“You will be in great demand when the dancing starts,” Éowyn muttered under her breath.

Éomer twisted his lips into a grimace. “Just don’t leave me alone with them.” Thank goodness Éowyn didn’t see the need for all that powder and kohl. Her fresh-faced loveliness outshone all the made-up beauties around him.

But she didn’t look at all sympathetic. “I already have some dances promised, Éomer so I can’t hold your hand. You will have to rely on your warrior’s acumen to mount a defence.”

Dances promised to the worthy steward no doubt. He looked around and met a forest of eyes watching him. Bema! Give him a thousand orcs to deal with. “Well, don’t you leave me!” Éomer hissed to Elfhelm, causing the Marshall to put his hand to his mouth to cover his chuckle. “And don’t tell me you got dances promised, not with that pretty wife of yours waiting at home.”

“I shall consider it my duty to protect my king from the wiles of a roomful of beautiful women.” Elfhelm said straight faced.

A pathway had been left from the door to the dais, and a portentous servant led them towards the top table. Éomer could see Imrahil and Faramir already waiting, along with Legolas and Gimli and, with his attention taken by them, didn’t notice a trio of trumpeters step forward. The ringing salute was the signal for the incessant noise to gradually fall to a hush and all eyes swivel to land on the three Rohirrim. The crowds of guests managed to get a good gawp before they bowed. Éowyn’s fingers dug into his arm. She didn’t like quite so much attention. 

Luckily though, Aragorn, Gandalf and the Hobbits were not far behind. The trumpets rang out again and all, including himself, bowed deeply. The four hobbits were looking around as if they had stumbled into the wrong play, Gandalf had a satisfied smile on his face and Aragorn looked incredibly kingly. At least he did until he slapped Éomer on the arm and whispered. “Dressed you up too, have they. I feel like a stuffed chicken.”

They had. Gondorians seemed to have a knack of producing anything needed in the wink of an eye. In his case a dark red tunic with an incredible amount of gold embroidery, not to mention the silk shirt and undergarments. But if they didn’t open the doors and let the cool air in he was going to have to take some of it off.  

He sat down thankfully. There might be a long evening ahead but he could relax at the table, as always enjoying the conversation with Imrahil who sat on his right. Éowyn was on his left, between him and Faramir. So he wouldn’t get much out of her. Seeing the two of them already in deep in conversation gave him no doubt that Guleth was right. He would welcome such an honourable man as Faramir for a brother, but if he were to lose Éowyn to Gondor he just hoped she knew her own mind this time.

A lull in the conversation with Imrahil, when the prince’s attention was taken by Legolas, allowed Éomer to glance around the hall. From the high table he had a good view of the other diners. He spotted Imrahil’s two sons straight away: Amroth was talking avidly to a young woman opposite him, and she was looking deep into his black eyes with a bemused expression on her pretty face. Éomer nearly choked on his mouthful of food when he saw the scowl on the face of the fat man sitting next to her. Husband or father? Husband probably, he deduced. A father would welcome the interest of such a high-born noble, but if this man could wield a sword as well as he could glower, Amroth was likely to be skewered to the back of his chair. Erchi on the other hand had obviously decided to concentrate on the free flowing wine and was sitting back in his chair looking very relaxed and contented. Possibly helped by the buxom serving girl who kept leaning over him to fill his goblet, brushing herself provocatively against his arm in the process.  

Chuckling to himself, he scanned the next table and his interest was immediately taken by an elderly lady wearing a garish purple headdress. Rather than concentrating on the plate of food in front of her she was paying rapt attention to one of the table decorations – a vast edifice of flowers and fruit, interspersed with fronds and the long curling feathers of some unfortunate bright-plumaged bird. The lady – she must be a high lady as she was sitting on one of the tables near the dais –  with no regard for the curious stares from her table companions, plucked a handful of feathers from the arrangement, chose the longest and the curliest, and reached up to stick it firmly into her head-dress. The rest she bunched together, tied them with a ribbon that had previously been around her napkin, and fanned herself furiously.

Intrigued and amused, he quizzed the prince. “Who,” he said to Imrahil when he had finished his conversation with the elf, “is that odd lady in the purple headdress.”

Imrahil followed his gaze, a smile breaking out over his face when he saw the object of Éomer’s curiosity. “Oh, that’s Lady Tinusel. She’s a little eccentric, but very kind. In fact my daughter is very fond of her. They became great friends when Lothíriel spent some time in Minas Tirith.”

“Oh, really.” Éomer tried to think of something polite to say, but failed. Anytime Imrahil’s daughter had been mentioned he had got the impression there was something slightly odd about her. Now he was sure. And he had imagined her to be younger, but if she made friends with eccentric old ladies he must be mistaken. He realised no one had actually ever mentioned her age and he had just assumed. But it sounded as though she must be older than Elphir, Imrahil’s eldest son, who he understood to be over thirty.

“Oh, you may like to meet Tinusel, Éomer,” Imrahil continued, his lips twitching with amusement. “She was a great friend of your grandmother, Morwen.”

But she was nowhere to be seen when the feast finished and the tables were pushed aside for the dancing, Éomer was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. Instead he dutifully danced with his sister and a few ladies who were married to some of the Gondorian warriors he had become friendly with, but after that he’d had enough and wondered how long it would be before he could make an exit. He’d rather spend the rest of the evening with Guleth, preferring her simple honesty to the crimped, pampered ladies around him. Luckily Faramir had given him a large chamber in the King’s House, so she would have no trouble coming to see him in her guise as a healer. And he would not be the only one who would have company that night. Éomer had noticed the lovely lady Imrahil had danced with more than once. Amroth had soon enlightened him as to her role in his father’s life, seeming to totally accept the arrangement.

“Ah, my Lord King, we have not been introduced. An oversight on the part of our new Steward, I think. But we must forgive him. Being so taken up with your sister. You must be thinking them rude to be spending so much time together.”

Éomer gritted his teeth, how dare anyone make comments about the Steward, or Éowyn.  Bema! It was the hawk-nosed woman who had eyed him when he had first arrived. She must have put more carmine on her lips since the meal because they were still bright red. Now was the time to behave like a king. He drew himself up to his full height and deliberately looked down his nose. “And you are?”

“Oh, silly me. I am Lady Heleguin. Lord Faramir is a cousin of mine.” She pouted her lips and tapped his arm with a long nail. “We are likely to be seeing a great deal of each other in the future.”

Not likely! He looked around for Éowyn but not surprisingly she was in Faramir’s arms again. He might be tempted to scupper that association if Faramir had any more relations like this one. And where was Elfhelm? He was supposed to keep close.

Just before he worked himself up to give her a proper set down, rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Éomer smelt a heady, sultry fragrance and a soft voice floated across his anger. “My Lord King, Prince Imrahil would welcome a word with you. He asked me to guide you to him.”

“Playing messenger now, Lady Calaerdis?”  Heleguin smiled sweetly, but her eyes held a furious glint.

Lady Calaerdis arched an elegant brow. “Oh, I am happy to play a variety of roles, Lady Heleguin. It adds to the spice of life.” She held out her arm. “Shall we, my lord?”

Éomer inclined his head to Heleguin, whose mouth was still wide open. He took Calaerdis’ arm gratefully. “What does Imrahil want?” he asked as he led her away.

Calaerdis smiled up at him, grey eyes full of laughter. She must be into her forth decade but smooth, blemish free skin covered a perfect oval face. Only a hint of red on her lips, she needed no other enhancement. A lovely woman, and he could understand why Imrahil was attracted to her. The sort of woman a man would be proud to have as his wife. “Nothing that I know of, my lord. But you looked in need of help, and the Prince would have wanted me to rescue his friend.”

Éomer burst out laughing. “Then I am in your debt, Lady Calaerdis. And I shall be even more in your debt if you show me a back way out of here.”

------------

To be continued.

List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:

Sergion -                Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan-knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Oríon   -               Son to Sergion. Childhood friend of Amrothos and Lothíriel

Umar -                    Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel. Killed on the Pelennor by King Théoden of Rohan

Princess Meren -   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Lady  Heleguin-     A relation of Faramir’s

Lady Tinusel -       Comes from Lossarnach. Made friends with Lothíriel during her visit to Minas Tirith.

Lady Calaerdis-     From Sirith in Lebennin. A rich widow. Mistress to Imrahil.

Mistress Guleth -    An aide in the Healing Houses. Originally from Lamedon. Enjoying a relationship with Éomer.

Chapter 23

Minas Tirith.

May 7^th    3019

The open area just outside the ruined gates thronged with carts and people. Hopefully with all the goodbyes going on he wouldn’t be noticed. Sometimes simple disguises were the best – putting grease on his hair and tying it back had certainly changed his look.  And the plain leather jerkin was a copy of dozens of others around. Éomer wasn’t bothered about his reputation and could easily have fielded any ribald comments directed at him, but he wanted to shield Guleth from unpleasant talk amongst her travelling companions. Her sudden decision to go had surprised him.  He’d thought she had no intention of following her mother’s path in life. But she had announced the change of mind in her quiet way, stating that she had realised she could not escape her calling and wanted to get home in time to accompany her mother through the summer. The winter would see her take over the healing treks around the villages. Éomer accepted the explanation because he had to, but guessed other reasons had influenced her decision.

He searched the press of people in front of him, hoping Guleth had done what he had told her and worn leggings under her skirt.

“There she is.” Éothain pointed to where the carts and wagons were starting to line up. As Éomer caught sight of her, Guleth heaved a large pack onto the back of a cart, said something to the man holding the horse’s head, and turned to scan the crowd. 

“I’ll stay here and wait for you,” Éothain said, passing the reins over. “I don’t think anyone will take much notice. There is so much going on.”

True enough. Getting the carts in line was not proving easy, and an argument had started between two different groups of soldiers at the front. Éomer ran his hand down Aéfre’s neck. “Come on, girl, I’ll introduce you to your new mistress.” He could see Guleth threading through the crowd and led the mare that way. As he got nearer he jerked his head towards a large pile of packing crates a little to his left. She realised what he meant and changed direction.

Éomer got there first, watching her walking towards him. She’d put on a serviceable brown woollen dress, and plaited her hair around her head. She looked neat and pretty, and he felt a large pang of regret that she had decided to leave.

“I told you not to do this,” were the first words she said when close enough for him to hear. He held out his hand, and with only a moment’s hesitation she took it, smiling into his eyes and saying with a soft chuckle. “But looking so different I might not have recognised you without the horse.”

Éomer pulled her closer to the packing cases. They afforded them little privacy, but at least no one was near enough to overhear their conversation. “And I told you I would. I don’t want to think of you walking the mountains in winter. Did you dress accordingly?”

“Yes, I did. Because I guessed you meant what you said. She’s lovely, Éomer,” Guleth murmured casting her eyes over the mare.  He agreed Éothain had done well. Dark, kind eyes, and her coat would probably lighten to white in old age. “And not too big,” Guleth continued. “I had visions of one of those great warhorses.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” he said with a grin. “You will manage her easily. Just let the stirrup down when you mount, and pull it up one you are settled.” Éomer tugged at the quiff of hair that flopped over the mare’s forehead. She snickered in pleasure. “Her name is Aéfre. Éothain found her for me. She belonged to a farmer who lives high in the Ered Nimrais. So she is used to the mountain paths.”

“He died?”

“No, but look.” He turned the mare around so that Guleth could see the scars criss-crossing her shoulder. “Aéfre was badly wounded; she can’t carry his weight any more. The skin is delicate where she has been stitched, and could easily break out if she is over pressed. But she is surefooted and dependable. She will look after you.”

“Poor thing,” Guleth said studying the disfigurement, “she will not have to suffer anything like that again.” Gently she ran her fingers over Aéfre’s grey coat along the edge of the scarred area. The mare quivered under her touch and nuzzled her nose into Guleth’s neck.

“She likes you already,” Éomer said, pleased.

“I have some ointment that will keep the skin supple and help it to regain its strength.”

Rocked by a rush of affection for this gentle lady, he squeezed her arm. “I thought you would have.” But he couldn’t resist teasing her. “I hope it’s sweet smelling. She’s very particular”. He was rewarded by a slight staining of Guleth’s cheeks as they both remembered that first meeting.

But the corners of her mouth twitched, “I like to care for all things, Éomer.”

“I know that. Like me, she will be in good hands. And your brother,” Éomer said, going back to safer ground, “he will provide for her?”

“He will. He likes horses and is kind to all animals.” She shook her head in mild exasperation “But what I am going to tell him, I do not know. How do I explain such a gift?”

Éomer grinned. “The truth is always best. Tell him you helped to heal the King of the Mark, and he gave you a horse to assist you in your work.”

She smiled at that, but the smile froze as their eyes locked. “Guleth, you do not have to go. I will be back in a couple of months.”

“And what then, Éomer?” she said, holding his gaze.  “Would you have me follow you to Rohan, or wait here for your infrequent visits?”

“Guleth I …”

“No, Éomer, don’t say it.” Guleth reached up, putting her finger on his lips and staring into his eyes. Her own were full of unshed tears.  “I knew from the first I would have to let you go.  I made a choice. I decided my path, and I will not keep you from yours.” Her voice faltered, but she breathed deeply and recovered. “You have given me a precious gift and for that I thank you. And I will always remember a golden time when I held a king in my arms. I feel privileged to have eased your restless nights. But you are destined to marry a Great Lady,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “and she will be very lucky.”

Éomer pushed down the lump of stone in his throat, trying for lightness. He wanted to hug her, kiss her, but not here. “I don’t know who she is, or where I will find her. Not in the courts of Gondor, anyway,” he said, thinking of the painted pleasure-seekers he had encountered over the past few days.

“You will find her. And I wish you all the happiness you deserve. But remember me sometimes when your shoulder aches, as it will surely do.” Her lips quivered, “I am certain your lady will be happy to rub it for you! And hopefully the times between your bouts of warring will become farther apart so that it should not trouble you too much.” A quick glance showed no one taking any interest in them – there were so many goodbyes going on, between warriors and part-time soldiers, between lovers. What would it be like when his own men left? Putting his free arm around her, he pulled her against his chest, placing his lips just above her ear. She smelt clean and fresh. “I will not forget.”

Guleth sniffed, and wiped a hand across her eyes. “I think it’s time to show me how to get onto this horse.”

-----

She looked around once, her eyes resting on him for just a moment before she kicked Aéfre into a trot and caught up with the wagon in front of her, riding by the side of it and talking to the woman perched on the high seat. Éomer walked back to where Éothain waited for him, leaning against one of the buttresses of the massive walls. He pushed himself up straight as Éomer approached.

“Guleth seems to be handling the horse well.”

Éomer refrained from glancing after her again. It would do no good. “Yes, I was pretty confident. But she hasn’t ridden for a while, so I told her to alternate riding and walking or she will suffer. And I am sure Aéfre will be well looked after. Thank you for organising it. It would have been awkward for me.” He nodded his respect. “You chose well.”

Accepting the praise without comment, Éothain quipped, “I can understand you giving Duinhir a horse, but mistresses usually get jewellery.  Might be cheaper too.”

Normally he would have made a joke of that, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll not be making a habit of it – mistresses, or making presents of horses. But I care for her, and if she is going to spend her life travelling from village to village, I want her on a horse I can trust.”

“That’s understandable, and she’s been good for you. But it couldn’t have gone on you know, Éomer. It wouldn’t have worked. Not for you, or her. The Riddermark will take all that you have to give, and you will need a woman who can cope with that. One who can help you rule.”

Éothain in sensible mood was a formidable force. “I know that. And Guleth also knew it, which is why she left. I suppose that deep down I am grateful, but sad that she felt she had to.” He smiled wistfully. “Life hurls boulders at us, and sometimes we forget to jump out of the way. But I appreciate your support.” Éomer slapped his friend on the back, deliberately cheering himself. “I owe you one.”

“Just take me home, Éomer. We have been here long enough.”

Something in Éothain’s voice alerted him. “Welwyn?”  A surge of envy – life was so much simpler for others.

“I hope so. But not only that, I have had enough of this stone. And even Ithilien was not like the Mark. I want to see the plains, gallop through the spring grass, and feel the wind on my face. Breathe the fresh air.”

------

And last of all Aragorn greeted Éomer of Rohan, and they embraced, and Aragorn said: ‘Between us there can be no word of giving or taking, nor of reward; for we are brethren. In happy hour did Eorl ride from the North, and never has any league of peoples been more blessed, so that neither has ever failed the other, nor shall fail. Now, as you know, we have laid Théoden the Renowned in a tomb in the Hallows, and there he shall lie for ever among the Kings of Gondor, if you will. Or if you desire it, we will come to Rohan and bring him back to rest with his own people.’

And Éomer answered: ‘Since the day when you rose before me out of the green grass of the downs I have loved you, and that love shall not fail. But now I must depart for a while to my own realm, where there is much to heal and set in order. But as for the Fallen, when all is made ready we will return for him; but here let him sleep a while.’

And Éowyn said to Faramir: ‘Now I must go back to my own land and look on it once again, and help my brother in his labour; but when one whom I long loved as father is laid at last to rest, I will return.’

From the Return of the King by JRR Tolkien.

-------

17^th May 3019

Aldburg - The Riddermark

Aldburg, his first true sight of home. They might have slept the past two nights on the good soil of the Mark, but not until he saw the shape of familiar rooftops, did Éomer really accept he had returned. With the sun already plummeting to its hiding place behind the mountains, the rest of the fortress had sunk into shadow. However, when they got nearer a ripple of excitement ran through the men as the crowds of people clustered around the gate became distinguishable against the dark of the palisade. For Éomer, seeing the waiting throng turned pleasure to sadness, as although many who lived here would have husbands or sons to meet, others would be still reeling from the shock of bereavement. And hoping that Eorllic had passed on the worst news already, with the lists having been sent weeks ago, only racked him with guilt. But he wouldn’t escape the blank looks of despair entirely, as he would have to speak to every widow and suffering mother during the short time he had here.

But for a moment he could join in the general hubbub of anticipation as the men around him expounded their enjoyment of being back, with talk of wives, soft beds and familiar food. And even those who would be riding on looked forward to a night’s hospitality from their kinsmen.

Then when closer still his heart leapt as he realised a guard of honour lined the last length of the road that ran straight to the gates. As soon as Firefoot’s head turned for the entrance, spears and shields were raised high, and banged together in a raucous greeting.

“Pleased to see us all, or want to make a good impression on their new king.” Éothain, ready with the wisecrack as always. But Éomer knew his comment covered the deep emotion stirred up by the sight of their brothers-in-arm. Here, amongst the old warriors, were the survivors from Helm’s Deep, men who had not been fit enough to ride to Gondor’s battles: some maimed, some standing straight, some leaning on their friends, but all welcoming their comrades home. And Éomer’s heart lifted more when he saw Guflaf in the middle of the line, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt. Aragorn had done more than fight for the Riddermark that fateful night.

News to be given on both sides, but that would have to come later as Eorllic waited to greet him. Éomer rode up to the temporary Master of Aldburg, and Firefoot, catching the excitement, snorted and tossed his head in response to the clamour around him. But gradually the worst of the noise ceased. Along with the stamping and the occasional whinny of a horse, only the children could be heard, as their mothers failed to hush them entirely. Silence unlikely to be achieved, Eorllic took his chance, raised his spear, and bellowed out the salutation, “Hail, Éomer! Lord of the Mark! The fortress of Aldburg stands ready at your command.”

The end of the formality signalled the rush for reunions, and such was the closeness of the community here that even the grieving had some family member to welcome back. Éowyn drew Windfola alongside him and together they watched the eruption of joy as children were swung upon shoulders and wives hugged ferociously against mail-clad chests. His cousin, Edyth, hurried past to greet Beorn, Éomund and Félewyn running with her. The boy had grown: long legged, with his father’s broad shoulders. Memories surfaced, firmly pushed out of the way. The future needed all his thought.

But as he helped Éowyn to dismount – spending time in Gondor had obviously changed her, or was she practising to be Faramir’s wife by wearing a riding dress – he became aware of someone standing behind him. Éomer turned around, and saw Éomund. But the lad shuffled from foot to foot, fearful of approaching. When Éomer’s gaze landed on him, he gasped, twitching in embarrassment. His face red, he bowed his head quickly.

 “Éomund!”  A step took Éomer right up to him, and he dropped his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you. Is Félewyn well? Have you been looking after her?”

Éomund nodded. “She doesn’t cry very much now. Although Gárbald died, and that started her off again.”

“Oh, I am sorry. But he was very old.” Éomer remembered the loyal collie with affection.

A surreptitious sniff proved nine year old boys also missed their dogs, but were too proud to show it. “I told her you killed lots of orcs.” Éomund’s lips turned down in disgust, “but she’s more interested in the new kitten Edyth gave her.”

“Hmm…,” he didn’t quite know how to answer that, “Girls are different, Éomund…”

“They certainly are,” a voice chimed in, “Are you going to introduce me, Éomer?”

He’d forgotten Éowyn. “I’ve told you about Éomund and Félewyn,” Éomer reminded her. At least he’d told her the children were orphaned, and he’d found their parents butchered.

Éomund bowed again, Edyth had taught him manners, but then he looked up into Éowyn’s face and blurted out. “You look like my mother.”

“Do I?” Éowyn smiled. “And you have the same name as my father. Come and help me unsaddle my horse, and we can talk about them both.”

Sitting at supper later, Éomer realised he felt comfortable in Aldburg, far more comfortable than he would at Edoras, for a while anyway. The hall packed to bursting that night, he and Éowyn sat on the dais with Erkenbrand and other senior men with no relations around. But most gathered in family groups, the noise of their chatter a reassuring barrier, keeping grim thoughts under control – Meduseld would seem a vast empty space without his uncle there. Dealing with the distribution of food across the Mark would take a great deal of organisation, and experienced men who could have helped were rotting to dust under the mounds of Mundburg. He would be returning to a community harder hit than this one – virtually all Théoden’s guards having been killed on the Pelennor, their wives and children would need providing for. And he would miss Hama dreadfully, but thank the Valar he was bringing home his young son. Byrhtwyn had watched the lad ride out from Dunharrow with pride and fright vying for dominance on her unyielding face. The suffering of the mothers always got to him – which stirred him to look over to where Déor sat, his mother on one side of him, his sister on the other. Æbbe leant hard against her brother quietly talking, for once not trying to be the centre of attention. But his mother, Elwyth, did not join in the conversation and only gazed at her son, rubbing her hand up and down his arm as if she couldn't believe he'd come home safely. Every now and again Déor turned from his sister and smiled at her, putting his own hand over hers to squeeze it reassuringly.

Touched by the scene, as soon as he finished his meal, Éomer excused himself and went over to see his friend.  Déor got up to talk, but not wanting him to move away from her, his mother clutched at his arm until she could reach no more.

“You don't have to come back with me, stay with your family for a few days.” Elwyth’s eyes lit with hope, but her son shook his head moving away a bit.

 “No, it’s not going to be easy for you, and friends around will help.” Déor chuckled. “Especially if Éothain disappears to the West-mark.”

“Yes, there’s that,” Éomer agreed, glancing towards Æbbe. Luckily Éothain had shown no reoccurrence of that infatuation. “Welwyn is a much better prospect for him than your sister.” 

Déor grinned. “You are right. Æbbe would lead him a merry dance.”

“Stay then, I can spare you for a few days.”

Dropping his voice, Déor moved closer. “Well, to be honest, I have other reasons.”

Ah…of course, Byrde, Hama's daughter. Everyone would be pleased with that match. It looked as if there would be a few weddings over the coming months, which would help to chase away the inevitable gloom of the difficult winter ahead.

--------

14^th June 3019

Edoras –The Riddermark

Three months of kingship already, but these last weeks back in Meduseld had passed like one of the whirlwinds that sped over the plains in high summer, kicking up dust and spooking the horses. Éomer wondered how he managed on so little sleep, and why every sinew in his body wasn’t aching with the strain of being pulled in so many different directions at once.

Déor had been right: he needed friends around him, friends he could trust to do a task he just didn’t have time for himself. And his opinion of elves had changed dramatically. Elladan and Elrohir might be amongst the most skilled and fiercest warriors he had ever encountered, but during the weeks they had stayed in the hall he had come to welcome and rely on their counsel. He supposed none could live on Middle-earth for nigh on three thousand years without gaining considerable knowledge, and having a father like Elrond of Rivendell, one of the wisest of the wise, was bound to add to that.

Well, he would miss the sons, but looked forward to meeting their father, and maybe even more, their sister. The prospect of setting his eyes on the woman Aragon had chosen was as appealing as it was intriguing. It couldn’t be long: the twins had left at daybreak to meet Arwen and her escort.

Éomer sighed, and put down his quill – he’d need to light a candle, but anyway, he’d had enough juggling with allowances and amounts for that day. Although they were a lot better off than he had dared to hope with the supplies arriving weekly from Gondor. And Erkenbrand had reported the quick-growing beans sprouting well. Not a crop they were familiar with in the Riddermark, but it had readily adapted to the rich soil of the Westfold. And with the haulms providing fodder for their cattle, they would get through.

A tap on the door gave him the excuse he needed to stretch his legs – the escort had been sighted.

Dusk had crept over the plain and Éomer could see nothing moving at first, but then he saw a glow half a league along the road. It reminded him of the luminescence that hung over the reed-marshes on warm evenings, but this trail of ghostly light travelled at a fair pace. Éowyn joined him on the high terrace as the procession disappeared between the barrows. Together they waited: watching the excitement below them as houses emptied, their inhabitants erupting into the street, not wanting to miss such a spectacle.  Soon, ringing out from the gates below they heard the challenge of the guards followed by the musical tinkle of elvish voices wafting upon the evening breeze.

Torches lit the steep path to the hall, and with the horses taken to the stables, the party climbed up between the gawking crowds. In the front strode two elf-lords, their golden hair shining brighter than a summer day. So fair were they that when they reached the bottom of the steps that led up to Meduseld, Éowyn gasped aloud. The man behind them had to be Master Elrond: dark haired, his ageless features a stronger copy of his sons’. And then two beings that walked in light – one a lady with long fair hair and a face he imagined would grace a goddess.  Without being told, Éomer knew he was looking at the Lady Galadriel  – Gimli’s obsession now understandable. Suddenly Éowyn gripped his hand, for gliding up the steps with a brother each side of her, was Arwen, daughter of Elrond, the future Queen of Gondor. Midnight dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her beautiful face radiated her inner joy and when she looked up and smiled at him, Éomer knew why Aragorn had risked all for the love of this woman. But concerned what Éowyn might be feeling he whispered quietly, “Don’t worry, youth is on your side, she’s ages old.”

“Do you see any wrinkles!” Éowyn hissed back.

Too late he remembered the remarkably sensitive hearing of the elves, feeling, rather than hearing, the ripple of amusement around him. Éowyn clapped her hand over her mouth as she realised.  But then her sense of humour took hold, and she started laughing. Grinning, she stepped forward with him to greet their guests.

--------

Gondor

Upon the very Eve of Midsummer, when the sky was blue as sapphire and white stars opened in the East, but the West was still golden and the air was cool and fragrant, the riders came down the North-way to the gates of Minas Tirith. First rode Elrohir and Elladan with a banner of silver, and then came Glorfindel and Erestor and all the household of Rivendell, and after them came the Lady Galadriel and Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien, riding upon white steeds and with them many fair folk of their land, grey-cloaked with white gems in their hair; and last came Master Elrond, mighty among Elves and Men, bearing the sceptre of Annúminas, and beside him upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen his daughter, Evenstar of her people.

Then the King welcomed his guests, and they alighted; and Elrond surrendered the sceptre, and laid the hand of his daughter in the hand of the King, and together they went up into the High City, and all the stars flowered in the sky. And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer, and the tale of their long waiting and labours was come to fulfilment.

From the Return of the King by JRR Tolkien.

---

12 July 3019

Change was everywhere: since the new king had been crowned the river was alive with trade. Lothíriel felt quite excited to think that it was to here, in Pelargir, where he had led the Dead Army to rout the Corsair pirates, liberating the slaves and sailing up the Anduin to victory. She looked down at all the to-ings and fro-ings of the busy port, admitting that although she might not want to go to Minas Tirith to pay her respects to the King and his new queen, she could take pleasure from the journey.  The argument had been long and hard, as she had been fearful of giving up the anonymity she enjoyed in the healing houses for the courts of Gondor, where her failings would be difficult to hide.  But Elphir had got his way, and at least tomorrow she would see her father. Pushing her worries aside, Lothíriel concentrated on her surroundings.  Bigger than the harbour in Dol Amroth, Pelargir had all the same workings – albeit more of them. Stalls with brightly striped awnings lined the road that ran to the dockside, and right below her men and women hawked an incredible assortment of goods. Everything, from food to undergarments, was all laid out on trays hanging from their shoulders. Across the hard, sailors sat outside a seedy looking tavern, and a group of gaudily dress ladies clustered around a tree, calling out to the men on the ships that were berthed along the wall, lifting their skirts and showing their knees to gain attention.  Which was why Sergion had said she must stay on the ship; it was different from home where she knew everybody.

Wild Swan had almost six hours to wait, and it would be nearing midnight before they started the last leg of the journey to the White City. The great swan-prowed ship needed the strong flood tide coming up behind it, for otherwise even with a fair wind it would be difficult to get up the Anduin against the fast current. But the delay gave them time to let the horses stretch their legs, for they had been nearly three days on board. Smelling the land, the lively animals pranced down the gangway, eager to ease their cramps. Sergion joined her on the guardrail as they watched them being taken along the dockside to a special enclosure.  “You look to be enjoying this, Lothíriel. Are you glad you came now?” he asked.

“Not exactly glad, although I am looking forward to meeting our King and Queen, but,” Lothíriel hesitated: he would think her silly, but she hated the gossip and backbiting that went on in the upper echelons of Gondorian society, “I am afraid the Queen will want me to be a Lady-in-Waiting, or something equally awful.”

Sergion stared at her, looking slightly astonished. “Lothíriel, you are a Princess of the Realm, an ambassador for the great fief of Belfalas. And now that you actually look like one, if you behave like one, you will be expected to wait on nobody. Not even a queen.”

Lothíriel nodded, relieved. Thank goodness her mother’s dresses fitted her well and had been stored beautifully over the years. She could not have done this at all had she been expected to wear the eye-catching, frivolous silks most of the ladies favoured. But in the formality of the regal outfits she somehow felt protected and more confident. It was as though the Dol Amroth insignia shielded her from prying eyes. Elphir had been pleased anyway: he hated her in grey smocks with her hair all covered up. Not that she had let Hisael loose on it now:  firmly squashing the maid’s hope of brushing out the heavy braid. 

“You know, Princess, you should really have let your father know that you were coming.” Sergion interrupted her thoughts.

Princess? She grinned at him. Was he practising for the court, or did she look that different?  “If I had done that, Sergion,” she replied, “there would have been a lot of fuss and in any case the letter would not have got there before us.” She realised that Sergion was worried that not only her brothers would be staying at their house in Minas Tirith, and laughed. “Do not worry, I will send word as soon as we get to the City so as not to embarrass him. I am sure my old room will still be free.”

“I am sure it will. Now, let’s go and get some dinner.”

Tomorrow night she would probably be dining in Merethrond. But from what her father wrote, the court had changed a great deal: not nearly so formal. So as long as she stayed close to her family, she might get through it.

-----

The river swept around in a long right hand bend and then, with no warning, the City suddenly appeared –  vast and tall, the tower gleaming white in the sun. She had always loved this sight of it, but as the fields of the Pelennor came into view Lothíriel could see the devastation that had been caused. Homesteads now lay in ruins, and where there should have been crops were great, blackened areas where nothing grew. As they drew nearer, she saw many men working in the ruins, rebuilding and repairing the damage of the terrible battle. Ploughing and planting had started on some fields, whilst others lay untouched. Looking farther, she saw great mounds of earth with new grass growing. Suddenly she felt sick as she realized what they were. How many would have died had they had not won, if the Ring Bearer had not got through?

Sergion organised a wain to take maid and luggage to the City. The horses were unloaded and once they were all safely on the quay, Lothíriel took the reins of her brother’s big dark-grey and led him to an area of soft sand. She scratched his forehead, whispered a soft command in his ear and he obediently knelt on his front legs so she could swing into the saddle.  Convention dictated she presented herself to the King on her arrival, so she should not really be wearing a riding dress – another of her mother’s outfits – but the skirt was so cunningly cut perhaps he would not notice – or hopefully not care. And she liked it because the top was cut high, covering her breasts and exposing only a little flesh. No extravagant decoration to attract attention either – just one small embroidered swan-ship relieved the plainness. But around her head she wore a circle of silver and on the front of it, a small swan made of pearl.

The party set off towards the City Gate, herself and Sergion leading. Four guards were following, dressed in the livery of her House, with pennants flying. It was only then that Lothíriel remembered there were no gates.

The afternoon sun beat down on her head, and there was a haze hanging over the City, the silent stone walls hiding the hustle and bustle  that no doubt was going on inside. As they got nearer she could see that around the outer wall many wooden stables had been built and areas fenced off; horses had been turned out to exercise. This was certainly new, she thought. Before the war, horses had been rare in Minas Tirith, but probably King Elessar’s friendship with Rohan had changed all that. She could see the great gap in the wall where the gates had been, now there were just guards.

As she took in the differences around her, she became aware of two riders leaving the City and heading towards her party. Suddenly one broke away from the other, cantering quickly towards them. She could see it was a man, and then he waved his arm and shouted.

“Lothíriel! It is you!”

“Amroth!” Lothíriel kicked her horse forward to meet her brother, who, when reaching her, sidled his horse alongside her own and plucked her bodily off her saddle, enveloping her in a resounding hug.

“Careful of my dress,” she protested, laughing. “I am supposed to be calling on the King and Queen.”

Amroth let her slide back to her own mount, frowning “Why did you not give warning you were coming?” he asked. “Father won’t be back for a couple of days, or Erchi.”

“But where have they gone, Amroth?” Disappointment made her voice crack. “I was looking forward to seeing them.”

“Well,” he replied with controlled amusement, “they have gone off with Faramir, Mithrandir, and an assortment of Elf Lords.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing, waiting for the explanation.

“Firstly they are to find a suitable place for Faramir to build a house, and then they are travelling through Ithilien hoping all the ‘Elf Light’ will chase away any lingering darkness so that the area can be repopulated.”

“I am surprised Erchirion went. It does not sound like something he would usually do,” she said.

“No, it is not,” Amroth agreed, “but I think he’s hoping to find a couple of orcs that have been missed.”

They both burst out laughing, for they knew their brother well.

“But why didn’t you go, Amroth? You might have enjoyed the experience.”

He grinned, that boyish grin that she loved, and indicated behind him where a pretty young woman sat patiently waiting on her horse.

“I had already committed myself to teach this lady how to ride,” he answered with a twinkle in his eye.

She had to laugh, Amroth never changed.

But the grin left his face and he looked serious for a moment. “Lothíriel, if you are going to see King Elessar, then I think we ought to warn him. He is very newly married!”

“But it is the middle of the afternoon,” she said, wondering is she had caught what he meant correctly.

“Yes, but he was betrothed to Arwen for forty years! In fact I think that is why everyone has gone off, to give them a little peace.”

“Forty years!” Lothíriel echoed amazed. She could not imagine Amroth waiting forty minutes for a woman, let alone forty years.

“Wait here a moment. I will just organise a message to be sent up, although I suppose someone will have noticed Wild Swan in the harbour.”

Lothíriel waited while he had a word with one of the guards on the gate. As he cantered back she knew a messenger would already be running up the steep short-cuts that linked the levels of the city. “Do you wish me to come up with you?” he asked when he reached her again.

“No,” she replied amused, “I would hate for the lady to be disappointed!”

He laughed and said, “You will be able to use our own stables with Father away. The City is much more hospitable to horses now, and besides the stabling outside the wall some empty houses have been converted near to the Citadel. Although they won’t be used until Éomer returns to take King Théoden’s coffin back to Rohan next week.”

She stiffened, memories surfacing. “I shall make sure that I pay my respects to King Théoden.”

“Yes, he deserves some recognition for saving Erchi and me the bother of finishing off that swine Umar.” But then her brother must have realised she wasn’t smiling because he took her hand and rubbed his fingers across her knuckles. “Elphir wrote to father about the siege. You must not blame yourself, the provocation was great. It is over now, Lothíriel.”

“Not for me, Amroth,” she smiled at him, intent on hiding the misery she still felt in her unguarded moments.  They all expected her to get over it, and get on with life. But that was not easy when demons still gnawed relentlessly during the night hours. “I must go now. I cannot put off meeting the King any longer.”

“Go then, I will see you at supper. You will come to love him you know, everyone does.” He thought for a moment and said, “There is something about him that reminds me of you!” She stared at him astonished, but he just laughed and waved a greeting to Sergion. “Tell Sergion we will have a good talk tonight.”

Lothíriel nodded and turned to ride back to her escort, but Amroth called after her. “The hall is full of elves and hobbits. You will love it.”

The air might be heavy and hot, but Lothíriel sensed a new lightness in the City. Voices were a little sweeter; smiles replaced the grim expressions that had greeted her last time she was here. Even the houses looked less inhospitable and forbidding, and some householders had taken the trouble to plant window boxes of summer flowers, softening the hard stone.  It seemed to her that the City had woken up from the long years of shadow, liked what it saw, and joined in wholeheartedly.

Their escort led the horses away at the entrance to the Citadel, and Lothíriel walked with Sergion up through the tunnel, across the Place of the Fountain, and towards the door of the great reception hall that lay beneath the tall, white tower. She had passed that way many times, but never had she seen the lords and ladies of the court strolling in the shade of the walls, talking together and laughing. In her Uncle Denethor’s time the area had been sombre and sad. Then she saw the new sapling that stood in the place of the long dead tree, and gasped. She had heard of it from her father, but had not expected such a small tree to exude so much life.

When she entered the marble hall the change was even greater. Sweet music, song and laughter floated through the vast space. Even the line of statues looked less sinister, with groups of chairs and round tables set amongst them. The door steward bid them wait, and hurried off. Lothíriel looked towards the source of the music and there saw a group of…elves? Some had hair that gleamed silver like dew on a sunny morning, but others were dark, with long raven tresses. Together they strummed and sang, their fair faces alight with joy. But the steward had returned so she and Sergion followed him down the centre of the hall. As they walked its length, Lothíriel noticed that in one of the alcoves on the left, there were what she first took to be four children sitting at a table. As she moved nearer she recognised them from the descriptions in her father’s letters. “Look,” she whispered to Sergion, “the Hobbits.”

Three were playing a board game, noisily; the other was sitting quietly reading. In spite of the warm day there was a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Her heart lurched, for with her seeing eyes she became aware that he appeared quite stretched, and as fragile as gossamer. He must have caught her scrutiny for he looked up. Lothíriel stopped, and Sergion also, both bowing before they passed on to the waiting steward.

The throne at the end of the great hall was empty and as Lothíriel glanced at it the steward said. “The King wishes to see you alone, Princess.”

She looked around at Sergion in sudden panic. He squeezed her arm, “You will be fine. I will wait here for you.”

Lothíriel nodded, and then the steward led her through to an ante-room leading off the hall. He opened the door and announced in a clear and loud voice.

“Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, my Liege!”

Nervous beyond measure now she was this close, Lothíriel forced herself to walk through the door, and the King and Queen rose to meet her.  King Elessar, tall and stately, not unlike her father. But although he was young and lithe in body, the grey eyes that met her reflected long years of life. She bowed her head and when she raised it again looked into the face of the most beautiful woman she could ever have imagined seeing.

“Welcome, Princess Lothíriel,” King Elessar said. “I have heard much about you from your father, and it is good to have you here.”

Lothíriel shook her head, “I am sorry, my lord, that I did not come before.”

He shrugged off her apology and smiled. “I do not blame you, Princess. You had many duties. I sent you ships, full of maimed and injured men, and you coped admirably.”

“It was not me.” Lothíriel hastened to inform him. “I am still learning, but our Healing Master is of the best.  And my brother Elphir”, she went on, “much fell upon him to house and feed so many.”

“I know, and am looking forward to meeting him again.” His gaze fixed on her face.  “But you child, you may still be learning, but I see in you that you do have a great gift to heal.”

Lothíriel thought she had her unhappiness under control, but at those words despair flooded in. Unable to answer, her lips trembled. King Elessar’s eyes softened when he witnessed her distress: laden with compassion, they searched her soul. In one enlightening moment Lothíriel realised that he was the one person who would understand. Breath caught in her chest, so she could only whisper, “That may be, lord, but do you also see that I have the tendency to kill?”  Voicing it made her falter and she swayed. No, not now, she mustn’t! But unheeding her shame, the tears welled up and she could do nothing to stop them.

The king reached forward and put his arms around her. “Your father has told me of your troubles, and I fear you blame yourself.” And at that Lothíriel began to sob, all her past suffering rising like an upwelling of rotting weed from the deep ocean, and great racking sobs shook her body. But the King held her tighter.

Vaguely Lothíriel was aware of Queen Arwen leaving the chamber, but she couldn’t stop crying. Ambassador?  He would think her a feeble-minded fool! She’d never be able to come to court again. But no apology left her lips, and she could only gulp air. The King said nothing, and just held her until gradually the sobs subsided, and then he eased her down into the seat recently vacated by the Queen. His voice was close to her ear, soothing and reassuring. He put a goblet of wine in her hand and when she had calmed said, “I think a change would be good for you. We are all leaving for Edoras in a few days, for the funeral of King Théoden. Your father, brothers, Faramir. You must come.”

“No!  She must not.” A voice like nothing she had ever heard before – music and light, a whip of steel.

Lothíriel jerked her head around to the door: Queen Arwen had come back in, and with her a tall lady clothed all in white, the Elven power streaming out in a radiance that filled the chamber with light.

Feeling as though she was part of a dream, Lothíriel looked at the King in confusion. “Lady Galadriel disagrees with me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I will bow to her greater wisdom.”

“It is not yet her time to go to Rohan, for at the appointed hour Rohan will come to her.”

The Lady Galadriel held out her hand, “Come child, for you have walked too long in the shade of guilt.” 

As in a daze, Lothíriel took her hand, and they went together, out into the sunshine.

----

To be continued.

---

Original characters appearing or mentioned in this chapter.

Mistress Guleth -    An aide in the Healing Houses. Originally from Lamedon. Treated Éomer in Cormallen and became his mistress.

Guflaf -               A Rider of the East-mark. Was on Éomer’s first patrol and ridden with him since. Lost an arm at Helm’s Deep – tended by Aragorn.

Éomund  -           The orphaned son of Bergit and Edwick – current age is 9.

Félewyn -             The orphaned daughter of Bergit and Edwick – current age is 6.

Edyth-                Cousin to Éomer, related through his father. Wife of Beorn, foster-mother to Éomund and Félewyn.

Beorn-                A rider of the East-mark. Husband to Edyth and foster-father to Éomund and   Félewyn.

Gárbald -          Collie dog hidden with Éomund and Félewyn when their parents were killed.

Déor-                       Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. A Rider in Elfhelm’s éored, given his own command for the Battle of the Pelennor.

Eorllic-                    Déor’s father. Left in command of Aldburg when Éomer rode to war in Gondor

Elwyth-                    Déor’s mother

Welwyn-                Daughter to Erkenbrand and Winfrith. Wounded in the Battle of Helm’s Deep and healed by Aragorn.

Byrhtwyn               Hama’s widow.

Byrde                     Hama’s youngest daughter.

Sergion -             Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Chapter 24

At length after fifteen days of journey the wain of King Théoden passed through the green fields of Rohan and came to Edoras; and there they all rested. The Golden Hall was arrayed with fair hangings and it was filled with light, and there was held the highest feast that it had known since the days of its building. For after three days the Men of the Mark prepared the funeral of Théoden; and he was laid in a house of stone with his arms and many other fair things that he had possessed, and over him was raised a great mound, covered with green turves of grass and of white evermind. And now there were eight mounds on the east-side of the Barrowfield

When the burial was over and the weeping of women was stilled, and Théoden was left at last alone in his barrow, then folk gathered to the Golden Hall for the great feast and put away sorrow; for Théoden had lived to full years and ended in honour no less than the greatest of his sires. And when the time came that in the custom of the Mark they should drink to the memory of the kings, Éowyn Lady of Rohan came forth, golden as the sun and white as snow, and she bore a filled cup to Éomer.

Then Éowyn bade those that served to fill the cups, and all there assembled rose and drank to the new king, crying: ‘Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!’

From the Return of the King by JRR Tolkien.

----

14^th August 3019

 Edoras - The Riddermark

“Scatha the worm? It came from a dragon’s hoard?” Merry’s eyes lit with wonderment as he turned the small horn over in his hands to study the engraved horsemen that galloped from tip to mouth.

“It did indeed.” Éomer said. “And the size belies the power of its call.” He laughed, placing his hand affectionately on Merry’s shoulder. He’d become really fond of the hobbit who had saved his sister’s life.  “When you come to visit us again, sound it as you spy the golden roof of Meduseld, and all of Edoras will rush to meet you.”

“Oh, I will come. I promise you, Éomer. Strider…I mean Elessar, says he will make the roads safe and travel will be much easier.” Merry lips twisted into a half-grin. “To be honest, I want to go home, but I wonder how easy it will be to settle down to a quiet life. And I will miss you all so much.”

“We will miss you too, Merry,” Éowyn said, the corners of her mouth turning down. But then she let out a chuckle of amusement. “Although, I can’t imagine anywhere being quiet with you around. Especially if Pippin is in the vicinity as well.”

“That’s true,” Éomer agreed, grinning – the two younger hobbits always fully contributing to the singing and story telling. “We have enjoyed some lively evenings.” He squeezed Merry’s shoulder. “It’s nearly time for you to leave, and I must speak to others.” Éomer left him and Éowyn to finish their goodbyes, and strode over to Frodo and Sam, who were talking to Aragorn at the far end of the terrace.

After a few minutes’ conversation, Aragorn pulled him aside. “Walk down with me. You can accompany Arwen back up the hill.”

“I intended to come anyway,” Éomer replied. “I wish to take my leave of Gandalf. But I am surprised Arwen is not going with you. I would have thought she wanted as much time as possible with her father.”

“More words will change nothing. They have talked and talked, long into every night, and she went into the hills with him a couple of hours ago, just as dawn was breaking.  Arwen is insistent she has had enough journeying for a while and wishes to remain here until I get back.” Aragorn paused, his face showing an unusual amount of anxiety. Éomer could understand that. Having waited so long for her, he probably didn’t want to let his wife out of sight.

“I intend to return within two sennights.  “You will look after her? Keep her safe?”

Éomer smiled reassuringly: men ever feared for women and not themselves. “Aragorn, you don’t have to ask. She is your wife. I would give my life to protect her. You know that.”

A hard hand landed between his shoulders blades. “Yes, my friend, I do.” There is no man I trust more.”

By the time he and Aragorn reached the green space outside the walls, no trace of the Elven encampment remained, the silken tents rolled into the smallest of packages. The Royal Guard of Gondor was lined up ready to leave; soldiers were fixing last bundles to various pack animals and stablemen checking the tack.  Some husbandmen had arrived to clear up after the Elven horses – maybe they thought the dung had extra powers! A large group of the citizens of Edoras hung around by the wall, taking their final look at the fair-folk of Rivendell and Lothlórien.  They’d better look now, for none here would see such a gathering again. Amongst all, the Elves stood out as stately flowers sprinkled amid rank weeds. Their mounts has been saddled and waited quietly – like the fully trained horses of the Mark, Elven steeds needed no tethers.

With Aragorn drawn into a discussion on the journey arrangements, Éomer cast his eyes over Asfaloth, the horse that had carried Frodo away from the wraiths, and then to Shadowfax who cropped grass a little way off. Looking at the two magnificent animals together, one could believe in the common ancestry.

“I see it is our horses that attract the attention of the Lord of this land, and not my lovely elf-maidens.” 

Éomer had got used to elves seeming to appear from nowhere and was pleased that he managed not to jump. Galadriel’s laugh tinkled like water flowing over pebbles, her hair shone fair as the summer sun. And true, her attendants were lovely, beautiful even, but like her, they struck him as something to be admired rather than actually touched. He didn’t say that, instead, “Their radiance dims in my lady’s presence.”

This time she didn’t laugh, and her eyes appraised him thoughtfully. “So, a Horse-lord can be silver-tongued when the occasion demands.”

Éomer chuckled. “It is something I am working on. The men of my éored never minded how much I bawled at them. The ladies of the court are more sensitive, and my advisors more easily offended.” He sighed. “I think in the future words will become weapons to use with care. Every time I open my mouth I am expected to say something important.”

Galadriel’s eyes flickered with light. As in every encounter he had had with the Lady, he felt his mind opened like a page in a book – one she could read better than him. “You must not worry, young king. The future is always dependant on the events of the past. And there are those who have shaped the past to secure your future.” She held out her hand before he could respond. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Éomer took it to his lips. A beautiful hand – smooth, white skin; long, shapely nails.

“Farewell, we shall not meet again.” A whirl of white, and Galadriel was gone.

Éomer’s eyes followed her until she disappeared amongst the press of horses, materialising a few moments later atop her grey mare. Béma! He’d thought Gandalf talked in riddles, but she was worse. Give him a woman of solid flesh and blood.

---

21^st August 3019

Meduseld – The Riddermark

Slumped back in his chair, aware that he was becoming increasingly maudlin, Éomer twirled the stem of his goblet around in his fingers, watching his sister.  Stretched up on tiptoe, she pointed at figures depicted on a tapestry, enthusiastically explaining the significance to Arwen. Éomer stared at the wall-hanging in question, realising the picture showed Folcred and Fastred, killed years before in the service of Gondor, plus the wain hauling the wergild to their father. Not a lot different from the present circumstances, only now the wagons coming up the Great West Road carried supplies to see the Mark’s beleaguered people through the winter.

Éowyn moved to the next tapestry, and Éomer had to admire her: she had spent the last week trying to keep Arwen’s mind off the fact that she would never see her father again. Not that Arwen had shown any undue melancholy, those ageless, grey eyes hiding her thoughts. Only that first day had she given away the depth of her loss, when she had sat alone on one of the seats outside the hall, refusing the food and drink he’d taken out. Feeling helpless, he had let her be until an hour before supper when a chill wind had sprung up, an unpleasant threat of rain upon its breath. He’d gone out again, this time to put his cloak around her shoulders. That had broken her reverie, and they had talked until the bell was rung for the meal, mostly about Aragorn.

Well, Aragorn would return to Edoras in about a week, and the last of the guests would be going. Hopefully, if Aragorn’s predictions were correct, to Dol Amroth by way of the Dimholt Road. Opening the way under the mountains would mean all sorts of trading possibilities; salt fish from the coast, fruit, vegetables and wine from the fertile south facing valleys of the White Mountains. Next year they would have wheat, barley and oats to trade, and he could let some of their horses go, confident that in the peace the herds would recover their former glory. Just one of Rohan’s highly trained horses would buy a lot of essential goods for the Riddermark, and a few luxuries. Yes, he could see life improving.

His eyes searched out Imrahil. The Prince had promised to help him set up markets for their goods in the South, another advantage of the increasing friendship between them. Imrahil was talking to his lady, Calaerdis, and to Elfhelm and Wilflede, whose belly had grown so big it looked liable to pop. Although the babe was not due for another month. Which reminded him: where had Éothain and Welwyn sloped off to? Éomer sighed; he would have to speak to Éothain. The wedding was not until Yuletide when her parents could attend, but Welwyn had come to court to learn its ways from Éowyn. He was responsible for her until then and did not fancy dealing with Erkenbrand’s wrath if anything happened to his daughter before the wedding. Déor, on the other hand, showed no inclination to do other than sit close to Byrde in full view of the rest of the hall. A good thing with the wedding not until March, Byrde not wishing to leave her mother alone in her grief.

But there would be another, even more important, wedding in March. Éomer glanced round at Faramir. The Steward also sat back comfortably in his chair with a large goblet of wine in his hand, long legs stretched out under the table. His eyes were fixed on Éowyn and he had a contented look plastered across his face. Realising Éomer was watching him, he smiled. “Éowyn and Arwen get on well. Out of kindness, Éowyn has done her very best to try and keep Arwen busy this week, and, out of kindness, the Queen has never once shown that she would rather have been left alone to think.”

Éomer chuckled: at Faramir’s perception, and his understanding of Éowyn’s forthright ways. “I think you love my sister very much.”

An eyebrow rose. “Do you mind?”

Éomer smiled at him, “No, of course I do not. You are just what she needs, although I will admit that I shall miss her greatly.” He laughed at his own thoughts. “What I cannot understand is how you can bear to wait until next March to marry her. I think that if I felt for a woman the way you do for Éowyn, I would be throwing her over my saddle and riding off somewhere quiet.”

Faramir took a gulp from his goblet before answering. “There is the small matter of somewhere to live. But Éomer,” he carried on, “there is a difference between love and lust, you know. Love will wait.”

Éomer thought about that for a moment. “I am not convinced.”

“Well, a cold bath helps,” said Faramir, eyes twinkling.

Éomer burst out laughing. Still chuckling, he reached for the wine jug and refilled both their goblets to the brim. Faramir continued to surprise him, and the more they had got to know each other, the closer their relationship had become. It struck him, that in looks and acuity, Faramir resembled Imrahil very much. And Amroth come to that, when the young prince could be induced to be serious. Once again he wondered why Amroth had not come to Edoras, having been surprised when he had returned to Minas Tirith to collect Théoden’s body, to find that instead of coming with them as planned, Amroth had changed his mind and returned home to Dol Amroth. ‘Family matters,’ Imrahil had said. Éomer was disappointed, he liked Amroth very much, enjoyed his jocular company. But perhaps his elder brother had needed help, although from what he had heard Prince Elphir was quite capable of ruling Belfalas in his father’s absence. Maybe there was trouble with the odd daughter. Hadn't Merry said something about her turning up in Minas Tirith? But perhaps he had been mistaken. Éomer felt sorry for Imrahil, but it happened in the best of families. A pity there was not another daughter, a younger one. That might have solved one of his problems.

“Deep in thought, Éomer?”

Startled from his musings, he blurted it out before he had time to think. “Faramir, I need a wife!”

A slow smile crept across Faramir’s face. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said thoughtfully, “but is it such a problem? From what I have seen, Éomer, many of the Ladies of Gondor would be happy to oblige.”

Éomer realised he must have pulled a face because it was Faramir’s turn to laugh.  “I gather from your reaction that none pleased you.”

“I am sure there are some very lovely ladies in Gondor, but those I met at the court tended to be too …,” he sought for words,  “… affected for my taste. And don’t forget, you would have had plenty of opportunity with them, yet you waited for my sister!”

“Hmm…true. I admit that I have always likened them to a disappointing meal – beautifully presented, but tastes sharp on the tongue.”

Éomer spluttered into his wine.

“Also, my friend,” Faramir carried on, glancing towards Éowyn, “do you not find that what is so blatantly on offer is not nearly as desirable as that which is not?”

“How very true,” Éomer chuckled. “But it doesn’t solve my problem.”

“What about your own country? There must be suitable ladies who would relish being queen.”

“Well, I suppose there are a few who would accept the job, but none that make my heart beat any faster. The trouble is that the situation is getting desperate.” He grinned over the top of his goblet.  “We have very cold winters!”

“If that is the case,” suggested Faramir with a wry look, “why not solve your problem in the way powerful men have been inclined to do through the ages?”

 “And what way is that?”  Éomer retorted, a bit suspicious of Faramir’s meaning.

But the grey eyes twinkled again. “Find a lady willing to warm your bed until a good match comes along!”

“Oh! That’s what I hoped you meant.” Éomer said, relieved. “Although, it’s not quite that easy in the Riddermark. It has always been frowned upon for the lords of this land to take and discard at will. Of course,” he added, “there are always some who will oblige. But if I make an advance to any lady, she will expect to be queen!”

 “So, what have you done during the hot-blooded years of your youth?”

Probably, if he hadn’t been drinking so deeply, Éomer would have made some light remark, but within a moment he found himself telling Faramir about Bergit. What was it about this man?  Memories he had managed to push aside during the war, surfaced with their usual guilt and pain. “I swear I would never have instigated anything myself,” he said at last. “But she turned up in my quarters one night and …,” he shrugged, “…our relationship continued for a good many years.”

 “Did her husband know?” asked Faramir.

Éomer shrugged his shoulders again. “I hope not. We always got on well. I would sit with him in the evenings and share some ale. As I said, he was a good man.”

“What happened in the end?” Faramir asked.

Even now he couldn’t voice the details. “Their village was raided by orcs. I was far away. She hid the children, but wouldn’t leave Edwick. She loved him, and died defending him.”

“The women of the Mark always amaze me,” Faramir mused.

They drank in silence for a moment.

Faramir suddenly looked up and asked. “Who was the lady I saw coming out of your rooms in Minas Tirith? It was very early one morning.”

Éomer laughed, banishing the shadows. “Believe me, Faramir, I did not really instigate that either.”

“You gave her a horse!” Faramir exclaimed after Éomer had told him about Guleth. “How is she going to explain that?”

“I told her to say that she had nursed me back to health!”

Faramir raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

 “And now you know my dark secrets, are we any nearer finding me a wife?”

“Well,” said Faramir, entering into the spirit of it, “what sort of woman do you want?”

“I know what I do not want,” Éomer replied, “not some meek lady, who will lie submissively beneath me to produce an heir for Rohan. I want a queen, proud and strong, to rule alongside me.” He looked to the other end of the Hall and then turned and gave Faramir a sideways grin, “One with the beauty and compassion of Arwen, and the bravery and loyalty of my sister.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Faramir guffawed, “it is well to know that you are not setting your sights too high. Now we know that, it should be easy!”

“One can hope,” said Éomer standing up, his head spinning slightly. “I must get some air after all that wine.”

He turned to go, but Faramir called him sharply back. “Fool that I am, the drink is addling my mind. Éomer, I may have the answer.”

Éomer raised a brow speculatively, “Really, so soon?”

“Maybe,” he replied. “You have not yet seen the best that Gondor has to offer. Wait until my wedding; she will be there.”

“Who?” asked Éomer.

“A relative of mine...”

“Faramir, if you are going to try and foist that awful cousin of yours on me, then let me tell you...”

“Cousin? What cousin are you talking about? You have not met…”

“The one with the hawk nose …Heleguin, I think. Every time I left my quarters she managed to be around. ”

“Heleguin?” A frown puckered Faramir’s brow. “I agree she is an irritating woman, and I suppose she is a cousin, but a very distant one. No, I meant another, but I will say no more about her yet.” Placing a hand on his arm, Faramir looked deep into his eyes. “Promise me you will wait. Do not choose a wife until the spring. I have a feeling about this.”

Sensing the sincerity in Faramir’s appeal, Éomer nodded. “All right, my friend, I agree. I will wait.” He turned to go again, and Faramir got up as well. But he shook his head when Éomer asked him if he was coming outside.

“No, I imagine you will be some time talking to that mettlesome beast of yours. I will have a few words with Imrahil before I see if I can persuade Éowyn to take a last stroll on the terrace.”

Imrahil looked up as he heard his name, in time to see Éomer slap Faramir’s arm in a friendly goodnight. “I am sure you will have no trouble,” Éomer added, heading for the doors.

As Faramir marched across the hall towards him, Imrahil pursed his lips in amusement. “You have a very determined stride, Faramir.”

Rising from her seat, Calaerdis nodded to Faramir, “It looks as though you wish to talk, my lord, so I will take the opportunity to retire.” Elfhelm and Wilflede followed her lead and also excused themselves.

“Did I scare them all away?” Faramir asked as he sat down next to Imrahil.

“You do have a rather purposeful look on your face.”

 “Éomer wants a wife,” Faramir told him bluntly.

“Ah…,” said Imrahil. “I wondered what you two were talking about.”

“Have you heard how Lothíriel is?”

“So, that’s the way your mind is working, is it?” Had the thought crossed his own –probably – at least in his optimistic moments? But he waited for what Faramir had to say.

“I don’t know why I didn’t remember before. It only came to me whilst we were talking. She told me years ago that she would marry a king. You remember when she went missing and met that soothsayer fellow. It was one of the things he told her: a king with fair hair.”

Imrahil cast his mind back. “I don’t remember her telling me anything about a king, but she did say she would never marry Umar because he had black hair.”

“It would be a wonderful match.”

“For Gondor? Or for my daughter? You are talking like your father, Faramir.”

“For all of us.  You would surely welcome it.”

Imrahil sighed. “For her to find love with a good man is what I wish for most. But it depends on Lothíriel. Aragorn has total confidence that the Lady Galadriel will have helped her. I would have gone back home myself, but Amroth was the obvious choice. And if Elphir had not written to say there were great improvements, I would not be lingering here now.”

“If Elphir is confident…”

“I will wait until I see her with my own eyes before I entertain any hopes.” Imrahil interrupted him. “I need to be sure she could cope with being Queen of Rohan. But if they happen to be attracted to one another, then the trust I have in Éomer would probably outweigh any fears of her being so far away from home.” He mused on the possibilities for a moment, “You did not say anything to him?”

“Nothing much. I hinted that I had a suitable relative, and advised him to wait until my wedding before choosing a wife.”

“Well,” said Imrahil, “I think it would be best if I mention nothing to Lothíriel. I can judge her mindset over the winter. Only if I am happy will I let fate continue what it has started.”

---

22^nd August 3019

Belfalas

“Lothy, you are getting that all over you.”

His sister looked up, held the impaled fish in one hand and wiped the back of the other across her greasy mouth. She grinned impishly, white teeth bright against her tanned skin.

“Am I?” Taking another bite of the fish, Lothíriel leant forward and let the juices drip down onto the sand rather than over her leggings. “I am going for a swim afterwards, so it doesn’t matter,” she said, licking the bits from her fingers.

“I will say one thing, Amroth. You know how to catch and cook a fish.” Finishing his, Oríon used the stick to flick the head and remaining bone up into the air. Immediately a gull swooped down, snatching the offering without missing a wing beat.

It was true, he liked fishing. And they always tasted better cooked over an open fire when really fresh. “Do you want another? This one’s ready.”  Amroth retrieved the fish from where he had balanced it between two tripods over the fire, and passed it to Oríon. He took another from the canvas bucket, gutted it, and threaded a piece of sharpened wood right through its mouth and into its tail, before supporting it over the embers. He threw the guts into the sea. The opportunist gull swooped again, but too late, as with a splash, a gaping mouth plucked the bloody entrails from under its indignant beak. Squawking furiously the gull gained height, scolding its displeasure as it circled around them.

“Here, gull, have this!” Lothíriel shouted.

Amroth felt something hit him in the back as he hovered over the fire. Putting up his hand he came away with a smelly mess of fishbone and skin. By the time he turned, Lothíriel and Oríon were collapsed in laughter.

“Sorry,” Lothíriel giggled. “I tried to flick it like Oríon, but it went in the wrong direction. It’s a good job you haven’t got a shirt on.”

He glared at her, which sent her into more giggles. “You can come and watch this one whilst I wash myself off.” Lothíriel rearranged her expression and slid on her bum a few yards to sit by the fire. She looked up at him from under her lashes, lips twitching. “Don’t let it burn,” he ordered.

When he returned, damp but clean, Lothíriel passed him a perfectly cooked fish. “You are learning,” he said, grinning at her.

Lothíriel sighed, lying back on the sand. “It’s so beautiful here. And I had forgotten how much fun it was to camp on the islands. We used to do it a lot, didn’t we?”

They did. When they were young. Before the shadow had darkened all their lives until the only reality was war and death. And before Lothíriel had been confined behind stone walls for her own protection, until, driven into her own secret hell, she had created walls around herself.  But their last visit seemed like an age ago, and the little necklace of islands around the coast had been left to the birds and the crabs. Amroth let his eyes linger on his sister – he should have realised how bad it was. He should have helped her before, should have gone straight home after the battles and not immersed himself in pleasure seeking. It had taken the Lady Galadriel to tell him – to tell them all – what Lothíriel needed. So obvious really: her innocent childhood had been stolen when that desert snake hadpursued her so relentlessly. She had to find it again before she could even begin to heal.

Lothíriel sat up. “What are you thinking, Amroth? You are staring at me.”

“I am thinking that you don’t look much like a princess.” Her hair tied in a loose plait, a grubby linen shirt, and even grubbier hose, she looked like a waif. A waif who spent most of her time under the sun. Saying nothing, Lothíriel wiggled her brown toes into the sand, and stretched her arm out to pick up a pretty pink and black shell, but as her fingers touched it the shell got up and scurried farther along the beach. Something else in disguise.

Lothíriel laughed as the hermit crab settled again, well out of reach. “But it’s fun. I shall go back to being a princess at the end of the summer when father comes home. For now, I am enjoying the freedom.”

Amroth smiled. It had been fun for him as well – the wild rides, splashing though surf tinged pink from the dawn; the picnics in the woods with the dogs bringing them supper; racing their boats across the Haven – a cleansing time after all the filth and carnage of the Pelennor, and the excesses of the celebrations. “All three of us are enjoying it, Lothíriel.”

“And for a bit longer, I hope,” Oríon murmured. He lay flat on his back gazing up pensively. “Those clouds look like a flock of stupid sheep waiting to be rounded up.”

Lothíriel glanced at the puffy clouds amidst the blue. “See!” she said, and jabbed him in the side. “Get you away from those charts and plans and you can be as childish as the rest off us.”

Rubbing his ribs, Oríon sat up and looked straight at her. “A good idea from the Elf Lady. What else did she say to you?”

Amroth waited for Lothíriel’s face to stiffen and her to clam up, but surprising him, she looked thoughtful, as if she was trying to recall. He caught Oríon’s eye. His friend winked. Would they get her to the next stage – persuading her to talk about it?

“She didn’t wave her hand and make everything all right, if that is what you are thinking. I remember she said the same as you, Oríon: that it was me thathad to help the scars to fade. At first I heard her voice, melodious, insistent, but then it was like the thoughts were there without her speaking, impinging on my mind.  Sometime, then or since, I do not know, I realised that the constant scourging of myself had to stop. Forgiving others can be difficult, but forgiving oneself even harder. You two have helped enormously by spending so much time with me, but the final curative can only come from within. I see it within my grasp, then just as I reach out, it slips away.” Lothíriel dug her hand into the sand, lifted it up and let the grains trickle through her fingers. “But each day I get a little closer.”

She stopped and Amroth thought she would say nothing more, but Lothíriel sighed deeply.  “When we talked about the healing she told me that amongst her people many had the gift, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t do other things. She said I had been born a princess, and I could not escape that fate. I will not run from it any more.”

Another pause and she smiled wistfully. “I know now, Amroth that I don’t have to continually work in the Healing Houses. The knowledge is there for when it is needed, but I have other things to do than bandage cut fingers and treat old men for gout. Tell that to Elphir when he asks you how I am getting on. He will be pleased.”

----

September 3019

The sea. They had glimpsed it all day, but as they rounded a bend, the vista opened up and he saw the vast expanse of ocean stretching to the horizon. A few boats were fishing between the islands, and a trader crossed the Haven on route to Dol Amroth from Edhellond. Tonight he would be eating in his own hall.

Imrahil glanced over to the woman riding next to him. As always she looked elegant and composed, the dark red of her riding dress setting off her fair skin and black hair. His decision to take her to his home had not come easily, but since the war, Calaerdis had been his constant companion. Now he didn’t want to give her up. And as long as the conventions were outwardly maintained, it shouldn’t cause too much talk. But it was dependant on her getting on with Lothíriel. Elphir knew Calaerdis would be coming and would have told her, but if there was a problem he had to put his daughter first. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. He saw that Calaerdis had raised herself from her saddle, to look towards Dol Amroth. “We will be there by this evening,” he said to her.

“I shall be glad,” she answered. “I have run out of dry clothes.”

Hmm… not a good journey. First that awful tunnel – of the women, only Calaerdis and Arwen had sat straight in their saddles, the maids huddling fearfully under enveloping cloaks. Then the rain – the weather had broken just after they had left Éomer at Erech. That evening they had watched the lightening searing across the southern sky. But the worst of the storm had stayed on the coast, and the next two days they had just a persistent downpour to contend with.  But now it was sunny and warm again, and Calaerdis looked happy their journey neared its end, although she must be a little apprehensive of how she would be accepted. He supposed that if she did not feel comfortable in the Palace, she would sail on to Minas Tirith with Aragorn and Arwen. That would be a great shame.

The road between Edhellond and Dol Amroth ran along the edge of the Cobas Haven, following the pinewoods that spread down to the dunes. So the sea was obscured again until the road turned and headed straight for the city and the port. Between the road and the high walls the home paddock showed as a swathe of green after the recent rain. A few horses nibbled at the grass. “That’s my old charger, Warlord,” he pointed out to Aragorn. The horse looked up at the sound of many hooves, cantering over to the fence to investigate those who broke the peace of a warm afternoon. The others in the field followed him, kicking their heels in excitement at the great influx of their kin. But then Imrahil’s attention got taken by movement around the gates. Out marched a guard, blue and silver tunics vivid against the grey stone. The soldiers lined up each side of the road, spears pointing to the heavens. On the battlements above the gates a dozen trumpeters appeared. And two standards flapped limply, waiting to be raised high as soon as he and Aragorn entered the city.

“Imrahil,” Aragorn came alongside. “Once we are inside, forget the protocol. Your family will want to greet you first. You have been away for months.”

Imrahil nodded, Gondor’s king was not a strutting parrot, full of his own importance, but a strong, caring man, for whom he had total respect. “I think they will wait on the Palace steps, so we will be out of sight of the common crowd. But you must take precedence until then.”

As Imrahil thought, the people crammed the square, with only a narrow lane left leading to the gates of the Palace. Guards kept them back, but it was almost an impossible task as the citizens surged forward eager for their fist glimpse of King Elessar and his Elven Queen.

Once through the crush and in the Palace courtyard, Imrahil dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. They were all there waiting: Elphir holding Alphros in his arms; Meren looking pretty; Amroth grinning; Sergion, Oríon, and other nobles, standing in order of rank. But no Lothíriel.  But before he could be anxious about her absence a clear voice called out from the doors.

 “Father!” 

Imrahil looked up, as his precious, beautiful daughter flew down the steps and, oblivious to King and Queen, ran straight into his arms. Gone were the prudish plait and the unbecoming clothes. Clouds of soft black curls framed her face; her gown was sea-green, nipped and tucked to show off her tiny waist, the neckline cut low edged with silver lace.

Feeling a great weight lift from him, Imrahil hugged her against his chest, burying his lips in her fragrant hair. Her change of look must mean she had started to make headway through the mire. “Make your obeisance to Elessar and Arwen,” he whispered. “And after that there is someone I would like you to meet.”

Calaerdis inclined her head very slightly, exactly right for a high-ranking, older lady being introduced to a young princess.

The warm smile on Lothíriel’s face told him all he needed to know. “Welcome, Lady Calaerdis. My father wrote that you would be our guest for some time. The Blue Chambers in the West Wing have been made ready for you.”

Imrahil nearly choked in surprise, but managed to turn it into a cough. The Blue Chambers were on a different level to his, but connected by one of the hidden stairs that abounded in the Palace.

---

The last time the Great Hall had been prepared so splendidly had been for Elphir’s and Meren’s wedding. Then masses of bluebells had softened the stone. But the candles and lamps would be lit tonight, so they only needed to put flowers on the tables. Lothíriel tucked some large blooms from their native passion-vine into the massive silver centrepieces, and added some ferns to give height.   Her fingers trailed along the feathery edge of a fern for a moment as a memory of Lady Tinusel caused an inward chuckle – if her eccentric friend were here, she would already be fanning herself with one of the long fronds.

She stood back to check the arrangement and caught sight of her father. He and King Elessar were studying the ancient banners of the last Kings of Gondor that hung on the end wall.

“That’s lovely, Lothíriel. You and Meren have worked hard.”

“Oh, Lady… I mean, Calaerdis. Do you think these look good enough? They grow everywhere here, but I do love them.”

Calaerdis gently touched one of the vibrant, pink flowers. “I always think they are very beautiful, and very exotic. A little like you, my dear, with your wonderful colouring and unusual eyes.”

Lothíriel’s hands flew to her face. “I tan so easily, and I really hate having to stay indoors. At least when I next go to Minas Tirith it will be at the end of the winter. I must make an effort to keep out of the sun.”

“Now why should you do that? I understand you love riding and sailing.”

Lothíriel chewed her lip. “The ladies at the court will think me even stranger. When I was there before I found it hard to dress and act like them.”

“Do you wish to dress like them?” Calaerdis asked, her eyes running up and down Lothíriel’s delicate blue gown.

“Not really. I know I cannot wear riding dresses all the time, but I wore this to show my father I am getting better. However, I am not sure flimsy silks suit me. But that is what the ladies of the court all wear.”

“Lothíriel, within reason you must do as you please. You must not slavishly follow the dictates of convention. I try not to.” She raised a dark brow and her eyes lit with mischief. “I can get away with a certain amount of unusual behaviour because I am very rich, you because you are a princess.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help laughing at that. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. I love designing clothes, perhaps over the winter we could keep the seamstresses busy.”

“I think we are nearly ready.” Imrahil interrupted them.

“Oh, Father,” Lothíriel grabbed his arm. “Calaerdis is going to help me replenish my wardrobe.” 

“Is she? Then we had better organize some merchants to call. We will talk about it later; the musicians have taken their places, and the trumpeters are lining up.”

Surrounded by people she had known all her life as well as those she had become fond of, Lothíriel enjoyed the incredible splendour and pageantry. She knew Elphir had been determined that Dol Amroth would honour their liege-lord with unrivalled magnificence. But she would be glad for some intimate time with their royal guests. What with everyone being tired after the journey the first night, the King and Queen touring the port and the city with her father all day, and the banquet tonight, there had not been much chance.

---

But the next night they all got together in the family’s private dining room. So much to talk about: Lothíriel wanted to hear about the finding of the White Tree from the King, for one of her regrets was that she had not stayed long enough in the City to meet Mithrandir. The last time the wizard had visited Dol Amroth, she had been too young to remember. Now she might never get the chance to see him. Elphir asked some more questions about the battles, but his father firmly silenced him, saying it was too gory for the ladies.

“Then tell us about Rohan, Father. Is the hall really golden?” Amroth butted in.

Lothíriel felt a flush rise up from her neck, and quickly put her goblet to her lips to hide her face in case anyone might notice. She couldn’t understand why she’d only recalled it a few days ago. She had remembered about the healing and that it would have importance in her life, the old man telling her she wouldn’t marry a man with dark hair, and about her horse. But she had been only twelve, and so much had happened over the years, she must have forgotten the rest.  The storm had done it – when she’d sat on her window seat looking out at the lightening sizzling into the foaming waves. There had been a storm out to sea the night she’d run away, which was perhaps why it had come back to her – a searing flash, a huge crack of thunder and she’d heard Seron’s  voice clearly. A fair-haired warrior! A king!  She was sure there was more that wouldn’t come, however hard she tried to recall it.  And what had the Lady said – Rohan will come to you. She had barely six months to complete her cure and prepare herself for a meeting that might change her life.

Putting down her goblet, Lothíriel sat back and listened to her father describing King Théoden’s funeral, so different from the burial of her grandfather. And then the feast when Faramir’s betrothal had been announced. She whispered to her cousin who sat next to her, “I told you that you would find great love.”

“Hmm…so you did.” Faramir winked at her. “Perhaps we ought to have you on the council. You might be able to tell us what Gondor’s enemies are thinking.”

“Is King Éomer really happy that his sister will be coming to Gondor?” Elphir addressed both his father and Faramir.

“Undoubtedly he will miss her,” Imrahil answered. “But he wants her happiness more than anything.”

Lothíriel could remain quiet no longer, the wine made her bold. “And what is King Éomer like?”

Silence. No one answered. She looked from her father to Faramir and then to Erchi. Was there something wrong with him and they felt embarrassed to say? “Well?” she said.

“He is a very great warrior,” Erchi replied at last.

Her father nodded his agreement. “And he is going to make an excellent ruler. Rohan will be safe in his hands, and we are sure he will be a good friend to Gondor.”

“I have understood that from what you have been saying, but what does he look like?”

Again no one answered, although she was sure the King’s lips twitched. But he didn’t say anything so she carried on. “Must I assume that he has warts on the end of his nose?”

“No, he has not!” her father barked, unusually irritated.

“He is very tall,” Faramir contributed.

 “If you would like a woman’s opinion of him, Lothíriel, then I would say he reminds me of a lion. A large, golden lion.”  Calaerdis was sitting opposite, so Lothíriel could see the amusement on her face, which made her respond glibly.

“A lion?” she spluttered. “Do you mean that he sits around all day and roars while the lionesses do all the work?”

Everyone except Arwen burst into laughter. The Queen’s lips only twitched and she waited until the laughter subsided. “Calaerdis means, Lothíriel, that he has a mane of long, shaggy hair.”

“Shaggy hair!” she echoed, trying not to grin. “Does he not wash or take care of his person?”

“Yes, of course he does! You, young lady, have been spending too much time with Amroth!” Her father sounded totally exasperated and determinedly changed the subject.

---

To be continued.

Look out for the next chapter folks!

---

List of Original Character appearing or mentioned in this chapter.

Gondorians:-

Mistress Guleth-    An aide in the Healing Houses. Originally from Lamedon. Treated Éomer in Cormallen and became his mistress.

Lady Heleguin-       A relative of Faramir’s

Sergion-                 Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defense of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Oríon-                     Son to Sergion. Childhood friend of Amrothos and Lothíriel

Lady Calaerdis-    From Sirith in Lebennin. A rich widow. Mistress to Imrahil.

Princess Meren-   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Lady Tinusel-      Comes from Lossarnach. Made friends with Lothíriel during her visit to Minas Tirith.

---

Rohirrim:-

Welwyn-                  Daughter to Erkenbrand and Winfrith. Wounded in the Battle of Helm’s Deep and healed by Aragorn

Déor-                       Friend of Éomer, brought up in Aldburg. A Rider in Elfhelm’s éored, given his own command for the Battle of the Pelennor.

Byrde-                    Hama’s youngest daughter.

Wilflede-                Hama’s eldest daughter – married to Elfhelm

Bergit-                    Daughter of the horse-breeder, Egbert. Raped by orcs when her family’s camp was attacked. Later married Edwick and bore him two children – Éomund and Félewyn. Started a relationship with Éomer after her husband was crippled. Killed by orcs in a raid on the village of Eastfeld.

Edwick-               A wheelwright in Eastfeld. Husband to Bergit. Crippled in an accident and killed by orcs alongside his wife.

Others:-

Desert snake-     slang for Umar -  Prince of Harad. Device – the Black Serpent on Scarlet. Obsessed with Lothíriel. Killed on the Pelennor by King Théoden of Rohan.

Seron-                A soothsayer Lothíriel met in the wilds.

Chapter 25

19^th March 3020

Minas Tirith

---

“Did you go to bed at all, Legolas?”

Éomer picked up a plate and flicked his eyes over the huge selection of food that covered the long side-table. Aragorn might have put this chamber aside for his friends, but the royal housekeeper must think a whole éored needed feeding.

“I spent the hours of darkness in the Citadel gardens, enjoying the fragrance of the night-flowers.  There is a bench from which the whole southern sky is visible.” Legolas replied. “But I am not here early, you are late. The sun appeared over the Ephel Dúath a considerable time ago.”

Éomer couldn’t argue with that. At home, he would have been coming back from his morning ride, not about to eat without having gone out –  another late session with Aragorn and Faramir to blame. But he hadn’t seen them for six months, and Faramir would be taking Éowyn to their new home in less than a week.

Shutting out the thoughts of how much he would miss his sister, he concentrated on the table. A wooden board at one end supported a leg of what must have been a gigantic hog. It begged to be eaten – a few slices of the moist pink ham already carved and waiting. Next to the ham blood-red sirloin vied for dominance. Baked eggs had been placed alongside, the dish kept warm by a small oil burner. A platter of various cheeses, a dish of curd, honey, jams, and two bowls of fruit ranged along the table. On another board a long plait of bread sprinkled with black seeds had already been started. Rolls and scones nestled in a woven basket, and at the far end a variety of pickled vegetables and what looked liked strips of smoked fish had found a place.

Éomer loaded his plate with ham, eggs, a chunk of bread torn from the loaf, and an apple. He hesitated between the jug of ale and the tea-kettle. He took the tea. A few short steps around the table and he sat down opposite Legolas, sniffing his cup – sweet and fragrant. The ale would have been a better choice.

“Jasmine,” Legolas supplied. “Arwen brought a quantity with her. The flowers of the variety used to flavour tea open only at night during the full moon. They are picked in the morning when the petals are tightly closed.”

“Really!” He should definitely have gone for the ale.

The first mouthful of ham had hardly been chewed when the door opened and Faramir sauntered through, looking incredibly smart in a dark tunic edged with red embroidery and wearing shiny boots. He had his cloak, sword and belt in his hands, and carefully laid them on the nearest chair.

“Going somewhere?” Éomer asked.

“I am to meet Imrahil and his family at the Harlond. I thought you might like to come with me.”

“Well, I would,” Éomer replied. He had been looking forward to them arriving, having so much to discuss with Imrahil about the trading route, as well as catching up with Amroth again. “But I am going to have to go for a gallop very soon, or Firefoot will jump out of his stall.”

“You can exercise him on the way.  The ship has been sighted from the tower, but there is time yet.”

“Then yes, I shall enjoy that.”

Faramir nodded, and turned to select from the table. He piled his plate with ham and fruit, took a couple of scones and helped himself to a mug of ale. Just about to sit down next to Legolas, he stopped when the door opened again.

Éomer didn’t have to look to know who it was; Éowyn almost bounced into the room. She went straight up to Faramir and kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, my heart. And good morning, Éomer.” She blew a kiss across the table.

With his plate in one hand and the mug in the other, Faramir could do nothing but stare at her. She looked very fetching, wearing a simple, green overgown that had long trailing sleeves knotted at the ends. The twisted waist-belt accentuated her slim figure. Hunger leapt to Faramir’s eyes, and breath hissed through his nostrils.

Éomer’s lips twitched. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to bring Éowyn here days before the wedding. Faramir already showed considerable strain. “It looks as if your betrothed had a restless night, Éowyn.”

“Oh, my love,” she said, running her hand up Faramir’s arm, which provoked an indiscernible growl.  “I imagine you stayed up late again, with my brother and a flagon of wine, no doubt. That does not bode well for relaxing sleep, and makes it is difficult to face the day.”

“A cold bath helps recover one’s calm,” Éomer put in, only just managing to stifle a grin. 

Éowyn screwed up her face at the thought. “Does it? I would have thought it would be more likely to make one lively. I hate cold baths, anyway.”

Faramir glared at him over the top of her head. But couldn’t keep up the scowl and started chuckling as he sat down. Éowyn moved on to Legolas, who wore his usual benign smile like a Lórien cloak. “I slept really well; it’s so nice to have more trees around. I swear the one outside my window has grown overnight.”

“Undoubtedly,” Legolas agreed.” All green things grow at night when the air is cooler.”

“And double their speed of growth when there is a full moon, I imagine.” Éomer decided to give up on the tea. “Éowyn, could you please pass me a mug of ale.”

The wrinkle of her nose showed her personal distaste of ale in the mornings, but probably because she saw the mug in Faramir’s hand, she passed him one without comment.

Éowyn chose fruit, bread and honey, and poured some jasmine tea. “Arwen gave me this yesterday. It’s lovely.”

Winking at him, Faramir stared to eat.

“Faramir and I are meeting Imrahil this morning, Éowyn. Are you going to come with us?” Éomer asked.

“No,” she said straightaway. “I decided I might trip over my bridal dress, so Arwen’s seamstress is going to look. But if you are going to meet Imrahil, Éomer, you will have to change. You must put on something more…kingly.”

“Kingly!” Éomer exclaimed, looking down at his brown leather tunic – very suitable for riding, and it did have a small sun motif embossed on the left breast. “Éowyn, what is this obsession with my wardrobe? You have driven me mad with it all winter.” Along with the Meduseld housekeeper, Éowyn andByrhtwynhad spent much of the winter delving into the great chests at Edoras which contained the ceremonial clothes that in the Mark were passed down from king to king.  Byrhtwyn was expert with a needle, and he supposed she was glad to have been kept busy, but now he was in possession of a large number of rich looking clothes that he tried to avoid wearing. “Firefoot will probably slobber all over me anyway.”

“Maybe,” answered Éowyn, “but now that we have brought so many, you must wear them. And anyway,” she carried on, waving her hand carelessly, “I have heard that Prince Elphir is a stickler for formality.”

“If that’s the case he must be very different from his brothers,” Éomer retorted.

“He’s the heir. Rank brings with it certain responsibilities. And you do not want someone mistaking you for a stableman.”

Éomer glowered at her, but pushed his plate away and got up. Some battles were lost before you reached for your spear. “I will meet you at the stables,” he said to Faramir who was struggling not to laugh. “Do you wish to come with us, Legolas?”

The cloak slipped, and Legolas’s smile widened. “No, thank you. I am content to wear green and brown.”

---

The Anduin

The streaks of red that had first lit the sky behind the Ephel Dúath now spread across to the far walls of the City. She would have to change soon, and her hair needed sorting, but Lothíriel begrudged any time spent below.  Eventually retiring to her cot in the early hours, after falling asleep on Amroth’s shoulder, she had stirred again just before dawn. Determination not to miss the first glimpse of Minas Tirith had dragged her from the warm blankets. But she could stay on deck no longer, knowing her maid would be waiting with a plate of food and a brush. With one last look at the emerging landscape, Lothíriel put her foot on the steep stair that led to the cabins.

“A waste of time washing your hair yesterday when you go and spend most of the night out in the wind, Princess,” Hisael complained, pulling a comb through the tangles. “How do you wish to wear it?”

“Loose, I think,” she replied, before sinking her teeth into a piece of fruit-bread.

Hisael grumbled on, only a slight smile giving away her pleasure. “Well, I will have to keep brushing. But it will get into the same state again if you go out on deck before we dock.”

“I want to go back up, Hisael. I don’t want to miss anything.” Lothíriel protested.

“Not much point in curling it properly, then,” the maid muttered. But she brushed until it shone again, and spent time twirling Lothíriel’s long hair around her fingers so that it hung down her back in loose curls. “Have you decided on a dress?”

Lothíriel thought for a moment, licking her fingers, before she got up and went to the bowl on the washstand. “Not a dress, one of my riding outfits. Amroth will take me up with him, and a dress will be a nuisance. I refuse to travel to the City in a cart.” She remembered that on her last visit she had been worried the King would object to her riding dress. She knew him better now. But none could mistake her new outfits for dresses – wide, full-cut trousers that fell like a skirt, worn with silk or linen shirts. And on top, embroidered waistcoats and toning surcoates in bright colours that suited her strong colouring.  True to her word, Calaerdis had spent many hours with her, surrounded by bales of materiel and sample garments, insisting Lothíriel should be guided by her personal inclination and not expected convention.

“You will be pleased to have your own horse again.” Hisael remarked as she got out the required clothes.

Her own horse! She’d decided some time in the winter, after borrowing her brothers’ for so long. Amaurea would always hold a special place in her heart, but she had to move on. Another horse from a foreign land, but this time it would come from over the mountains. Her father allowing her first choice of those he had ordered from Rohan.

Hisael pulled a deep-pink waistcoat from the small cabinet, holding the garment up for Lothíriel’s approval.

Hands dry, Lothíriel took it from her, smoothing down the soft velvet. The trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers that grew freely around her home had inspired the tracery of embroidery that covered it. “This is the nicest of them all, I think.”

“Might as well make an impression, Princess. One can only arrive once!”

The ship had picked up speed, and by the time Lothíriel emerged back on the deck, the City of Kings dominated the view – a vast stone edifice rising out of the plain, testimony to the glory of the past, and the hope of the future. Lothíriel walked for’ard. Her family would probably gather on the stern, but finding she wanted to be alone, she went right to the front of the swan-prowed ship and leaned against its carved wooden neck. A shiver ran thorough her – the morning air tingled with anticipation. Something was about to happen! She knew it from the way her senses had sharpened – the slap of the water against the hull, louder; the twitter of a flock of buntings reaching her from the fields; the clear voices of the crew in the rigging talking about their wives.

Lothíriel gazed out across the Pelennor – the colours intense: spring flowering lilies waved bright heads against the dark earth of the ploughed fields. A shy golden-oriole shot into a bush, bright yellow plumage giving away its hiding place. To her left, a flash caught her eye as the sun reflected on burnished metal: four riders were heading towards the river. She focused on the small party – two men rode in front, the two a little behind were carrying pennants. Esquires no doubt, but as yet they were too far away for her to see whose devices they bore. Some instinct made her wrap the warm cloak tightly around her and draw back into the shadow of the foremast; a sailor pulled a coil of rope out of her way. The sail would be coming down soon and she would have to move, but just for a moment she indulged her urge to remain unnoticed.

As the riders neared the river she recognized her cousin, Faramir, but the other was unfamiliar to her. She watched as the two men rode closer, their track converging with the ship.  Half hidden, she would not be spotted, and it gave her the chance to observe. Faramir was always dear to her, and normally she would enjoy the sight of him, but her eyes were ambushed by the other. Her memory jolted: it was as if a dream played out before her. Forgotten words flooded her mind. Words of comfort offered to ease her dread. ‘You must not fear, child, for no dark haired man will have you. For from the North the fair-haired warrior will come, riding over the plain toward you, claiming what is his.’

Blood pounded in her head! Her heart raced!  He was near enough now for her to study him – this young king of whom she had heard so much. Taller even than Faramir, and where Faramir’s hair was raven black, his glowed tawny-gold. It fell past his shoulders free and untamed.  But more than all the green and gold, and the White Horse running, it was the assured, easy grace of him, the blending of horse and man, which spoke his name.

Suddenly a freshening breeze whipped across her face. A cry went up. A spar cracked as tension tightened. The great sails flapped, a sudden wind shift taking the sailors by surprise. Lothíriel shrunk against the mast as men rushed past her, grabbing for ropes to stop the sail from slamming round. Through the noise of the shouting, and the snapping of angry canvas, an ancient voice reminded her of counsels given.

Her mystic friend had laid a fire on that hillside long ago – a fire waiting for a spark to ignite. Should she decide to touch the tinder, the flames would soar high, engulfing her in the heat and joy of love, but blazing so fierce she risked being scorched and singed down the years ahead, burnt by the searing pains of life.  However, should she waver, should she leave the fire cold and turn away to seek shelter in the cave, then beasts would rummage amongst the fuel. Scattering sticks until there were not enough to catch, and every attempt would fizzle and die.

The choice was hers to make.

The noise ceased. The sails settled, and Lothíriel’s eyes raked the bank. She could see his face, laughing eyes and boyish grin as he joked with Faramir. The ship turned toward the quay, and the riders drew alongside.

Clutching at courage with trembling hands, Lothíriel moved from behind the mast and stepped up onto the prow again. Her hair streamed out, her cloak blowing back from her shoulders as the wind took hold. He must have caught the sudden movement for he looked up.  She acknowledged him with a smile, and his mouth opened in a gasp. He stared at her, until maybe realizing his rudeness, grinned back an apology and inclined his head. But still with his eyes on her, he reached a long arm over to Faramir who was watching the activity on the stern. She saw his lips move as he spoke to her cousin, but the noise of the winch took away his words.

Éomer managed to grab Faramir’s arm to get his attention without drawing his gaze away from the strikingly beautiful young woman. For a moment she had been so close: such golden skin and luxurious hair. Her loveliness framed by a garment the colour of the roses that ran wild in the Meduseld garden. “Who is she, Faramir? Who is she?” he demanded, impatient for the answer. Dreading to be told she was some other man’s wife.

Faramir looked up to the prow, smiled, and raised his hand in a wave. She waved back, but the ship was drawing away now into its berth. “The lady I told you about, Éomer, remember. The relative I wanted you to meet.”

Éomer breathed out; anticipation filling him, warmth suffusing him. “You are sure she is not promised to another?”

Faramir shook his head. “No, she is not promised to any man.”

“Well, she is now.” Éomer said it under his breath, but Faramir heard his muttering and did not bother to restrain his laughter. “I am glad to hear that you have given the matter such a great deal of serious thought, Éomer. But bear in mind our other conversation, there is a difference between love and lust, and love only comes with knowing someone.”

Éomer sighed; trust Faramir to say the sensible thing. “You are right. I spoke with my eyes.”

A black brow arched, and Éomer grinned, “I am sorry. But she looked so lovely standing there, she took my breath away. Go on then,” he said laughing. “Tell me about her. First of all, who is she?”

Waiting for Faramir to answer, his gaze moved back to the ship. She had walked towards the stern. As she turned to go below, the wind flicked her hair and there, emblazoned on the back of the dark cloak, shone the Silver Swan-ship of Dol Amroth.

Éomer let out an astonished gasp. Faramir held back his laughter and managed to reply, “She, my friend, is my cousin, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Princess of Gondor, Imrahil’s daughter. The highest unwed lady in this land.”

“Imrahil’s daughter?” Éomer echoed, totally taken aback. He had not expected that and searched his memory. What had he missed? “I didn’t realize he had two daughters.”

 “No, he hasn’t. Lothíriel is the only one.”

“But what about the older daughter? She’s a bit odd, isn’t she?” Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up; perhaps they had shut her away.

The pucker on Faramir’s brow emphasized his mistake. “Éomer, there is no older daughter. Lothíriel is twenty-one. And I am not sure why you think her odd.”

“I don’t,” he hedged. “I mean, I haven’t met her, so I don’t know. She certainly doesn’t look odd.” Oddly captivating, perhaps, he mused. And surely Faramir would never have suggested a possible match if there really was something wrong with her. “But I heard strange things about her from Amroth and Imrahil. So I suppose I assumed.”

Faramir frowned, but something in his eyes told Éomer his suspicions might be correct. A great gush of disappointment doused him. “There is something, isn’t there?”

“What have you heard?”

“That she spends most of her time in the Healing Houses, for one.”

“It is true that Lothíriel has a healing gift, but she is not odd,” Faramir retorted. “She worked tirelessly during the war. But she doesn’t spend all her time there now. However, for many years Imrahil thought it best to keep her out of sight.”

“But why was Imrahil happy for his only daughter to hide herself away with the sick?” he queried.

Faramir sighed, and hesitated. “Well,” he said at last, “Lothíriel has had a difficult time. Not of her making, I might add. But Éomer, it is her story, hers to tell.” He hesitated, and then went on. “As for Imrahil’s reasons, well you know that old adage that in times of war men will keep their most precious treasures hidden? It is something near to that.”

Hope resurfaced. Éomer looked right into his eyes: however attracted he was to a woman, duty would not let him trust the succession of the House of Eorl to one he knew to be seriously flawed. But Faramir would not mislead him over something so important. “Tell me,” he said,” is there any reason that I cannot court her for a wife; any reason that I could not make her Queen of the Mark?”

Faramir shook his head. “No,” he replied, “Lothíriel is able, brave and virtuous as well as beautiful, that I promise you.”

“Good.”

“But,” said Faramir carrying on, “Elven blood runs thickly in her veins, more than the rest of the family. As well as having the healing gift, she is a little fey.”

“Fey?”  Great Béma! Not another Galadriel.

“Yes, in the darkest hours, when the armies of Mordor were gathering on our borders, and my father sinking into madness, she told me I would find a great love.”  

Éomer grinned. “At least she gets it right.”

Faramir didn’t deny it. “Meet her, Éomer.  Spend some time in her company. See what happens.”

They dismounted as Wild Swan came to a halt, thick ropes snaking down to tie her to the bollards on the quay. Éomer scanned the decks for further sight of the princess. Amroth came to the guardrail, another man with him about the same age, but he carried no sword.  Amroth waved, before disappearing again. A tall man emerged from down below, with a small boy in his arms. From his looks Éomer guessed that he was Prince Elphir. Then he spotted her, talking fervently to an older man with the bearing of a soldier, richly dressed, long hair mostly grey. Lothíriel finished her conversation and reached up to kiss her companion on the cheek. He ruffled her hair and walked away, limping badly.

The gangway clanked down, and she waited at the top for it to be secured, waving to Faramir. Éomer stood back, concealed by Firefoot’s bulk, content to watch. She looked so different from any woman he had so far met in Gondor, as though she lived in the sunshine and fresh air.  A colourful surcoate had replaced the cloak, andwhen she moved he realized she wore clothes suitable for riding, unfamiliar to him, but very attractive.

As soon as everything was secure she ran straight down to Faramir who picked her up, swung her around and kissed her on the nose. “Faramir, it’s lovely to see you again.” She giggled as he put her down. “But you have cheated me. Where is your Éowyn? I cannot wait to meet the lady who has ensnared my serious cousin.”

Faramir laughed, “She is with the seamstress, and I am not allowed near. You will meet her soon, but meantime you must make do with her brother.”

Éomer stepped forward and bowed. Lothíriel inclined her head briefly, and then lifted her eyes to his. The simple action jolted him like a great kick in the belly from his own horse. Large green orbs met his – surely some hesitancy in them, but as if to belie that impression, small gold flecks danced boldly. Thick black lashes brushed glowing cheeks and her lips needed no paint to help shape them.

“Hail, Lord of the Mark, it is good to meet you. I have heard of your deeds from my father and brothers. My family values your friendship.”

Éomer found it hard to speak. Mentally shaking himself, he managed something credible, “And of you, Princess I know not nearly enough. A situation that I intend to remedy immediately!”

Her laugher was soft, and easy on the ear. “Now that we have said all the correct things, perhaps you would introduce me to your horse. For I noticed him from the ship, and I have seldom seen the like.”

Noticed his horse! Beside him, Faramir smirked. “Come then,” he reached for the reins which he had let fall, “for there is nothing Firefoot enjoys more than having his ears tickled by a pretty lady.” At least he hoped he did, most would not go near him.

But of course Imrahil’s daughter knew just how to approach the capricious stallion, speaking quiet words before she moved near to let the horse snuffle her. And Firefoot did indeed relish the attention, soon nuzzling contentedly into her neck.

A second ship reached its berth, soldiers, Swan-knights and their wives lining the decks. Calling up one of the waiting carts, Faramir went over to talk to Elphir and a pretty lady who must be his wife. Wild Swan began to discharge her share of the horses, with Amroth supervising. The stablemen – whom, he noticed, wore brown leather jerkins – led the excited creatures onto the dockside.  “Which one is yours, Princess?” Éomer enquired, seeing nothing a lady would normally ride.

Still cuddling Firefoot she looked up.  “I lost my horse some time ago, my lord. But my father said you are bringing us plenty. Will you help me choose one?”

“I will of course, but if I had known I would have brought mounts more suitable for a lady.”

She laughed. “Do not worry yourself on that score, my lord, for this past winter I think I have ridden every horse in Dol Amroth.”

“Well, in that case we can spend all afternoon looking at and trying out different horses, which I freely admit is one of my favourite pastimes. But please, my name is Éomer.”

 “And mine is Lothíriel,” she said, confirming the arrangement with a smile.

He probably would have gone on gazing into her face, but a shout startled him. “Éomer!”

He hadn’t noticed Imrahil disembark and immediately turned, holding out his hand in welcome. “Come,” the Prince said after greeting him.  “You must meet Elphir.”

A few moments in Elphir’s company and Éomer began to seriously doubt his sister’s words. But then he felt prickles on his neck and realized he was being scrutinized intently.

“Sergion.” Imrahil said, introducing him. “My good friend, and Lothíriel’s protector.”

Bema! Suddenly Éomer was glad he had dressed up, he felt like a young rider on his first patrol.

More introductions as the whole party started to assemble. No Erchirion, though, he’d volunteered to stay in Dol Amroth. Elphir’s wife, Meren, climbed up on the front of the cart Faramir had procured. She tried to encourage her son to join her, but the boy held on to his father. Then the young man he had seen with Amroth, Oríon if he’d caught his name correctly, hurried over with great rolls of parchment wrapped in a cloth. He stowed them carefully in the cart and sat up beside Meren.

“Oríon won’t let his plans out of his sight.” Lothíriel explained with a chuckle.

“Plans?”

“Oríon has ideas of extending Gondor’s navy and making it great again. To make sure our coastline is always protected. He talked with Aragorn for ages about it, and now has to put his ideas to the Council.  In fact,” her eyes lit with the memory, “we had a riotous evening playing out mock battles. Everyone took charge of a model ship; we have many of all types. Of course Arwen and Calaerdis know nothing about sailing, and Meren very little, so they kept losing the wind. It was great fun.”

He was just about to respond when she let out a little sound of annoyance before it changed to one of amusement. “Alphros has stolen my ride. He hero-worships Amroth.”

The little boy had slid down from his father’s horse and begged a ride from his uncle. What luck! The first foray always gave one a hint of how to proceed in a campaign. If you wish, Lothíriel, and your father agrees, Firefoot will easily carry us both.”

She didn’t answer immediately, and he cursed himself as he sensed a slight withdrawal. Damn fool that he was! The urge to touch her had overwhelmed sense.

But her smile returned. “My father might not object because he knows you well, but Sergion probably will.”

“Your protector?”

“He’s the Captain of my Guard and has looked after me since I was twelve. Sometimes I feel he is worse than an old mother hen, but I love him dearly.”

Why did she need her own guard? Éomer wondered whether to ask her, but Imrahil had mounted and rode up with Sergion and Calaerdis. Lothíriel straightaway sought permission.

“Father, do you object to me riding with Éomer?  I was going with Amroth, but Alphros got there before me.”

Imrahil frowned, obviously undecided. But Sergion was clear in his mind. “If you don’t want to come with me, Lothíriel, I am sure Elphir will take you up.”

However, Calaerdis intervened, her cultured voice adding weight to her words.  “I doubt that there are many ladies who would prefer to ride with their brother when they could ride with the Lord of the Mark.”

Her remark caused laughter. Éomer shot her a grateful look and encountered wry amusement.

“We are all riding together so there will be no harm,” Imrahil came down on his side.

“And anyway,” Lothíriel added, “Éomer has the better horse.”

Better horse! But then he caught the twitch of her lips. So, she had a sense of humour, did she?

“May I, Lothíriel?” Before any other objection could be made, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her so she could reach the stirrup. She smelt of warmth and sunshine, and a fragrance he did not recognize – sweet, but compelling.  She swung into the saddle gracefully, and made room for him. But however tempted to pull her against him, he sat back as far as he could, their bodies touching lightly. Even so, each movement seared a hot dart of awareness into his flesh.

Amroth fell in beside them and they started on the short journey to the City. Amroth had his young nephew tucked against him, the little boy holding onto the reins importantly. However Alphros’s attention transferred to his aunt, or more to the man she was riding with. Éomer realized he was now under scrutiny from a three year old. One whose young eyes already held a challenge.

“My father said you are a king.” Alphros wrinkled his nose as though not believing it.

“I am afraid it’s true.” Éomer replied. A quiver ran through his companion but she withheld any laughter.

“I’ve already met a king,” Alphros stated. “He had black hair like mine.”

Amroth, grinning, winked at him. Not helping him out.

“King Elessar is a more important king than me.” Éomer conceded, smiling at the lad.

Alphros obviously agreed. But it appeared any king would do. “King Eles..,” he stumbled on the word, but it didn’t stop him. “The king I met gave me a ride on his horse.”

Knowing what was expected of him, Éomer replied with only a twitch of his lips. “If you like, Alphros, I will give you a ride on mine tomorrow.” 

Honour satisfied, Alphros nodded and concentrated on steering his uncle’s magnificent, grey gelding towards the City.

Unlike her nephew, whose thin voice piped in a comment at every opportunity, Lothíriel seemed to be happy just to sit and listen as he told Amroth of the efforts he was making to re-home his people after the atrocities of the war, and of the skirmishes that they had fought over the winter, clearing their borders of insurgents who had fled from the north. Half way there she wriggled to get more comfortable and without thinking he put his arm around her and held her to him. Bema! She felt good. But Amroth’s eyes were on him, so he tried to appear nonchalant.

She didn’t object, so he left his arm on her waist, revelling in the warmth of her slim body against his, enjoying the fragrance of her hair. Suddenly she looked toward the nearing walls and exclaimed, “Oh, Legolas has already planted some trees. He told of his plans when I visited Minas Tirith last summer, but I did not expect him to come back so soon.”

“He passed though Edoras during mid-winter with a great consignment of greenery and many of his kinsmen.” Éomer told her. “They stayed long enough to plant the beginnings of an oak woodland near to Edoras.”

“He’s certainly made an impression here,” Amroth said.

Numerous trees had been planted outside the City wall that would give shade to the stables and paddocks in the years to come, but most striking was the sight of young trees that lined the last few hundred yards of the road leading to the square outside the gateway.

With the rest of the party lagging behind, Éomer and Amroth passed through into the City and up the long winding road towards the Citadel. Lothíriel exclaimed at the new planting around the squares and the groves of saplings where before all had been stone.

As they reached the sixth level Éomer wondered whether to go through with his original intention, but the temptation was too great to resist. He turned to Amroth, “Now I am going to take your sister where you cannot go.”

Amroth didn’t immediately realize what he meant, but then his face broke into a slow smile of reluctant admiration. “A planned campaign, Éomer?”

“What do you mean?” Lothíriel asked.

“Only the horse ridden by the King of Rohan is allowed up there.” Amroth replied

“Do you mean up to the seventh level? Into the Citadel?” exclaimed Lothíriel. “No horse has entered for ages past.”

“It was a gift to honour the Rohirrim,” said Éomer. “Not all our horses could be allowed, so it is just the King’s. I have not yet exercised the right, except on the day it was given.”

A small voice rose petulantly. “I want to…”

“Tomorrow!” Éomer promised swiftly. With a wave of his hand to Amroth, and not giving Lothíriel time to object, he kicked Firefoot into the lamp-lit tunnel. The tunnel was empty and private and he didn’t want to alarm her, so increased his pace, clattering straight through the gate, past the guards and up to the Place of the Fountain.

If he had wanted to make an entrance he would have been hard put to have made a greater one. In deference to the warm weather, the noon meal had been set out near the newly planted trees. All around the courtyard the Lords and Ladies of Gondor and the Mark were strolling and talking. The unusual sound of a horse’s hooves, noisy on the stone, caused all to look and stare.

Lothíriel stiffened slightly as all eyes fixed on them. But too late now, so unabashed, he trotted Firefoot straight up to the King and Queen. “Aragorn, I found a princess hanging around the docks so I thought I had better bring her here.”

Aragorn laughed and reached up and lifted her down kissing her on the forehead at the same time. “It is good to see you again, Lothíriel, you look really well.”

Éomer dismounted, watching the meeting with interest, pleased with the easy intimate friendship she obviously enjoyed with Aragorn and Arwen.

“Stop gawping, Éomer, and introduce me to your princess.” Éowyn could still discomfit him when she chose.

Lothíriel swung around to face her. “I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, and you must be the Lady Éowyn, soon to be my kin.”

“Faramir has told me about his favourite cousin. It is good to meet you at last.” Éowyn replied.

So different. His sister had been called the White Lady of Rohan. Now, released from years incarcerated in Meduseld, she had blossomed into life. Palely kissed by the spring sun, hers was a delicate beauty. Lothíriel – a vivid and vibrant splendour, glowing with the colours of high summer.

However, both sounded determined to be friends. Lothíriel put her hand on Éowyn’s arm. “I love you already, not just for your deeds but for the joy and happiness that you have brought to my cousin, Faramir, whom I hold dear.”

Éowyn chuckled, throwing a grin his way. “And I love you, for by arriving with my brother in such a manner you have managed in just a few moments to greatly upset the ladies of the City. I have been trying all week and not achieved such good results.”

“But don’t forget,” Lothíriel lowered her voice, “I have had many years of practice.”

---

To be continued

List of Original Character appearing or mentioned in this chapter.

Gondorians:-

Sergion-                 Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defense of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

Oríon-                     Son to Sergion. Childhood friend of Amrothos and Lothíriel

Lady Calaerdis-    From Sirith in Lebennin. A rich widow. Mistress to Imrahil.

Princess Meren-   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

.---

Rohirrim:-

Byrhtwyn-               Hama’s widow.

Others:-

Seron-                A soothsayer Lothíriel met in the wilds.

Chapter 26

19th March 3020

The clip of a horse’s hooves drew Imrahil to the window, but he stood back, concealed behind the heavy woven curtain. From his vantage point he saw Éomer leading his grey stallion, the horse determinedly nudging at his master’s pockets in an ever hopeful search. Reaching the gate to the inner court, Éomer affectionately pulled at the quiff of unruly hair between Firefoot’s ears, before delving deep in his pocket to find a treat. With the horse’s big teeth contently munching, Éomer handed the reins to his squire, spoke a few words to the young guardsman waiting to accompany Lothíriel, and strode through the gate.

Halfway across to the door, the King of Rohan stopped abruptly. Imrahil knew Lothíriel had come out to meet him, because he saw Éomer’s start and intake of breath, before he bowed. Then his lips moved and his face broke into a smile as he greeted her.

Éomer offered her his arm, and Imrahil looked down on the top of his daughter’s head, which reached as high as the bearded chin. She laughed at something Éomer said, leaning towards him to reply, appearing surprisingly relaxed in such masculine company.

Imrahil moved slightly as Sergion came to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder. No doubt that had Éomer not been so distracted by his companion, he would have been alerted to their scrutiny. But unaware, he and Lothíriel continued talking together as they walked towards the gate.

Sergion sighed, stepping back. “We need to make some ruling on it, Imrahil. I am sure that this afternoon will not be the only time they seek each other’s company.”

No, probably not, he’d seen the look in Éomer’s eyes at the Harlond. And Lothíriel’s come to that, accepting an intimate ride without any quibble. And what he had just seen convinced him the first seeds of a relationship had been sown, but although nothing would please him more, he understood Sergion’s apprehension. However, he thought his friend was overreacting. With a last look, he turned away from the window.

 “Sergion, you do not know him like I do. I would trust Éomer with my life, and cannot believe he is about to ravish my daughter whilst helping her choose a horse!”

“I am sure he is not. But, whatever you say, Imrahil, he is a virile young man before he is a king, friend or anything else. I know that Lothíriel appears confident, but I feel she is still fragile and vulnerable.”

“I am sure you are right on that,” Imrahil conceded reluctantly, “but she is vulnerable to all the young lords. And we cannot shelter her forever. For her to recover fully we need to step back.” He sat down, tapping his fingers on the leather top of the desk, still undecided on the wisdom of letting her go off with Éomer, however much he liked him.

“I know you are concerned, and so am I. But my greatest wish is to see her happy and settled with a man who loves her. And I can think of no one I would rather have for her husband than Éomer. If they spend time with one another, it will send out a message. If Éomer is interested in her it will be noticed, and none other will dare go near. Which is a protection in itself!” 

“I suppose there is that,” Sergion agreed.  “But we must be careful not to push her into something she cannot handle. Amroth may have made himself scarce, but I still think we should have arranged for a woman to accompany her. Going off with only a young soldier and a squire in attendance is just not sensible. A woman would be less easily diverted from her duty.”

“If Lothíriel were to be away for some hours I would agree with you, but I am sure we need not worry too much for a ride within the Rammas Echor.  They need to get to know one another, and can hardly do that if some prissy woman is hanging on to every word. And to be fair, Sergion, what woman do we know who could keep up?”

“Well, Calaerdis would have had a fair chance, and she is not prissy. Did you think of asking her?”

Imrahil threw him a sideways look. “Perhaps you would like to suggest it. I can just see her elegant eyebrows arching at the very thought. Calaerdis enjoys her freedoms, and although she likes Lothíriel very much, I doubt she wishes to play nursemaid.”

“Ahh…I see.” Sergion chuckled. “No wonder she is happy with your arrangement.”

Imrahil shrugged. “Running around after someone else is not Calaerdis’ style. She had enough of that in her marriage.”

“Does she think things would alter so much? You were never an overbearing husband.”

“She is not willing to take the risk. It is her choice, not mine.” Imrahil, stood up, keen to put an end to the subject. “The guardsman will have to suffice, for today at least.”

“Very well, but I warn you, Imrahil, the gossips will have plenty to blather about.”

“Since when has the House of Dol Amroth worried about the gossips of Gondor,” Imrahil snorted.

---

He’d made his way on foot down the winding road before, but never had the distance seemed so short, in spite of modifying his pace to suit the woman beside him. Perhaps because their conversation flowed continually, with laugher erupting as sometimes both started to speak at once. But luckily only Firefoot could hear their words, the two escorts keeping a distance behind.  Now though, she asked the most difficult question. Did he like being king? Her wonderful eyes were alight with curiosity, expecting an answer. An honest answer. Éomer hesitated for a moment, admitting the truth to himself: he generally liked it very much.

 “I would be lying, Lothíriel, if I said I did not, even though it came by way of so much pain. Had things been different I would have been happy serving under Théodred, but now I am enjoying the responsibility of being the Lord of a land I love. Trading with your father and Elphir to buy food for my people will be rewarding, for the Riddermark has suffered much over the past years. I am hoping to make our lives easier in the future. Although it’s an area where I confess I will need the help of my advisors. Unlike warring, where I am used to making my own decisions and can blame no one if I get it wrong.”

He slanted her a half grin, wondering what she would think. “I do not suppose I will ever be content to sit at home and let others go off to fight.” But she did not look surprised: perhaps having three brothers had prepared her.

“Warrior first, king second?”

“Probably.” He could not deny that. “I am afraid that I have known little else since childhood. During all my life our borders have been under constant threat. I hope that it will change now, although we still have renegades to contend with. But they look more for food. Sheep and cattle make easier prey, so our horses are left alone.”

“Which is why you were happy to bring us so many.”

“It’s a case of needing to trade. We have received a lot of aid, but I do not want that to continue. I could not promise your father all greys until the herds have fully recovered. But being short, he is happy to have any at all. And I am counting on not having to take the whole muster of the Riddermark to war again.” One of the things he’d sworn to himself: only those who wanted to fight would have to do so, but he’d tell her that later. “Not all the horses are as trained as I would wish, but Amroth tells me you are well capable of dealing with an inexperienced mount.”

“I grew up with a pony for a best friend.” She paused, and he thought a memory clouded her eyes, but with a tiny shake of her head, she carried on. “I had a break from horses for a few years, but last winter I spent most of my time riding. I can usually manage the most fractious of animals.”

“I hope we can find you something that will give you pleasure, and not problems. Rather than look at every one, I have asked the Horse-master to use his judgment and pick out some suitable mounts.”

 She smiled up at him, eyes clear again. “Thank you. I shall of course listen to his advice.”

They passed out of the gateway, across the square, towards the vast area that had been set aside for their horses. Éomer led her to where about twenty had been tethered near the new trees, close to a large paddock. Some of the other paddocks were still being fenced off, the tap of hammers echoing against the stone of the walls.

Lothíriel looked around in surprise. “You must be expecting hundreds.”

“Éowyn’s marriage will be toasted countless times. Many from the East-mark wanted to come, as well as Riders and their families from Edoras. The host should be here later today.”

Her look of surprise changed to a grin. “Will there be any men left to guard the Mark?”

“Yes, plenty,” he assured her, laughing. “And I will not be missed because Erkenbrand has moved into Edoras until I return. Normally Elfhelm would stand in as he is nearer, but he wished to renew friendships he made here during the war.”

“He’s your Marshal, isn’t he?  I remember my father mentioning him,” Lothíriel commented.

“That’s right. He had to deal with all the Rohirrim left in the City, not an easy task.”

 “Oh, yes. Amroth told me he thought highly of him.”

Éomer nodded; so did he, and never more so than during the first difficult months of kingship.  But their conversation ended as Halcon had spotted them. A grizzled, weather-beaten man, he dipped his head in respect.

“I pulled some out as you asked, lord.”

Éomer introduced him to Lothíriel. “I hope the Princess will find a mount she is happy with.”

Halcon turned his attention to her. “I selected some of the lighter weight ones, Princess, but of course they tend to have a more lively temperament.”

“That will suit me well, Halcon, thank you.” She gave him a lovely smile, but Éomer wondered if the man noticed. He’d never seen him take an interest in anything other than his horses.

The three of them started walking along the line. All the animals were quite big. Although she made no comment on that, more interested in trying to assess their temperament by tickling their ears and scratching their noses.  They talked about each one, but Éomer had the distinct feeling that although she appeared to be listening to his and Halcon’s advice, she was making her own decisions. Reaching the end of the line she went back and fondled a few, talking to them quietly.  Surprisingly, she seemed to be avoiding the lighter greys; maybe she wanted something different than the war-horses common in Dol Amroth. Although, if he were to choose for her, it would probably be the glossy chestnut-bay, a big gelding with intelligent eyes. But she petted others. Then he noticed that the horse was swishing his tail, watching her, following her movements.

Smiling to himself, he leant forward and whispered in her ear, “Have you seen the bay, he is very handsome?”

“I agree, but I do not wish to let him know that I am interested.”

Now she really had surprised him. But he said nothing, waiting to see what the horse would do.

Lothíriel asked Halcon if four horses could be turned into the paddock, choosing a dark grey, two roans and the bay. They cantered around, tossing theirs heads and nipping at each other, glad to be free. Lothíriel watched them for faults, but all moved with an easy gait.

After a while, she put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself and climbed over the fence. Her fingers only pressed lightly into his flesh, but no branding iron could have marked him more. Once down onto the grass, she concentrated on the horses; he concentrated on trying to show no reaction to the intimate contact.

Three horses scooted to the other side of the paddock; the bay stood its ground.  But ignoring the horse, she turned her back and leant on the fence, facing him and Halcon.

Halcon said nothing, his face inscrutable, but Éomer whispered. “He’s still watching you.”

“I hoped he might be. Has he made a move yet?”

“He’s thinking about it.” The horse had his eyes fixed on her, the muscles of his neck quivering.

All three kept perfectly quiet, and a few moments later the bay trotted over and nudged Lothíriel in the back. Still she ignored him, so he pushed his nose under her arm. Laughing, Lothíriel turned around and petted him, the horse nuzzled into her neck.  With a grin to her audience, she took hold of his head collar and led him towards the gate.

“Is there a somewhere else I can use?” she asked, indicating the three other horses, which were tossing their heads with excitement.

Halcon directed her to a fenced ring not far away. Lothíriel followed Halcon, absorbed with the horse, and talking to it all the time until she got into the ring. Halcon closed the gate, and seeing her perfectly capable, Éomer kept back. She stood right alongside the bay’s neck rubbing her hand through the black mane. Then she tickled him on his forehead and whispered in his ear. The horse twitched, but he didn’t move, so she put her hand on his withers and whispered again. Down he went, and she sprang on his back.

“Better than some I know,” Halcon muttered.

Éomer laughed at the grudging admiration. “Who has chosen whom?” he called out, as with no saddle or reins she cantered her new horse around in a circle.

Coming to a halt next to them, she slid to the ground. “My saddles should be here. I have three to choose from, all my brothers’ cast-offs, one should suit. I lost my own with my horse.”

Éomer would have asked her more, but a couple of stable hands came over with her tack. After some deliberation Halcon selected a saddle and fitted it to the horse, taking time, making adjustments until he was happy. Lothíriel asked Halcon if the horse had been named, but the old man murmured something almost inaudible, intent on his task. Lothíriel looked up at him for clarification.

 Éomer thought for a moment, the name would be difficult to pronounce for her. “It is Bracken in the common tongue,” he said.

“Yes, it suits him. He is the colour of the hills in autumn. I will not change it.”

With the saddle in place, Éomer seized his chance, and lifted her up onto the horse, her hair brushing into his face. Whatever perfume she used, he wouldn’t mind getting used to it…. 

Lothíriel spent time walking, trotting and cantering Bracken around the ring. Éomer leant against the fence watching her, enjoying the sight of girl and horse getting to know each other.  They suited well: both had a long tail of black hair, although Lothíriel had a ribbon tied around hers, and Bracken’s hung straight.

He was still smiling when she trotted up, obviously pleased. “He is splendid,” she said, and then laughed. “He must be worth many barrels of fish and crates of oranges!”

Éomer moved close, holding on to the bridle. “I will settle for a kiss!” It came out before he even thought, a natural reaction to the beautiful girl looking down at him.

She hesitated, stiffening slightly, and once again he cursed himself for his impatience. But then, unexpectedly, she leant down and brushed her lips lightly across his.

“Will that suffice?”

“I will consider it a down payment,” he answered, grinning as her cheeks blushed pink. 

Leading her out of the ring, he whistled and clicked his fingers. Firefoot, who had been cropping grass, showing total disinterest to anything else, trotted up. His lips were covered in green foam and a few wisps still stuck out of his mouth. Éomer pulled at them.

“You’re an untidy fellow. How about setting an example.”

He hoped Firefoot would be on his best behaviour, if he took a dislike to Bracken they were in trouble But the Valar must have been with him, because after a bit of ears-back shoving and the well-timed offer of a carrot from Lothíriel, his equine friend settled enough to allow them to head out towards the river at a comfortable canter.

Had he ever spent a more pleasant afternoon? Doubtful, and it was rather late by the time they wound their way back up the road to the stables outside the Citadel. He left Firefoot there and walked with her to her father’s stable.

Lothíriel led Bracken into his new stall, wanting to rub him down herself. Éomer waved the stable hand away and helped her with the saddle.

“You are happy with him?” he asked when she had nearly finished.

She turned clutching the cloth, lips parted with the effort of her exertion. “Yes, very, thank you.”

His eyes raked over her, she was just so damn lovely. With a will of its own his hand reached out. Éomer ran the back of his finger down her soft cheek, letting it fall off the end of her chin. Her face coloured, a pink blush extending down her neck. A pulse beat just under the flushed skin.

“He is a good horse, Lothíriel, but not our best. I shall give you a horse fit for a queen to ride.”

Her breasts heaved, but she held his eyes. “Bracken is good enough for me, for I am a princess, not a queen.”

“Not yet, maybe.” He breathed the words across the small space separating them.

“Ahem!” Somebody cleared their throat.

Éomer swung around, using his bulk to shield Lothíriel’s red face. Amroth stood in the doorway and an expression of sheer amusement lightened his dark eyes.

With a grin he poked his head around Éomer’s shoulder. “Oh, there you are, Lothíriel. You must have had a good ride, you look very hot.”

Lothíriel however took no notice, probably used to being teased. “What do you want, Amroth?”  But her brother’s attention had focused on Bracken.

“Want? Oh…I have been sent to find you. Hisael does not wish to send you off to the feast smelling of horse.”

Lothíriel laughed, and looked up at Éomer. “I had better go, it must be getting late. Thank you for a lovely afternoon and for my wonderful horse.” She slapped the cloth into Amroth’s hand. “You can finish if you like.”

Amroth twirled it around. “I might manage to call your groom.”

She nodded, and with a smile to Éomer, left the stall.

They both watched her retreating figure. “You have a very beautiful sister, Amroth,” said Éomer, sighing.

“Yes. My brothers and I have been protecting her from unsavoury and unsuitable suitors since she was a child,” he replied.

 “You would consider me unsuitable?”

The silence hung like a thick cloud, but then Amroth burst out laughing. “Of course not, but it was good to see your face.” Grinning, he ducked out of the way as Éomer went to cuff him. “Seriously,” he carried on, “I think, were you to win Lothíriel’s heart, all the family would be pleased! But if you will take some advice from one who knows a little of these matters, treat my sister gently. And it will be as well to let her know that you value her for more than just her beauty.”

“I have already complemented her on her horsemanship,” Éomer quipped, straight faced. “But you are the expert, Amroth. What do you suggest?”

Still grinning, Amroth ushered him out of the stall. “That you get rid of the smell of the stables. The ladies do not like it.”

---

Such a wonderful afternoon, but there was not a lot of time before the feast. Hisael had her head buried in the large cupboard, looking through her dresses. Lothíriel sighed, and recommenced rubbing the towel between her toes. She must get on and dry herself and stop thinking about the man and the horse. 

“Are you going to wear the blue one, Princess?” the maid called out.

Lothíriel put down the towel and stood up. “No, I don’t think so. I shall wear the pearl one.”

“But that is the most beautiful; do you not wish to keep it for the wedding?”

But she had already decided. “No, for I have a feeling that the Lady Éowyn will wear white.”

Hisael’s arm dropped from the rail and she turned, a question on her face. “Why do you think white and not green?”

“Well, Gondor called her the White Lady, and from what I have heard that is how Faramir first saw her, and thinks of her. Calaerdis says she tends to dress simply, and my pearl dress is very sumptuous. I think it will be better worn tonight for the opening feast, and nice for Éowyn’s white dress to stand out amongst all the colours for her marriage ceremony.”

“As your pearl one will tonight,” Hisael said, pulling out the heavy silk dress.

“I don’t imagine there will be anything like it,” Lothíriel agreed. Not delicate, but rich and elegant, her dress was likely to make an impact. But she had to do this, get used to people – men – looking at her. If she intended to take the path laid out before her, she would be on view for the rest of her life.

“You won’t want your hair loose if you are wearing this one.” Hisael hung the dress on the outside of the wardrobe.

No, her hair needed to be lifted. She studied the dress, not white but the colour of thick cream, which suited her colouring better. Except for the border of pearls around the hem, the dress itself was quite plain, although the material would shimmer in the candlelight. Slim fitting, with a short train and the sleeves tight, buttoned to the elbow with pearls. It was the collar that set if off. Padded and studded with more pearls, it stood up around the back of her neck and plunged down in a deep vee that showed off her breasts. Only a short time ago she would never have considered wearing anything so revealing.

Hisael started on her hair and swept it up from her face, twisting it into a knot on top of her head, and brushing out the long wavy tail to hang down her back. When she had finished, Lothíriel fixed the circlet her father had given her when he returned from the war. Around the front of the gold band swam three pearl swans.

A little later there was a tap on the door and Amroth came to escort her. He looked her up and down, and said with his cheeky grin, “I think you will be turning a few heads tonight, little sister, including a certain king’s.”

Lothíriel dug him in the ribs, “And what about you, I doubt you will have any time to spend with me.” Her brother always had a bevy of ladies around him.

Amroth held up his hands laughing. “No, tonight I am all yours. But I bet there will be a few trying to get rid of me.” He bowed elegantly, and held out his arm. “It’s a good job I am not offended that you chose to take Éomer’s advice over your horse, rather than ask me.”

“You could have come with us.”

“What! And have risked the royal wrath? No thank you.”

“Don’t be silly, Amroth. They were his horses; it was natural to go with him. Anyway, I thought you were friends.”

“Oh, we are. Which is why he would probably have hit me had I intruded. And why I told him to make sure of ridding himself of the smell of the stables tonight.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for hitting you if you said that,” Lothíriel retorted. But she couldn’t discomfit her brother, so gave up.

A plethora of colour greeted her; they must have been among the last to enter the Great Hall of Feasts. Calaerdis had been right, and the plain cream next to her brother’s dark blue cut a slice of contrast through the myriad of bright shades. Lothíriel felt as though all eyes were on her, and her steps faltered. But Amroth held onto her tightly and whispered in her ear.

“I am sorry; we should have gone around the back, straight to the dais. But you can do this.”

She looked up at him gratefully, and he winked at her. Then, suddenly, her upbringing must have taken over because confidence returned.  Her thumping heart slowed.

As they proceeded down the hall, several young men remembered something they needed to say urgently to her brother. And their way was barred by the flimsiest of excuses. Lothíriel smiled and nodded, making polite remarks, but her eyes were drawn to the end of the hall.  Then she saw him. He was standing next to Aragorn on the dais, looking directly towards her. Through the press of people their eyes met, and he smiled. Lothíriel wanted to run towards him, seek safety by his side. He did look like a lion, a beautiful golden lion, and all knew he could be equally as fierce.

Frustratingly, it took an age before she could get there, then right at the bottom of the steps a pale man with a hawk nose engaged them in conversation. But Amroth excused them quickly.

 “The King is waiting.” he told him in his best haughty manner.

“I didn’t say which king,” Amroth murmured in her ear as they stepped onto the dais.

Lothíriel didn’t bother to answer back, fearful of starting him off again. Éomer had his eyes fixed on her, and the goblet that he was about to drink from failed to connect with his lips.  But when she did reach his side there was only time for a few words.

“You look absolutely wonderful, a real sea princess with those pearls.” Éomer murmured as they waited to sit down.

“And you look magnificent,” Wanting to touch him, she moved a bit closer to finger the beautiful embroidery on the sleeve of his tunic. He laughed, deep and mellow, the sound reverberating through her.

“Which is surprising, since I did not have much time to get ready.” His nose twitched and blue eyes gleamed. “I meant to ask you this afternoon, what is the alluring perfume?”

She stepped away quickly, realising that they were on view to the rest of the hall. “Oh, it’s jasmine.”

 “Well, it smells better than it tastes.”

“Tastes?” Lothíriel laughed when she realised what he meant. “Not the same one at all. This is very common and grows in our gardens.”

But conversation ended with the ringing of the bell. They sat only a couple of seats apart, but there was no chance to say much with her father one of those between them.

---

As much as he enjoyed Imrahil’s company, Éomer would have liked to have moved a few seats, he’d had no chance to talk to her during the meal. Now his kinsmen, or rather kinswoman, had taken her attention. Trust Éothain to be the first wanting an introduction, he didn’t miss much. And it looked like she was making friends with Welwyn; the two of them had been talking for ages. Which pleased him, because Welwyn found gatherings like these hard. Although she had stopped trying to hide her scar and wore it, if not with pride, with defiance. 

“A pleasant evening, Éomer. The harpers are particularly good.”

Éomer jumped, realising he had been poor company. But Aragorn only looked amused.

“Yes, it was a good idea to come out here. Much better than the stuffy hall.”

Great braziers had been lit and candles placed on small tables all around the courtyard. Music floated on the night air and the lords and ladies of two lands strolled the paths under a canopy of stars, or sat in groups talking and laughing. He noticed Meren and Wilflede deep in conversation, but they had children in common. His eyes went back to Lothíriel, what did she and Welwyn share…

“Finding it difficult to look anywhere else, Éomer?”

“Oh, I am sorry.” Bema! Was it that obvious?

Aragorn reached over and topped up his goblet from the jug between them, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t be, I am happy to see another smitten at first sight.”

His turn to grin. “Once I saw your lovely wife, I understood perfectly.”

“And now I suspect something similar has happened to you.”

Éomer twirled his goblet, looking down into the dark liquid, and sighed. “Hmm… I admit it seems very likely. But I feel I am not seeing the whole person. I have spent much of the day in her company and she appears as a young woman should: happy and carefree. But then I catch a fleeting shadow in her eyes. Faramir hinted at something, but would not say, and a comment from Amroth made me wonder.” He stopped; the flash in Aragorn’s eyes told him he had not been mistaken. “There is a mystery surrounding her, and I guess that you know what it is. Will you not tell me?”

“Nothing that would stand between you, Éomer, I will put your mind at rest on that. It is more …” he paused, glancing over to where Lothíriel and Welwyn were still talking “… that she carries scars. Not visible, like the one that mars Welwyn’s fair face, but deep and hidden. But I don’t think it is for me to tell you, Éomer. I am sure she will do so herself when she is ready. Give her time to learn to trust you.” He paused again, thinking for a moment and then went on, “I will tell you this much, it may help you with her. You know that Dol Amroth was held under siege for a short while after Imrahil left to ride to the aid of Minas Tirith?”

“Yes. I could not understand why, as evidently the force was much too small to storm the city. The actions of the Harad commanders did not make sense. I realize that Lothíriel was there, but surely that was not all?”

“No, not all.  But you see, the force was not there to storm the city, but to stop anyone escaping.  To stop Lothíriel escaping.”

Éomer frowned, not quite sure if he had picked up on Aragorn’s meaning.

 Aragorn’s lip curled and he spat the words. “To the victor go the spoils of war.” 

Éomer’s puzzlement turned to horror; he stared at Aragorn in disbelief.

“It has always been so, my friend, beautiful women have ever been but pawns in the games of men.”

---

20^th March.

“I went where no one else is allowed. We rode right up to the tree.”  Alphros let go of Éomer’s hand, and ran headlong at his mother, all excitement and pride.

She made a lovely picture: the pretty woman absorbed in some needlework with the shadows of the leaves dancing across her face. But at the first sound of her son’s eager voice, Meren quickly rose from her seat under the tree and put down whatever she had been working on, smoothing down her dress. She caught Alphros before he had a chance to knock her over, hoisting him into her arms. Her face filled with love, but her voice was firm.

“Have you thanked King Éomer properly?”

“Yes, he did. Very nicely,” Éomer confirmed. In fact he had enjoyed taking the boy out, bright and lively, but well mannered.

“Well, thank you for remembering. He woke up talking about it, but I was not sure you would come.”

“I promised, and would not willingly have let him down.”  It was just a pity Lothíriel had not been around. Meren must have picked up on his thought, it sounded as if she was apologising.

“Lothíriel and Calaerdis are not back yet. They went to the market to order flowers, but I expect they saw other things that took their attention.”

He was not having much luck. “They seem to enjoy one another’s company.”

“Yes,” Meren looked a bit embarrassed. “Calaerdis is a very nice person. She is a friend…of all of us.”

Damn! Did she think he would be shocked at Lothíriel consorting with her father’s mistress?  “I like Calaerdis very much,” he put in quickly.

Meren smiled her relief. “We all do.” Alphros suddenly saw a cat walking along the top of the wall and struggled to get down from his mother’s arms. She let him go, watching for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t come to any harm trying to scale the wall. The cat looked down with a superior expression, safe for the time being.

“He won’t get very far,” Éomer reassured her.

She shook her head in resignation. “He’s always up to something.”

Éomer grinned. “He’s a boy.” He waited until he was sure Alphros could really get no higher and reluctantly took his leave. “Well, I must go.” He could hardly hang around hoping Lothíriel would be back. And after Aragorn’s announcement the night before, he’d made up his mind not to crowd her, but he still wanted to see her. At least Meren appeared to be on his side.

“Éomer, the family is eating here tonight. Would you like to join us?”

“Thank you. I would have enjoyed that. However, I have already arranged to get together with some of my kinsmen. But are you and Elphir coming on Faramir’s picnic tomorrow?” He knew Lothíriel would be there.

Meren shook her head. “No, Elphir is meeting with Imrahil and Aragorn. Some emissaries from…” she waved her hand generally south … “are due to arrive. Wilflede’s maid is bringing little Bronwyn here, so Wilflede and Elfhelm can go.”

“That is kind of you.” She was a sweet lady; he couldn’t imagine her ever doing anything unkind.

She chuckled softly. “Well, to be honest, I am not keen on long rides. I usually end up on Elphir’s horse.”

He couldn’t fault that. “I agree, a very pleasant way to travel.” Their eyes met in laughter and Éomer bowed. “Perhaps you would tell Amroth and Lothíriel that I will see them in the morning.”

To be continued.

List of Original Character appearing or mentioned in this chapter.

Gondorians:-

Sergion-                 Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defense of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.

.Lady Calaerdis-    From Sirith in Lebennin. A rich widow. Mistress to Imrahil.

Princess Meren-   Elphir’s wife. Rescued by him from Corsairs to whom she refused to give away the hiding place of her brother’s children in spite of being assaulted.

Hisael -               Lothíriel’s maid

.---

Rohirrim:-

Welwyn-                Daughter to Erkenbrand and Winfrith. Wounded in the Battle of Helm’s Deep and healed by Aragorn.

Wilflede  -           Hama’s eldest daughter – Married to Elfhelm

Halcon -               Éomer’s Stable-master.

Chapter 27

Gondor

March 21^st 3020

Any lingering ghosts likely to jump out and confront him were pounded into the grass of the Pelennor by the flying hooves of the three horses. Éomer knew that he was without a doubt watching the best horsewomen in Middle-earth. Éowyn, Welwyn and Lothíriel raced their mounts along the grass that ran beside the road, jumping the drainage ditches and the occasional broken wall. Laughter floated back to him; the joy on his sister’s face made up for so much heartache.

Above the Ephel Dúath a few puffy clouds traversed a clear sky.  Men worked untroubled in the fields, a line of white washing fluttered in the soft breeze and the squeals of happy children reached him from a nearby stream. If he’d ever had any misgivings that the sacrifices of war were not worth it, he only had to look at the simple freedoms that could now be enjoyed in this land, and his own.

“It is good to see that riding can be undertaken purely for pleasure,” Elfhelm remarked beside him. “So often it has been only a means to get to war.”

Elfhelm must have been having similar thoughts. Éomer grinned in agreement. “I am tempted to join them, but all of us charging madly towards the river might turn into a stampede.” It was a good job he had galloped Firefoot the evening before.

“And I know when I am outmatched,” Wilflede admitted, content to canter alongside her husband.

Éomer knew her to be a good rider, of course, but not the equal of the other three. The rest of the party, Faramir, Éothain, Amroth and his friend Oríon, Legolas, two esquires and a guard, were also happy to enjoy the morning and the ride at a more leisurely pace.

As they neared the river the three slowed down and walked their horses to cool them off, waiting for the rest to catch up. Éomer looked around with interest as they reached the new crossing, four leagues down river from Osgiliath, where a chain ferry had been put in to shorten the distance from Minas Tirith to Emyn Arnen. Faramir had explained it was less disruptive to the many boats that used the river than another bridge, and more quickly constructed. On each bank oxen turned the huge capstans to haul the chains that pulled the flat bottomed barge across; a few men used long oars to keep the bow stemming the flow of the river. The ferry could take many horses and goods, and would be a boon to those who intended to settle in South Ithilien. But today they were the only ones, and after securing the horses the whole party congregated on the starboard rail for a glimpse of the house Faramir had been building over the winter. Parts of it started to emerge from the trees in the distance; the house looked west to the City and south down the river to the sun and the sea. It was built of wood and stone, blending easily into its surroundings.

Éowyn strained to get a better look, appealing to her betrothed.

“Oh, Faramir, why can’t we go that way? I want to see properly. It won’t do any harm.”

Faramir put on his stern look; it would be like moving a mountain. “No, there are still a couple of days’ work needed to finish it. And anyway, I don’t want you to go inside the house before we are married. We did agree that if you remember, or I would not have come across here.”

Éowyn folded her arms in disgust. Faramir’s lips twitched and he looked indulgently at her, but Éomer knew she had no chance of persuading him. However, she would not be Éowyn if she didn’t try again.

“What about the furniture? You haven’t asked my opinion at all. I think I ought to have some say in it.”

Faramir winked at him, but kept his face straight. “I have put in a large bed, a table and two chairs. That’s enough for the first couple of weeks of our marriage. You can choose the rest later.”

Éomer laughed out loud when Éowyn’s face turned a pretty shade of pink, and she said no more. He couldn’t help teasing her.

“It’s good to see that there is someone who can shut you up. That’s more than I have ever been able to do, Éowyn.”

With a glare towards him, Éowyn took Lothíriel’s arm and led her towards the front of the barge, talking loudly “Brothers can be so overbearing, how do you cope with three?”

“Getting me into trouble now,” Amroth complained with a grin on his face.

“I am sure you deserve it,” Éomer quickly retorted. He kept his eyes on Lothíriel and Éowyn for a moment, who were laughing together, blonde and black hair very close.

“Are you sure you are going to come all this way on your wedding night?” he murmured to Faramir. “It will take a couple of hours.”

“I want Éowyn to wake up and see trees and the river from the windows, not look out onto walls of stone.”

Éomer nodded, he could understand that, but admired Faramir’s fortitude.

Minutes later the ferry bumped against the wooden slipway, and they led the horses clattering up onto the road. About half a league on, the main way curved to the right, but determinedly, and in spite of mutterings from Éowyn, Faramir led them on a narrower track that left the river and cut into the woods. The land started to rise and the trees became thicker. After a short while they heard the sound of running water, and with no other warning a clearing opened out on the bank of a small river, which ran on to join the Anduin.  Éomer agreed Faramir had brought them to a lovely spot for a picnic: bluebells massed in the open spaces, alders and birches dipped their branches into the water, and on the edge of the woods the bright, new leaves of beeches filtered the sunlight. Only a year since he had travelled through North Ithilien, but this place bore no resemblance to the bleak campsites of those days.  Banishing the memory, he put Firefoot to graze. Elfhelm and Éothain had a fire going as soon as all the horses were settled.

The kitchens had provided them with ample food, but not content, Legolas disappeared, bow in hand, farther along the track. Amroth pulled some fishing lines from his saddlebags, giving one to Oríon. To Éomer’s surprise, he also gave one to Lothíriel, and in a few moments she had it rigged with some bacon stuck on the hook.

“Do you think you will have any luck?” he asked, although she handled it deftly.

She laughed. “I am sure Amroth will. Fish usually jump on the hook for him. You’d better make a spit to cook them.”

“I doubt he remembers how,” a familiar voice came from behind. “Someone else always does it for him. It comes with rank.”

“Don’t you believe Éothain,” he assured her. “I may be out of practice, but I remember perfectly well.”

Rewarding him with a grin, Lothíriel slid down the bank to the stream, stepping carefully and choosing the flat stones.

“She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, I’ll give you that.”

Éothain sounded incredibly surprised, as well he might. Éomer tried to imagine some of the other ladies of Gondor with their sleeves rolled up, balancing on a rock and dangling a line into the water.

But Amroth caught three before Lothíriel pulled one in. Éomer had been expecting her to squeal, either with delight, or in response to the shiny, slippery fish. But apart from a huge grin, she took out the hook quickly and competently. However, Oríon took it from her and neatly dispatched it, throwing it onto the grass for Welwyn to gut.

A little niggle of concern wormed through him seeing the easy companionship between Lothíriel and Oríon, but irritated with himself for his jealously he pushed the idea firmly down: from what he had seen so far they behaved much like brother and sister.

As the pile of fish grew, Legolas returned, four rabbits slung over his shoulder. “They crop the grass by the side of the track.” He explained his prowess in his normal understated way.

Another glorious afternoon, eating out in the wilds had never been so good. Excellent food and even better company, but now Éomer was afraid he was likely to doze off. To keep himself awake he sat on a boulder watching Éowyn and Lothíriel paddling in the shallows. They started splashing water over each other, laughing outrageously.

Not being able to behave in so wild a manner – Éomer wondered if he’d like to – Lothíriel’s young guardsman, Durthor, came down to the water to refill his flask, stepping from boulder to boulder trying not to wet his fine boots. Suddenly he slipped, fell right onto a jagged rock and let forth an almighty scream.

Éowyn stood with her mouth open for a second before she moved, but Lothíriel was nearer.  She got there first followed by himself. The boy was groaning loudly, half in half out of the water, his right leg at a most unnatural angle and his hose stained with blood.

Immediately Lothíriel her put her hand on the young man’s head and said something under her breath. Incredibly he quietened and breathed easier.

 With her hand still on Durthor’s head, she looked up at him, her face a mask of concern. “I need a knife!”

Éomer took one from his belt and handed it to her. With only a slight struggle she cut the shiny boot along the stitch line and removed it, and with no hesitation slit his hose from ankle to hip. Blood mingling with the water, an open wound and a glimpse of bone, Éomer had seen too many injuries not to know that they had a problem.

Lothíriel cut a strip from the lad’s hose, washed it in the water and made a temporary bandage. “Luckily it is not pumping blood, but I will have to try and treat it here and put on a splint. We shall need a wagon to get him to the City. Even if I set the leg, the less he is bumped around the better.  Someone will have to go back.”

Éomer didn’t bother to argue, he knew she was right. He hopped up to the bank to talk to Faramir and Elfhelm.

“Lothíriel says we need a wagon. I agree with her. We cannot move him on horseback. How far is your house from here?” he asked Faramir.

Faramir shook his head. “The house is a fair distance from the ferry. It is almost as quick to go to the City, the road is better. Also the Healing Houses have special padded carts with straps for transporting the wounded.”

“Then it had better be you that goes. Your authority and knowledge will get things done more quickly.”

Faramir nodded. And Éomer carried on, “Take Éowyn with you, and your squire.” He glanced to Elfhelm. “Also Elfhelm and Wilflede, they will wish to get back to their child. The rest of us will stay.”

“Éomer, it will be very late by the time someone gets here. My men patrol the woods, but be careful. We should have brought a proper guard and not given way to inclination.”

He couldn’t deny that, but like Faramir, the temptation to have a free day away from formality had overruled his sound judgement. And Éothain’s nagging. ”

Faramir prepared to leave, and with a quick squeeze to his sister’s arm, Éomer went back down to Lothíriel. Amroth handed her a leather bag, and she took out a small sack containing bandages and pads, resting them on a dry rock on the edge of the stream. There were also many herbs and a phial holding some liquid. She returned to her patient, tipping some of the liquid into his mouth. Éomer moved close to see what she was doing.

“It is a powerful medicine,” she said, dropping her voice, “it will take away the pain and he will sleep. Now I must decide what to do.”

“What are the choices?”  Éomer asked.

“If the leg is not straightened now, it might be too late; the tissues will swell and the muscles and sinews tighten. The cold water will help, but not for long. If I do not do it and we move him the bone will chafe the flesh, and he will very probably lose his leg.”

Éomer frowned, it sounded hopeless. “Have you the strength and the skill?”

“The strength will come. It is not the worst break I’ve seen or dealt with, but if I make a mistake then the nerves could be trapped, or, worse, the broken bone could rip the large vessel that carries blood down the leg. If that happens out here in the wild, it will all be over for him.” Her face twisted with indecision. “I have helped many times, but have never attempted it on my own before.”

He didn’t know how to help her. If the same had happened to a member of his éored out on the Emnet they would have made up a sled and trailed him back to Aldburg, a very bumpy ride. Doubtless the sufferer would have lost his leg. Éomer looked down at her troubled face, “If it were me, I would not wish to lose my leg.”

Some of the tension left her and she nodded before calling to where the others were waiting, “Legolas, could you find some branches for splints, straight and strong.” The elf departed almost before she had finished speaking, and she turned to Éothain “Please could you make up the fire? I will need some boiling water, and some wine to cleanse the wound.”

She waited while Welwyn fetched a flagon, smoothing her hand over Durthor’s head. The lad had his eyes closed.  Taking the wine from Welwyn, Lothíriel poured a good quantity over the open wound. He jumped but his eyes stayed closed.

 “I must do it now before he wakes. I am afraid you are going to get wet, but I dare not move him. Amroth, come down here and hold his body, do not let him struggle. Éomer you must hold the top of his thigh very still and tight, it must not move when I pull.”

Reassured by the fact that Amroth accepted his sister’s instructions without a quibble, Éomer got into position. Lothíriel knelt in the water and grasped the boy’s leg above the knee.

“Hold tight!” she reminded them. “The pain will get through to him.”

She closed her eyes and muttered something he could not hear. Then she pulled hard and twisted. Durthor jerked and groaned. Éomer held on, and when he looked again the leg had straightened and the wound closed almost over. Lothíriel expelled a great sigh of relief and her lips moved in a silent thank you. They all relaxed, and she examined the wound, prodding it gently. It was oozing a little blood but nothing more. She fixed pads, and the splints Legolas handed her. When she was satisfied they moved Durthor carefully to the fire.

“He must be kept warm and the wound kept clean, but he is young and strong. The signs are good.”

Adding some herbs to the boiling water, Lothíriel was able to properly clean the wound. A bit later he started to groan and she spooned something else into his mouth. She had tied her long hair back into a knot and put on her blue cloak.  Éomer decided that she looked even more beautiful than she had at the feast wearing that wonderful dress. He thought back to what Aragorn had told him that night, and he knew now with certainty that, far from wishing to throw her over his saddle and ride away, more than anything he wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe.

And he hoped he could do just that one day, but he was on edge as he moved his eyes from Lothíriel and scanned the clearing. Dusk had fallen almost without them noticing, and what had been a peaceful, pleasant place now seemed full of menace. The trees closed in, dark and tall, and the noise of the water would mask any enemy creeping up on them. Faramir had assured him that Ithilien was safe: the Rangers had not reported problems for many months, but he had lived with danger for so many years and was not prepared to take any chances.

He stood up and moved away from the fire so the light wouldn’t spoil his vision.  Legolas was also alert, leaning against a tree, staring into the woods and fingering his bow. Strange that having always shied away from magic and mystery, he now felt so comfortable in the company of elves. This Elven Prince from a far off land had stood beside him at Helm’s Deep the great bow of Lórien singing as orc after orc went down. He smiled to himself. If Legolas entered the forthcoming archery tournament, no other would stand a chance.

Amroth had his back against a log; he looked asleep, but Éomer doubted it. He decided that it must be Amroth’s lazy languid air, combined with his dark good looks that drove the ladies wild. He thought back to when he had first set eyes on the young prince: on the Pelennor, helm gone and with his black hair flying, he’d rallied his father’s troops again and again. Oríon sat nearby, looking to be deep in thought. He wore no sword so would be little help, but Éomer had listened to his ideas on defending Gondor and recognised the sense of his arguments. Whether sea or land borders, it was far better to stop invaders before they reached the populous. He didn’t profess to understand the intricacies of more efficient sails, but he accepted Oríon knew what he was talking about.

Éomer sensed a movement and saw Éothain get up to go to his saddlebags. He took out a short sword in a leather scabbard and passed it to his wife. Welwyn drew the sword, tested the blade with her thumb, and, nodding to her husband, sheathed it and fixed it on her belt. She went to the fire to brew some more tea.  Éomer sighed. He knew he could rely on her; Welwyn had more than proved herself.

His young esquire kept himself busy collecting wood around the edge of the clearing to feed the fire. He’d received the best training the Mark could give, but as yet had not been tested. Éomer looked to the main cause of his worry: Lothíriel. Although she had been very calm so far, he did not know how she would react in any dangerous situation, and he was loath to find out.

“Tea, Éomer?”

“Thank you.”

Welwyn passed the mugs around, and went over to the fire, sitting down beside Lothíriel and handing her a mug.

“Thank you.” Lothíriel took the tea from her, and sat back. Durthor had fallen asleep again. She stretched, feeling stiff and cold, and clutched the warm mug with both hands, smiling at Welwyn.

“You’re wearing a sword, Welwyn. I have no doubt you know how to use it?”

Welwyn patted it. “Yes, I do. Like Éowyn, I trained from a young girl. Quite a few of us did. I certainly felt more comfortable in the bad times knowing I had a fair chance of defending myself.”

Lothíriel looked straight at her; she had wanted to ask the night of the feast but guessed that the answer would be gruesome. Comparing their homelands had fitted with the lightness of the evening, but now, here, with the dark and the trees it seemed appropriate.

“Is that how you came by your scar?”

Welwyn started, her hand unconsciously going to her face. “I thought it was the Rohirrim who were supposed to be direct.”

Lothíriel shrugged. “When we were at the feast the other night I got the impression it bothered you greatly, and you were trying not to let it. I thought it might help to talk about it.”

Welwyn finished her tea and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. “It might. At least I don’t see any horror in your eyes, not like most of the Gondorian ladies who recoil from me – ever so politely.  But perhaps it would have been better then, rather than you telling me about the sea and Dol Amroth. The music and the lights would have softened the memories of Helm’s Deep.”

“Ah, I did wonder if you fought in that battle. I imagine you would have wanted to defend your home.”

“It was the children. The orcs tried to break into the caves. There were so few of us to defend them. It ended up with me standing between Éomer and Éothain. I hewed down orcs without a thought that night, but it was a long time before the horror of killing left me.”

Welwyn ran her finger down the scar, her expression turning wistful. “This happened right at the last. Éothain carried me back up to the keep. He wouldn’t let anyone else near.”

“You were betrothed?”

“No.” She smiled with some memory. “In fact, I don’t think we liked each other very much until that night. But my mother said that is often the way of things.”

Lothíriel felt a surge of regret: how wonderful to have a mother to discuss such matters with. She shook away the thought as Welwyn carried on talking.

“It was Lord Aragorn who saved my life. Without him, I might never have woken up. Éomer told him about me. And after healing me he used his skill to treat our injured warriors, even though he must have been exhausted. Many are alive today because of him.”

Lothíriel smiled, Welwyn had been lucky he was there. “He is an incredible man. I once cried all over him.”

That put an answering smile on Welwyn’s face and she leant closer. “Did you? Why?”

Lothíriel sighed: amazed she could talk about it.  “Well, I have also killed.” Welwyn gasped with surprise.

“Although with a bow, not at close quarters like you,” Lothíriel put in quickly.  “Killing has a lasting effect on one, but my scars are hidden, and the Lady Galadriel helped me to deal with them.”

Welwyn opened her eyes wide. “That’s strange. It was her that helped me. I used to cover the scar with a band, which I admit looked ridiculous. But when the Lady was at Edoras she told me that if I continued to hide it, the deformed flesh would eat inwards, warping my mind.”

Lothíriel chuckled. “That sounds like her. She is a little overwhelming, but what she told me helped a great deal. And anyway, Welwyn, all who get to know you will cease to see the scar. I bet Éothain never notices it.”

Her brows drew together as she thought about that. “No, I don’t suppose he does.” And then she laughed.  “The Hornburg survived the assault of ten thousand orcs; it capitulated when Éothain stormed in.”

“Now, there’s a story I want to hear.” Lothíriel said grinning.

Welwyn looked behind her, Éothain wasn’t paying any attention but she still dropped her voice. “He came when he got back from the war. I was so self-conscious of my scar and thought no man would ever want to look at me. I wouldn’t see him, and locked myself in my room refusing to open the door. I didn’t want to show myself, especially to him. But when he couldn’t persuade me to come out, he started to batter the door down and Wilheard – he’s my brother – tried to stop him. My mother told Wilheard not to be so stupid, and to let Éothain force his way in.”

“Your mother sounds very sensible,” Lothíriel butted in.

“She is, but by then they were both mad and had no other thought than wanting to knock each other’s heads off. It was all going on in the passage outside my room; I thought they were going to kill one another, so I went out.”

“That made them stop, did it?” Lothíriel asked, giggling. Men were past understanding.

“No, I was very affronted because they didn’t notice me. But then my father turned up. He’d been visiting one of the villages and said he heard the ruckus when he crossed the dyke. He put a halt to it.” She grinned. “Éothain and Wilheard are the best of friends now.”

At that moment Durthor moved. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “I’m cold.”

She didn’t have another blanket, so Lothíriel took her own cloak off and tucked it around him. A sharp breeze had got up and she shivered.

“I’ll find you another,” Welwyn said, standing up. “Oh, Éomer is coming over with his. I’ll leave you to it.”

Lothíriel looked up and saw Éomer heading towards her, already removing his cloak.

He’d seen her shiver, and cursed himself. Her skirt must still be wet in spite of the fire.

“Sorry, I should have noticed before,” he said, draping his cloak around her shoulders.

“Thank you. I think it’s because I am still wet. But I don’t want Durthor getting cold.”

“How is he?”

Durthor had gone back to sleep. “He will recover, I think. It is known that the body loses fluid in such cases and that is dangerous. I am giving him medicine to help.”

“Faramir told me you had a gift and used it, but I did not realise you were so skilled.”

“Does it bother you?”

Her eyes challenged him, and unexpectedly something Guleth had said came back to him – ‘But she is gifted, and stopping her doing the work would be like cutting off her right hand. My father understood that and always respected her calling.’  

“No, of course not. I can only be grateful to anyone who has the gift.  I learnt that from knowing Aragorn. Éowyn, Faramir and Merry would not be alive but for him. However, I did not realise that when your father suggested sending some of the wounded to Dol Amroth you would be dealing with them. But we did not know what else to do, there were so many.”

“It was right the right thing to do, there is still much skill in Dol Amroth. Some say that it has been passed down from when the Elves were there.”

He was just going to ask her more when there was a faint sound he recognised as a sword unsheathing. Éomer whirled around, drawing his own sword, to see that Legolas had fitted an arrow to his bow. Amroth, sword in hand, had gone from lethargy to battle ready in just a brief moment.

Legolas looked across to him and nodded towards the trees. Praying his worst fears were not about to be realised, Éomer reached down for Lothíriel’s hand and pulled her up, guiding her behind him. He stared into the darkness, straining his ears. Was that a shadow, or something else?

“Prince Legolas, please put down your bow. We are friends.”

The relief made him shout out. “I know that voice, Mablung!”

“Aye, you have a good memory, Éomer King,” replied the Ranger, walking into the ring of light from the fire, followed by three others.

Mablung pushed back his hood and Éomer looked on a familiar face. He’d rarely been so pleased to see anybody. “My friend, the journey to the Black Gates is not one that I will ever forget, nor will I easily forget the skill of you and your men.”

The Ranger acknowledged this with a nod. He looked around the clearing, “My lord, why are you out here in the wild, in the dark, with so few?”

Éomer sighed and, avoiding Éothain’s eyes, explained the situation.

“Lord Faramir is correct,” said the Ranger, “we have had no trouble for months, but you should not have taken the chance.”

“You are right, of course,” he answered, wishing to close the subject. “Are you out on patrol?”

“Not really, we are making our way slowly towards the City for the wedding and the tournament. We saw your fire.”

Éomer’s esquire passed around some tea and Éothain went to his saddlebag and produced a silver flask. “I think that we need this after that little shock.”

They all gathered around the fire. The moon had risen, lighting the clearing and once again their picnic spot looked peaceful and benign. Éomer listened with interest to Mablung’s assessment on the speed of recovery of North Ithilien now that the shadow over it had been removed, but then he saw that Legolas had moved away, his attention focused down the track.

The elf pointed and smiled. Soon they could all hear the sound of many horses coming towards them.

As the first riders appeared, Éomer was surprised to see, not only Elphir, but Aragorn himself, followed by large detachment of his guard. There was also someone else he recognised: Master Raglan, the healer. The little man sat a bit awkwardly, but he remembered him at Cormallen expressing a determination of learning to ride.

Aragorn slid to the ground next to him. “We are honoured,” Éomer greeted him. “This is unexpected.”

Aragorn smiled. “Elphir and I have been talking with emissaries all day. It is a lovely evening so we thought the ride would do us good. The wagon is coming behind.”

Éomer nodded. Good, he could get the girls back to the City. He tickled Roheryn’s dark nose, and ran his hand down the rough neck.

“They haven’t persuaded you to ride a more elegant looking horse, I see.”

Aragorn grinned. “Not yet, but he is getting on a bit.” Then he spotted the rangers by the fire.

“Mablung, is that you?”

“Aye, Sire. It is good to see you again.”

The ranger strode over and Aragorn grasped his hand. “What are you doing here, teaching woodcraft?”

“They crept up on us,” Amroth admitted, laughing, “gave us more than a fright.”

The dour ranger raised a wry brow. “If it were not for the Elf we could have slit all your throats.”

By this time Master Raglan had already examined Durthor and was discussing him with Lothíriel. Éomer realised they would know each other as she had worked in the Healing Houses of Minas Tirith. Raglan patted her on the shoulder, but he couldn’t hear what he said.

“You all go on,” Aragorn said to him, “take the ladies home.  Half my men can go with you. We will wait for the wagon and follow on soon. What are you going to do, Mablung?”

“We will camp here tonight, Sire, make use of the fire. Then set out for the City in the morning.”

Éomer started on saddling Bracken; Aragorn had his eyes on Lothíriel.

 “If she used her gift to fix his leg, Éomer, she is going to be very weary. Watch her on the way home.”

 “That’s true,” Elphir agreed. His face softened as he looked at his sister. “She has a habit of falling asleep without any warning, especially when she has been working with the sick. But Amroth knows that.”

“Do not worry, I will look after her.” Éomer walked over to Lothíriel who seemed reluctant to leave her charge. “Come on,” he said, “you have done your part. Leave him now.”

Lothíriel collected her things, and Éomer lifted her onto her horse. With a wave to Aragorn and Elphir, the remnants of the picnic party, plus a sizable number of Royal Guardsmen, set off along the track. Éomer could understand why Aragorn and Elphir had relished the ride if they had been incarcerated in a counsel chamber all day. It was a beautiful night, with the moonbeams dancing among the trees and the glimpse of stars through the leaves, and now with Lothíriel safe beside him he could relax and enjoy it.

They had been riding for about half an hour, and had just passed the cart coming the other way, when Éomer suddenly noticed Lothíriel swaying slightly in her saddle. Quickly he manoeuvred Firefoot right next to Bracken.

 “You are tired,” he said, “come and ride with me.” She nodded; her eyes were already closing.  Amroth was only a moment behind him, but he took hold of Bracken’s reins, enabling Éomer to lift Lothíriel over to Firefoot. Mumbling something, Lothíriel put her arms around him, laid her head on his chest and fell fast asleep. She smelt of wood-smoke and had a smudge of dirt on one cheek. Much of her hair had escaped from the knot and curled around her face. Very carefully, he eased the curls away from her eyes and mouth.

Amroth stared at him, but he didn’t want to give her up. In fact he wanted to hold on to her forever, she felt so good in his arms. “I just got there first,” he excused himself.

Amroth looked him straight in the eye. “Éomer, as far as Lothíriel is concerned, I am sure you always will.”

But behind him Éothain chuckled. “It seems that your charms are waning, lord. You have a beautiful woman in your arms and she goes to sleep!”

“Nay,” said Legolas, “she sleeps because in Éomer she has complete trust, for their match was made long ere they met. Did you not feel the dart of fate when you first saw her, my friend?”

Éomer looked down at the sleeping girl: her eyelids fluttered and a pulse throbbed in her neck. She looked small and vulnerable and he wanted nothing more than to protect her for the rest of his life.

“The trouble with elves,” he replied, “is that they see too much.”

It was difficult to believe that they had met only two days before. How one’s life could change. The problem was that he realised he had fallen utterly in love with a woman he hardly knew, and about whom there was some mystery. What was more, in spite of what Legolas had said, he had no real idea of how she felt about him. He would have to find out soon.

They reached the river crossing far too quickly. The ferrymen were waiting. They would have a late night, but perhaps having their king as a passenger would make up for it.  He thought all the clanking would wake her, but it didn’t, so he stayed on Firefoot all the way across. But when they were not far from the City she suddenly woke up, blinking up at him for a moment. His face only inches from hers, he smiled reassuringly, wondering if that was always the way she woke.

 “You fell asleep, and would have fallen had I not caught you. Do you feel better now?” She didn’t draw away, but a quiver ran through her.

 “Yes, thank you, much better. But I think I had better go back to Bracken.”

Éomer put his lips next to her ear, the warmth of her flesh so tempting. “Well, that is a shame. Are you not enjoying this?” Her heartbeat thumped against his chest, his own must have been dancing a reel.

“I will not deny it is a pleasant way to travel,” she whispered, “but to arrive in the City in your arms again will be considered rather shocking.”