Chapter 1 – Encounters

Inspired by “Betty Zane” by Zane Grey

            Ceorl, son of Aldor, moved into position; he was on guard duty for the afternoon.  He dismounted from his black horse, Fréa, to take his place beside the path leading out of Rohan into the forbidding paths of Ered Nimrais.

            It was a hot day; only the shade of the near trees cooled him, and that only slightly.  Fréa stood placidly by while Ceorl himself sat near the trunk of a rather large tree, straining his senses for anything out of place.  He was near dozing several hours later, but he roused himself quickly upon hearing a horse approaching at a swift pace.

            Quickly he sprang to a hidden place near the trail, prepared to accost the traveler when he should arrive, as was his duty.  He loosed his knife (made by the Elves and an unusual heirloom of his family) in its sheath and made ready for anything.  All his years of training by his father came to mind as he quickly planned his course.

            The rapid hoof-beats grew louder; he could feel them in the ground beneath his feet.  His muscles tensed and he pulled his feet closer under him, making ready to leap into the path. 

            The horse came around the bend – a tall, well-built grey – at a dead gallop, dripping sweat.  Ceorl watched for the moment he needed.  He could see that the rider bore no armor, definitely not a soldier, and his orders forbade anyone passing his post without signed behest from the King.  He doubted the rider had any.

            When the horse was nearly upon him, Ceorl sprung from his place next to the road and seized the reins in his left hand, his right ready on the haft of his blade.  The startled horse reared, and the young marchwarden pulled sharply down on the reins.  The flighty steed’s fore feet hit the ground, and Ceorl quickly moved his hand up the reins to a grip closer the bridle.

            The eyes of the rider blazed angrily from behind his hood as the horse sidled about, grunting and panting, his great sides heaving as he regained his wind.  Ceorl spoke softly to the horse for a moment, quieting him somewhat, before turning to the rider.

            “By whose command do you presume to cross the border of the Mark?” he demanded in an authoritative voice befitting his station.

            The rider threw his hood back, revealing the face and hair of a young, beautiful and very angry maiden.  Her blue-grey eyes were as leaping flame, yet cold as steel, and her long black hair, tied loosely back by a leather thong, gleamed in the bright sunlight filtering through the trees overhead.  Some of it came loose from its binding and fell about her face in dark wisps which she angrily shoved back with an impatient hand.

            “I go nowhere by anyone’s command, young man!” she said proudly, her chin lifting slightly.  “Often have I ridden this way unhindered and yet now you presume to stop me.  I tell you, it will take some doing!

            “I now ask you by whose command do you assume to keep me fenced in?  Surely you must have some semblance of authority else you would never dare to hinder me, nor would you even imagine laying hands upon my horse.  I say now, show me by what authority you brazenly accost me, else let me go, and at once!”

            He smiled slowly under her blazing gaze, and her rosy complexion grew ever darker at the impudence of the ignoble soldier before her.  “I have my orders, my lady.  I was sent here by my father, Captain Aldor of the Riddermark, to guard against anyone entering or leaving the borders.  We have been warned of enemy troops approaching the country.  Therefore no one, be it woman, child, soldier, royal or common shall be permitted to leave the borders without a strong guard or passage signed by King Éomer himself.”

As he talked he watched her face and saw the red fade to a shade of white.  She opened her mouth to say something but he interrupted.  “Show me your pass and I will let you through; if you have none, I must command you to return to your family and remain there until the danger is passed and once again we may travel in safety across our own bounds.”

Mutely, and yet still angry and proud, she turned her horse and, taking notice for the first time of her mount’s condition, walked him slowly back towards the city.  Ceorl watched her go, then walked over to where Fréa was tied.  He rubbed the blaze on his mount’s face absentmindedly.  His mouth was dry, not only from the talking he had done, but from the memory of her flashing eyes, her shining hair, her rosy face and her musical voice, so angry and haughty, yet somehow endearing and innocent.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -          

He had been on duty, and a very boring job it was too, for over five hours, and it was high time for him to head back.  He wished his replacement would hurry up and get there.

He tightened the girth on his saddle as the next placement rode up, a welcome sight.   

“How has it been?”

“Not much excitement yet today.  Good luck.”

Ceorl mounted with the ease of long practice, and gratefully trotted his horse towards home.  He was ready for a bath after sweating nearly the whole day through and he was hungry after his five-hour fast.

            Fréa, always a spirited mount, was just as ready to get home as he was, but Ceorl held him in, wishing to save his energy in the case it was needed.  It was well that he did.  As he neared the city, he crossed a small creek and was going on, when suddenly his horse snorted and pranced nervously about, not wanting to go forward.

            Ceorl, now wary, looked carefully around and noticed a man, obviously not of the Rohirrim, lying in the shallow water of the creek.  There was a bloody gash in his shirt sleeve and Ceorl could see another slight furrow on his head.

            He dismounted quickly and strode to the man’s side.  As he felt for a pulse, a muffled groan escaped the other’s lips and his eyelids fluttered.  Ceorl spoke quickly to him in Rohirric and then in the common tongue.

            The man’s eyes opened and he looked about him, pulling back from Ceorl’s grasp as he did so.  He cried out deliriously, “Adar!  Naneth!  Non egla?” Ceorl understood very little of the Elvish language and knew not what he said, so he simply disregarded it and set about binding the man’s wounds.

            The blood on his sleeve came from a small flesh wound, not serious, but it had bled freely; the furrow on his head was also shallow.  It had likely given him a slight concussion, no more.  The man would live, but he had lost a good deal of blood.

            Ceorl bound the wounds tightly with bandages all the Riders carried in their saddle bags.  When that was done, he put the man up onto his own horse and mounted behind him.  His steed snorted and shifted in protest of the added weight and the smell of blood, but Ceorl, having been trained by the best, held him firmly in.  “Stille nu, Fréa, faeste.” he said in his own tongue, urging him forward toward the city at a docile pace.  They arrived just as the sun fell behind the horizon. . . .

            Ceorl went first to the Houses of Healing.  There he gave his horse over to the care of the stable nearby and brought the wounded man to the Warden.  He was placed on a bed and his wounds were probed again.  When he was at last resting peacefully, the Warden turned to Ceorl.

            “Where did you find him?” he asked.

            Ceorl explained all about finding him and the trip back with him.  The Warden nodded and rubbed his chin, then he turned back the Ceorl.  “This is Belecthor, son of Lord Narion, a prince of Ithilien.  They are here in the city for a brief time.  His father and mother are in Meduseld with his sisters.  Make haste and call for them quickly.”

            Ceorl did go swiftly and arrived at the Palace in good time.  There he was directed by the guards to the West Wing.  He knocked on the door, suddenly conscious of his outdoor garb and how dirty he was after a long day outside.

            The door was opened by a tall man with piercing eyes.  His face was lined with worry.  “Oh, good evening.  I was expecting my son.  He was due back several hours ago and we have had no word of him.  With the alert out, his mother and I are very worried.”

            The man noticed he was telling a stranger his troubles and stopped suddenly, regaining his composure as a prince.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            “Yes my Lord.  I have word of your son.  He is in the Houses of Healing.  His wounds are not serious and no one knows where they were acquired.  The Warden commanded me to come to you.  You must hurry if you are to get there before nightfall.”

            Narion, son of Faramir, ushered Ceorl into the parlor where his wife was sitting, reading a book.  “Annariel!  Annariel, dearest, we must hurry.  Belecthor has been found!”

            The book was soon sitting on the table and the three went out.  Annariel called their daughter Morwen who quickly joined them.  Narion assisted his wife with her cloak and quickly put on his own; Morwen was assisted by Ceorl.  Then they all went out into the gathering blackness.

            Ceorl led them quickly and surely through the dark streets until they reached the Houses of Healing, which were really not far away at all, now that Ceorl knew his way.

            They arrived quickly and the warden led them to the bedside of their son.  Belecthor was now awake and aware.  His face lighted with joy when he saw them.  “Mother!  Father!  Morwen!”

            They went quickly to his side and fell into his embrace, although gently for fear of hurting him.  His mother sat on his bed, stroking his forehead and holding his hand, his father stood over them with his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and Morwen sat happily in a chair on the other side of his bed.  All were smiling.

            Ceorl turned to go when Belecthor noticed him.  His forehead wrinkled in thought, then recognition flooded his face.  “Wait!  Do not go!  I remember you, but the memory is faint indeed.  It was you that found me and fished me out, though I was barely aware at the time.  All I remember are your face, kind words and gentle touch, not the place nor the time.  Pray tarry a while longer.”

            “Yes indeed,” spoke up Narion, removing his hands from their resting place on his wife’s shoulder and moving over to Ceorl.  He placed his hand on Ceorl’s shoulder now.  “Do not leave yet so soon.  Remain a while longer, yet.”

            “Really, my Lord, I would prefer to stay and make sure that all is well, but. . .”

            “Papa,” spoke up Morwen.

            “Yes, my dear?” he answered, turning his head in her direction.

            “Perhaps he could go tell ‘Rilian that Belec is found.  She would want to know.”

            “Yes,” said Narion, turning back to Ceorl.  “My elder daughter is visiting with a friend.  Would you, if it will not inconvenience you, go and find her?”

            “Most certainly, my Lord.  Where is it that I would find her?”

            “She will no doubt be at the palace, in the East Wing.  When you get there, go to the side door on the right of the wing.  That leads into the parlor where I’m quite sure the girls will be.  Just tell them that Hirilian is wanted.  She will, no doubt, want to know where and why.  Just give her the facts and, if that is not enough, tell her that she is to come to the Houses of Healing at once, by strict order from her father.”

            “I will go at once, my Lord.”  Ceorl stepped back, turned sharply and walked swiftly and quietly away.

Chapter 2 --  Loss of Patience

            He was soon back at the palace and subsequently found the correct door and rang the bell.  By this time the moon was riding high and Ceorl was painfully aware of how early he had risen and how late it was.  His father would give him a good talking to when he got home.  He was to have been back to the barracks and checked in by now, given his report and had dinner. 

            Another look at the moon and stars told him that he should have been in bed by now.  The present circumstances did nothing to improve his mood, and the bitter night’s chill and the long wait for the door to open only made it worse. 

            He tried to hold onto his composure until he had finished with his business here and gotten home.  It wasn’t easy.

             -                       -                       -                       -

            Hirilian had ridden straight to the palace after her “aggravating encounter with that rude young man,” and had gone right in to tell her friend, Elfwyn, daughter of Prince Elfwine son of Éomer, all about it.

            They were sitting in the parlor talking when there was a ring of the bell.  Their conversation ceased and they both looked towards the door.  It came again.  Elfwyn got up smoothly.  “Who could be ringing at that door, Hirilian?  You are the only one that ever does, and yet, there you sit, so who is outside?”

            “You ask me as if I should know, Elfwyn.  Pray, go and see who it is.  The suspense is killing me.”

            Elfwyn went to the door and looked out of the small window made for just that purpose.  What she saw was the back of a tall young man.  She caught his profile in the moonlight as he turned. 

            From the description, this could be no other than the young man Hirilian met earlier that day.  She turned quickly.  “Hirilian!  It is the young man from this afternoon!  Quick now, hide behind that curtain, there.”

            Hirilian did as she bid, and Elfwyn opened the door.  “Yes?  May I help you?” she asked.

            Ceorl held his impatience, which had been building, in check and doffed his helmet.  “Yes, my Lady.  I would like to speak to Rilian.  Is she here?”

            Before Elfwyn could answer, Hirilian herself stepped out.  Her face was angry and her eyes flashed.  “Yes, I am here, young man.  Why must you follow my every move simply to pester me?  Or have you come to apologize for your impudence earlier?  If you have come to apologize, then I would suggest you use my full name.  I am Hirilian, daughter of Prince Narion of Ithilien.  Next time be more civil, and if you have an apology to make, then I would suggest you do so.  Out with it, or remove yourself from my presence.”

            She stopped with her chin high and her entire countenance angry and irritated.  Just the look of her and her words were enough to break the dam of Ceorl’s aggravation and anger.  He replied stiffly, “My lady, I knew not who you were when we met earlier this day.  At the time you were in the wrong and I in the right.  I was acting upon orders and you upon your fancy and liking.   As to that I have no more to say, for there is no more to say.

            “I did not come to apologize, indeed I never hoped to see you again.  Even if I had the wish of an apology, how would I know you to be here?  How would I know where you were, even who you were?  No.  I did not come to apologize.

            “I have been sent to deliver a command to you.  You are to go to the Houses of Healing.  At once.”

            “And who are you to give me such an order and why is it that I should go to that place?”

            “As to your first question, I am Ceorl, son of Aldor who is a Captain of the Riddermark.  Indeed I am his lieutenant, not through any deed of my father’s, but of my own.  As to your second question, your brother Belecthor is there.  I was sent by your father, Narion son of Faramir, prince of Ithilien.  Your mother too is there and your sister Morwen.  Your father it was who told me where to find you and at which door to inquire.  He said to me, ‘Just tell them that Rilian is wanted. . .if that is not enough, tell her to come to the Houses of Healing by strict order of her father.’  So you see, it is not I that command you, but your father, Prince Narion of Ithilien by your own words.  As to your name, I knew only the name that was given me.  I was sent to find Rilian and how is it that I could know your full name if it was not given me, Lady Hirilian?”

            During this speech Hirilian had grown ever darker a shade of red and at its completion she was nearly purple in the face, her hands clinched in tight fists.  When the ending taunt (for what else could it be from such an impudent and rude young commoner?) came at her she nearly exploded with rage, but she held her anger in check, knowing that this man came from her father.  “Very well, I will go.  I do not know the way and a young lady should not travel the streets alone at night, if ever in the day.  Is it far to the Houses?”

            “No, my lady,” answered Ceorl, once more in control of himself and calm.  “You may leave your horse here in safety until I am able to return it to you in the morning.  I shall escort you to the Houses safely and swiftly.  Come, where is your cloak?”

            He helped her into it and, after bidding her friend good night, Hirilian and Ceorl walked briskly into the night. 

            When they reached the Houses, after a period of time in which nothing was said and neither looked at the other, he left her at the door and turned to walk off.  When he had turned, Narion, who had been waiting by the door, grabbed his shoulder.  “Nay, lad.  Do not depart, remain here with us, for I wish to know what you can tell me that my son can not.”

            “In my turn I must say nay, my Lord Narion.  I was called to duty early this morning, before the sun rose, and it is now past midnight.  I have not had my dinner and I was to have given my report and checked in with my father six hours ago.  I hope that I may see more of you while you are in the city, and I look eagerly forward to that time. 

            “Still, I must say goodnight, or rather, good morning, to you and your daughter and take leave of you until some later date.  Lady Hirlian’s horse will be sent to your stable in the morning.”

            With that he took a step back, turned and walked away.  Narion had noticed the almost tangible hostile feeling between his daughter and the young man as they stood there talking and he had also noticed the way neither looked in the direction of the other.  He wondered at this since they had, as he thought, never seen the other before and he knew his daughter well enough to know that she was normally an out-going type and was extremely friendly.

            He looked around and saw Hirilian, trying her best not to watch the retreating figure.  Ceorl soon disappeared into the night and Narion put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders.  “He is a nice young man, is he not, Rilian?”

            “Oh, I suppose, father.”

            “Is there something the matter, dear?”

            Hirilian looked up at her father.  She led him into the Houses and they went to Belecthor’s room.  On the way, Hirilian told her father what had transpired earlier that day.  Narion lodged it away in his memory for further use at a later time.

            When they entered Belecthor’s room, he was sitting up in bed.  He smiled and held out his good arm when Hirilian entered.  “Rilian!  (Where have you been all this time?)”

            “I have been to visit the princess.  I just got the news a few minutes ago that you were back.  How are you and what happened?”

            She went quickly to his side and gave him a sisterly kiss on the forehead.  He smiled up at her and took her hand in his one good one.  “I was out riding, as you and I always seem to be doing, and I was suddenly ambushed from behind.  My beautiful horse, Aráto, was slain and I myself would have suffered the same fate but for him.  When I was jumped, by a Dunlending, another would have had me dead by the swiftness of his arrow had my horse not reared and prevented the arrow from hitting its mark.

            “When my horse fell dead, I leapt off, throwing my assailant from me and hitting the plain on my back.  My enemies, for there were three, were swift in regaining what ground they had lost by the unexpected delay.  They were soon all about me, trying to get close enough for knife work, for they had only the one arrow; they had just come from the hunt for meat, as I later found.

            “I pulled my sword with my right hand and my knife with my left.  Then, quite suddenly, all was chaos.  I laid about me on all sides with my knife, for they were by then too close for the sword. 

            “All that Prince Legolas and his Elves (may the Valar bless them) ever taught me came back to me during those few tense moments during the fight for my life.  I soon had them all wounded in some way and at lease one of them was dying.  The other two pulled back for a short time but, following your advise, father, I went in after them and soon all three lay about me, dead or dying.

            “The few small wounds you see slowed me somewhat on my return journey and I had fallen senseless into the creek when I tried to take a much needed drink.  It was there that Ceorl found me.  He was, so he told me when I was half aware, returning from his post and happened to see me.  To him I owe my life, and there is nothing I would not do for him, for I love him as a brother.”  He lay back on his pillows and drew a deep breath.  The room was silent for a time, all of them digesting what they had just heard, Hirilian most of all.

            Narion looked up to speak when he suddenly noticed that Belecthor was sleeping peacefully.  He indicated to the rest of his family that they should leave now.  They left a message with the warden telling Belecthor they would return on the morrow, but as they went outside, they noticed that it was dawn.

            Narion heaved a great yawn and they all trooped homeward.  When they reached the palace, they went straight to bed.  As she got ready, Hirilian made a resolution to be carried out just as soon as. . .

Chapter 3 -- Compensation

When she awoke, Morwen was sitting on her bedside.  “Rilian, time to get up.  It is nearly noon and there is much to do.”

            “Is my horse back yet, Morwen?”

            “I do not think so.  Why?”

            “That young man promised to return him today.  I wonder what could be keeping him.”

            “You must remember, he is a soldier and he was up early yesterday morning and late last night.  Perhaps his father is punishing him for staying out so late.  I’m sure he will return your horse.”

            With that, Morwen kissed her sister’s forehead, got up and left the room to allow Hirilian to dress, which she did in short order.  Foregoing breakfast, or lunch really, she went straight to the stables.  Her horse was not there, nor any sign of him.  She stomped her foot and started to return to the palace.  Halfway she met Ceorl, leading her horse and talking gently to him.  She stopped and he was almost upon her when he noticed her and stopped suddenly.  “What took you so long?  I’ve been waiting.”

            He seemed some taken aback.  “As I told you, my father was none too pleased with my staying out late against orders.  Yet when he heard my defense he lightened the sentence to only three hours,” ‘and five lashes’ he added silently, his back still smarting.  “So you see, I have only just been able to get out of the house, much less bring your horse to you, my lady, but I apologize for my temper last night.  It had been a long day.  I am sorry.”

            At this opening Hirilian hardly knew what to say.  She had promised herself she would apologize to him and yet he had turned the tables on her.  “Please, listen to me.  My brother told me his story last night, or rather this morning, and I promised myself one thing.”

            “And what was that, my lady?”

            “I’m sorry for the way I treated you yesterday.  You were acting on orders and I was acting on my own fancy.  You were doing what you were told and I was being prideful.  Just now, you were doing your best and I was being rude. 

            “When you apologized to me for doing what was right, I felt small and mean.  I am sorry, for all I did yesterday and today.  Let us start again, shall we?  Let us pretend that none of this ever happened.  We have just met.  Shall we be friends?”

            He smiled at her.  “Of course.  I shall lead your horse to your stable and then I’m afraid I must report for duty yet again.  There is no rest in the army.  I shall be in the same place as yesterday if you wish to come and see me.  It gets lonely and boring out on guard all afternoon.  Anyway, I’ll need something to keep me from falling asleep, and after what happened to Lord Belecthor the alert is even higher, but I’m sure everything will be all right.”

            She smiled and took her place on the other side of the horse.  Together they walked to the stable.

            When the horse was put away in his stall Ceorl stepped back.  “Well, my lady, here is the time in which you must get back to your parents and I to my post.  I hope to see you later this afternoon.”  With that he placed his helmet on his head and mounted his horse, which stood nearby where he had tied it.  He lifted a hand to her as he rode off and was soon gone down the road.

            Hirilian looked after him and quickly went back into the palace to get ready for her ride.

*          *          *

            It was another long day.  Ceorl manned his post for the late morning and early afternoon.  Hirilian came for a short visit after midday meal.  Mid-afternoon Ceorl was relieved for a while; he caught a few hour’s sleep before he returned to his post for the late evening watch.

            Now he stood yawning beside his horse once again, just about fed up with this whole mind-numbing business. 

            But then he heard again the familiar cadence of galloping hoofbeats.  Exploiting the same strategy as before, Ceorl ducked into the overgrowth.  He leapt out with the intention of taking hold of the horse, but the spirited sorrel stallion had already skidded to a halt, though he reared and champed in vehement protest.  His rider was still indistinguishable beneath his heavy riding cloak, though he seemed unperturbed by the violent stop.

            “By who’s orders do you presume to cross the borders of Rohan?” Ceorl demanded, as was his duty.

            “I come by the orders of none, though I certainly did not expect my riding to be hindered.”

            The voice was calm and velvety smooth, though that made Ceorl all the more uncomfortable as it was not the reaction he expected or normally received.

            “No one is to be permitted to cross the border without the permission of Éomer King,” he replied brusquely.  “Would you now be so kind as to tell me exactly who you are, and from whence you came?”

            “Exactly?” the stranger asked.

            “Speak quickly!” Ceorl snapped, growing antsy.  “As a soldier of the King, I demand that you tell me your name – your full name!”

            The rider seemed to sigh reluctantly.  “Very well.”  He shrugged off his hood; Ceorl immediately bit his tongue.  “I am Legolas,” he said, his fair white face shining brightly in the pale moonlight.  “Coron Ernil Arat a Erui Ardagoron Sindarin a Nandorin Edhil o Forn Lasgalen, Iôn a Réd Eldarin Aran Thranduil, Arat Ernil o Forn Aranarth.  In the common tongue, Crown Prince Royal and First Knight of the Sindarin and Silvan Elves of Northern Greenwood, Son and Heir of His Elven Majesty Thranduil, High Prince of the Northern Realm.  You asked me for my name; I have given it.”

            Ceorl was aghast at himself for his former impudence; but he did not fail to notice that the elven-prince recited his title as though it were a weary litany, something he would rather not have brought to Ceorl’s attention.

            “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Ceorl stammered, feeling like a clod under the gaze of the venerable being before him.  “I did not realize – ”

            Legolas held up a hand to quiet him.  “Please, think nothing of it.  Narion of Ithilien is here in Rohan, is he not?”

            “He is,” Ceorl answered, still uncomfortable.

            Just then they were interrupted by the arrival of Ceorl’s replacement.  The Elf seemed just as glad to see him as Ceorl was.  “Impeccable timing, ar Rohir,” he called.

            “Legolas!” the soldier called.  “Long has it been since I have seen you here in Rohan!”

            “The same might I say of you!  Thrice now have I visited your lands; you have yet to fulfill your promise and come to mine!”

            Now Ceorl felt thoroughly lost, having no clue as to what they were talking about.

            “I promise to come before long.  You know I was but a boy when I told you that!  Now that I am grown, I shall ride to Ithilien as soon as the King sees fit to give me leave.”

            They parted with a few more friendly comments.  Legolas turned back to Ceorl.  “You are returning to Edoras?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.  You shall ride back with me; one wants for company on these long roads.”

Chapter 4 – The Alliance

"So it is the Dunlandings again that trouble you?" the Elf continued as they rode back to Edoras together.

"The Dunlandings, yes," Ceorl replied. "But they have also been seen in the company of orcs."

"Yrch," Legolas growled. "Shall we never be rid of them?"

Ceorl smirked; he had heard that the Lasgalenath had had their own share and more of trouble with those dreaded creatures. "We have had less trouble as of late with their kind, my Lord," Ceorl answered. "The Dunlandings have only recently begun to provoke us. Éomer King has not had a peaceful reign in the past, but I hope I need not say as much for the future."

The Prince nodded in understanding. "My Lord Thranduil has not had what you could call an uneventful reign. We have had our share of border wars, intruders and such. The encroaching darkness caused many of our people to leave these shores, and when the invasion of Northern Lasgalen began and the fighting commenced, we lost several more."

As the fair Elf spoke, Ceorl could detect a note of loss enter his voice and a far off look darken his gaze. Ceorl’s companion then pulled himself from the past and turned to him with a challenging grin. "The road drags, mellon nîn. Shall we step up the pace? You would not mind a bit of competition, would you? That would seem to be a fair mount you are riding," he added pointedly to goad the young man on.

Ceorl, whose main pride, as with all the Rohirrim, was his horse, could never refuse such a challenge. "To the brook," he answered, suddenly urging Fréa to a faster pace.

They reached the brook in short order and Ceorl had to admit defeat. He had been left in the dust of the mighty sorrel’s flight after the first dash, and he could tell that the slender rider was holding the horse back slightly so as to keep from leaving Ceorl too far behind.

"You have an amazing mount, my Lord," Ceorl said as they slowed. "Might I ask his lineage? If it is half so commendable as your own, he is a noble steed indeed."

"He is called Aranar," Legolas answered quickly. "His sire was of the Mearas of Rohan, and his dam was a horse of the Elves. His passion is speed. He was bred as a special mount for my father, but they could not agree on certain matters, such as who was in charge of whom, so my father left him to me."

They continued on, talking of horses, wars, families, the origins of Ceorl’s knife and other things in general and the city was soon in sight.

Their arrival in the city was heralded by cheers and cries as the peasants caught sight of the Elven-prince. He smiled and turned to Ceorl. "It would seem that they have caught sight of us. We shall be hard pressed to reach the palace if they crowd the roads, as they did when last I visited my friend Éomer."

Ceorl found that the Prince had not exaggerated. They were hard set to it to urge their mounts through the throng of admirers of their fair visitor.

They reached Meduseld after much difficulty and Legolas dismounted. "Will you not join me, son of Aldor?" he inquired squinting up at his companion, as the sun was full in his face.

"I would that I could, my Lord, but I cannot. I must report back to my father. I hope to see you again before you take leave of us. Farewell."

"Farewell, young lord. I shall look forward to our next meeting with pleasure."

Ceorl bowed his head, turned his mount, and returned the way they had come. Legolas watched him go for a moment, lamenting the fact that one so young with such promise in life might soon lay dying on a battlefield, his comrades fallen beside him in the front lines, victims of the enemy arrows and blades. It was a pity, a true pity.

He forced himself back to the present and turned to the task at hand. He entered the Golden Hall, the memory of his first entrance returning to his mind. Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli and himself, disarmed at the door and facing a hostile junta, there to offer their allegiance and rescue the king. It was different now. He still possessed his weapons, he was alone, and the welcome was warmer and kinder, proved by the smile on the face of Éomer King and his family, but again he was here to offer his allegiance, although Éomer, the old war-horse, little needed rescuing.

Princess Elfwyn, granddaughter of the king, and by far the favorite of the Elves, approached him, her hands extended, her face illuminated by the beautiful smile he knew so well. "Hir Legolas! Mae govannen, mellon nîn!" she declared as he took her hands in his own. The Elves had tried to teach her the basics of their noble language when she was but a child, but she could not grasp even the rudimentary lessons of grammar. She had now all but exhausted her meager supply of vocabulary, and they both knew it, but it was pleasant to hear a greeting in his own tongue after the confusing babble in the street. He had never taken the time to learn Rohirric and everything said to him outside had been lost upon his swept ears. He got the general idea that they were greeting him and such, but he had grasped no details.

"Mae govannen, Híril Elfwyn! How are you this fair day?"

"I am well, my Lord, but for the danger. My grandfather, as you know, will not allow himself to be kept at home. He will enter into the battle."

"Well, I know your grandfather, true enough. It is to see him that I have come. I would speak to him, if I may. Provided he is not too busy to receive a mellon iaur."

"Nay, I am never too busy to speak with you, my friend," Éomer called from his place on the dais.

Tucking Elfwyn’s hand under his arm, Legolas continued forward to where the king awaited him. "Sit down, please, my Lord Éomer," he said as he reached where the Lord of the Golden Hall stood to greet the Prince of the Lasgalenath.

After complying with the request and after Legolas had escorted Elfwyn back to her seat next to her father, Prince Elfwine, Éomer turned to his friend. "Of what do you wish to speak?" he questioned amiably.

"I am of the understanding that you are about to enter into a border war, including Dunlandings and orcs. Am I correct?"

"True enough, Legolas, true enough. Continue."

"I have come to offer my allegiance. I cannot promise you a certain force, for unnecessary battle is never foisted upon my Elves against their will. Any who offer their service to your banner shall do so of his own volition. Though I daresay I shall not be left to bear our colors beside you alone."

"Legolas, my friend, you have not changed in the years that have past. You are the same giving, selfless Elf of old. I hope you shall understand my calling you the most manly Elf I have ever known. Your suggestion is accepted with my most hearty thanks and praise to you. If you can offer me even only fifty of your Elves, we will surely prevail!" he cried suddenly, leaping erect and gesticulating wildly in his excitement. "Remember Helm’s Deep! There we had only one Elf, yourself, and we prevailed over ten thousand of the enemy! What could we not do with fifty of your kind?"

"I do not know if I can offer you even that many, my Lord," Legolas countered, also coming erect, only in a much calmer and more dignified manner than his companion, with the poise of a cat. "And you must remember that we had also Gimli son of Gloin with us. He saved your life if I recollect."

"So he did, and I have blessed him the rest of my days, as has my family, I am sure, for they have heard the story often enough. Although perhaps by now they curse him with every retelling of the story, for all they groan about it."

If Prince Elfwine’s face was any indication, the last statement of the king was not far wrong. Legolas laughed softly. "Do not tell friend Gimli that, for it would go to his head. The last I heard, he was still mining the Glittering Caves, is he not?"

"Oh, yes, he is mining, and turning out wealth beyond measure, although how long that will last is anyone’s guess. Our young friend of yesteryear has now grown older and has been eating more. I would guess he has gained several pounds and grey hairs since last we saw him."

"I have no doubt," Legolas said, smilingly.

"How long will you be with us, my Lord Legolas?" Prince Elfwine asked from his father’s right.

"I shall leave in the morning to return to Ithilien and gather those of my Elves who are willing to join me."

"How long will it take for you to return with your Elves?" Éomer questioned.

"Your guess is as good as mine, my Lord. As you are no doubt well aware, the movements of an army are hard to foretell. There is always trouble on the road and the terrain must be taken into account. Also, not all horses have the speed and stamina of Aranar. I would say a fortnight at the very least."

"We will be waiting for you, Legolas," Éomer said. Then, turning to his son, "Elfwine, escort the Prince to his quarters."

"I would see Narion and his family, if I may," Legolas mentioned as they traversed the long halls together.

"Your rooms are quite near their own, my Lord," Elfwine said, smiling as Legolas threw him an irritated glance.

"Elfwine, you have known me your whole life. You know how I hate it when you go about ‘my lording’ me. It was appropriate whilst we held royal discussion, but between friends, use my name, please."

"Very well, Legolas. Here is your room. Lord Narion and his family occupy those four rooms there and are often found in the small parlor, that door at the end of the hall."

"Thank you, Elfwine. Which of these doors leads out towards the stables?"

"The one down there, with the more elaborate designs."

"Thank you. I hope to see you at dinner."

Legolas stepped outside into the open air, placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. He was answered by a spirited whinny and the ring of hooves on cobblestone as Aranar came, almost charging, around the corner. He approached the mighty steed and stroked his glossy neck, shining like fire in the sunlight. "(Are you ready for a meal, my friend? I know I am. Let us see you stabled.)"

He led the mighty horse around to where he knew the guest stables were located. After finding him a stall and making sure he had fresh fodder, he located a curry comb, a brush, and set to work.

Just as he was finishing his task, he heard someone else enter the stable. Turning, he found that it was Hirilian, oldest daughter of Lord Narion. "Hirilian! Mae govannen, hiril nin!"

Upon sighting him, she gave a squeal of delight and ran towards him. Laughing, he stepped out of Aranar’s stall and caught her as she ran into his arms. "Legolas! (How long have you been in Rohan?)" she questioned him rapidly in Sindarin.

"(I have only just arrived this afternoon. I was hoping to see you and your family during my stay,)" he answered, holding her out at arms length. "Well, my lady, it would seem that your short stay in Rohan has improved your color. I suppose you have been riding just as much as you do in Ithilien?"

"Yes, Legolas. You know me; I have been constantly riding," she answered in the breathless tone he knew so well. "Although I have heard that it has become dangerous as of late," she continued in a more serious voice. "Belecthor is even now laid in the Houses of Healing."

"The Houses? Is he in a bad way?" Legolas asked, worry etched into his face.

"No, he was ambushed by Dunladings on a hunt whilst he was out riding. A young Rohirric soldier found him and brought him back to the city. He is healing wonderfully and he should be able to return to the palace today to be with us."

"I rejoice to hear it. Shall we go visit him?"

"I was just on my way and I can think of no more pleasing company than your own."

"Very well, shall we walk? It is not far I believe."

"Lovely," she answered, smiling as she accepted his proffered arm. Talking and laughing about day to day life, they began their journey to the Houses.

Chapter 5 – Calm Before the Storm

Upon arrival at the Houses, Legolas and Hirilian were admitted into Belecthor’s room where they were greeted by the sound of happy laughter and lively conversation. There, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair he straddled, pushed as close to Belecthor’s bed as possible, was Ceorl.

Both young men looked up at the entrance of the pair. Ceorl hurriedly sprang from his chair and bowed his head slightly in deference to both the Prince and the Lady.

"Legolas! Mae govannen, hir nîn!" Belecthor cried, his smile widening with surprise.

"Good afternoon, Belecthor," Legolas answered, drawing nearer the bed and releasing Hirilian’s hand. "At ease, Ceorl, my friend. There need be no formalities at the moment." After favoring the young soldier with a smile and a friendly slap on the shoulder, he turned his attention back to Belecthor. "Are you feeling well, my reckless young lord?"

"Very well," Belecthor answered with a sardonic grin. "And yourself? If I have heard correctly you are here to offer your life to Éomer King yet again. Really Legolas, among the degyr of Lasgalen, Gondor and Rohan, it is a wonder you are still alive. Some might call you a warmonger."

"My father has often wished to, I am sure, but he knows that would border on hypocrisy. He spends sleepless nights worrying for me, I have been told. But yes, I am here to offer my services to the king, and he has accepted. I came to look in on you before my return journey in the morn. Tell me, will you be well enough for your mother to allow you to join us in the coming fight? Or do you know?"

"Knowing my mother and the way she feels about me in a battle, she will no doubt try to keep me at home, but we shall see whether she succeeds," Belecthor answered grimly, his eyes glinting with the old war light Legolas had seen in those of the young man’s grandmother, Lady Éowyn of Rohan. The kindred spirit lived on, though the years passed.

He turned to Ceorl. "And what of you, son of Aldor? Will you be in the front lines with us?"

"Orders permitting, I would be proud to serve in the front with you, my Lord. I would give my life in the service of king and country, as I have sworn. All I ask is that my mother be taken care of should my father or myself fall in the front lines."

"Such a small request is easily fulfilled. I myself would see to it, should the unfortunate opportunity arise," the noble Prince replied.

"You would?" Ceorl asked, amazed that a Prince of the Elves would show such concern for the bereaved kin of an obscure Rohirric warrior.

"Gweston," Legolas affirmed.

"You, men," Hirilian said derisively, teasingly including the Elf under the heading, "all you can think about is war and death. Come, let us talk of brighter prospects; the day is waning."

With the conversation now turned down more genial lanes, they remained there visiting happily for some time before Narion and the remainder of his family arrived.

"Legolas, mellon nîn!" Morwen cried in delight as she entered, closely followed by similar exclamations from her parents. "(What are you doing in Rohan? I believed you to be in Ithilien!)" 

Narion, remembering proper royal etiquette despite his surprise, bowed slightly, reminding Lady Annariel to give a quick curtsey. "How are you, Legolas?" Narion inquired, smiling as his youngest daughter enveloped the Elf in a chaste embrace.

"I am well, Narion," Legolas answered, releasing Morwen and offering his hand to his friend. "To answer your daughter’s inquiry, I have come to offer my allegiance to Rohan’s king. I shall be leaving in the morning. I trust you are here to take young Belecthor home?"

"True enough," Narion affirmed, taking Legolas’ hand in his own. "The Warden tells us that he is well enough to walk for himself."

"I should say so!" piped up Belecthor from his place in bed as he kicked off the covers. "I have been here lying useless in this bed for two days and I am well ready to escape."

"Do not exaggerate, Belec," Hirilian laughed, helping her older brother to stand. "You have only been here for one day. Ceorl, could you assist me, please?" she requested as she struggled to keep Belecthor from reopening any of his freshly healed wounds in his hurry.

Between the two of them they managed to stand him up on his own feet. "You see?" he asked rather cockily, "I can stand on my own; let go of me you two," but when they released him he swayed uncertainly and was obliged to lean on Ceorl, a hand on his throbbing head.

Narion laughed at him, paternal love and pride lighting his eyes.. "You must learn to take things slowly, my son. It would seem that you will have to accompany us, Ceorl," he smiled.

"It would be my pleasure," Ceorl answered with a grin, trying not to laugh at his newfound friend.

The return journey was a cheerful affair as they made their way through the streets of the town, laughing and telling tales of years past and friends gone before. As they reached the palace Legolas excused himself from the laughing coterie and retired to his room to wash and change before dinner. Once there, a look in the mirror told him that he had also better redo his hair. Belain, it was a mess.

As he washed, he reflected on his friends from Ithilien. They were a very happy, close-knit family, true enough, but what would become of them if Narion were one day to lead his men into battle and fall, never to rise again? What would become of them should one of their children fall victim to an enemy arrow more fatal than those already encountered?

He remembered his dear friend Nilmar’s older brother Daeron who had fallen in battle while defending the palace, indeed in Legolas’ own room. He remembered the stories he had been told of his cousin, Celebrin, whom he had never met, who went into battle at an early age and fell in the Last Alliance. He remembered many of his companions among the hosts of the Lasgalenath who had been slain in the field.

He remembered his own mother, a wonderful woman, full of love and compassion but one who could hold her own with a blade. The ladies of his country had once defended their homes against hordes of the enemy that had bypassed the Elven front lines and continued on to assault the palace and homes defended by little more than maidens and their mothers.

The attack had been repulsed, but only with the loss of many lives, far too many. He well remembered seeing his mother, foul orcish blood staining her clothing and the dagger in her hand, her golden hair hanging in wisps about her lovely yet frightened face. It had terrified her, sending both her husband and her son into the fray, and when the enemy attacked the palace, seemingly with no resistance from the front, she had feared the worst.

Only when she had seen both Thranduil and their son alive, albeit wounded and covered in gore, had she begun to relax; but she had never recovered from the fright of nearly loosing both of them and seeing Thranduil with splintered arrow shafts buried in his shoulder and leg. She had soon afterwards left them for the Blessed Realm, taking with her many others from their land, among them – reluctantly – Legolas’ own betrothed.

He vividly remembered how awfully alone he had felt after they had gone, a loneliness only solaced by the compassion of his father. They had grown ever closer, father and son, during the long years in memory of loved ones lost.

He also remembered how desolate and empty he had felt at times while traveling with the Fellowship. He had known that back home his father was also feeling bereft while they were parted, neither knowing the fate of the other. Thranduil had been loath to allow him to go on the journey to Mordor, and Legolas well understood his reasons.

He would not wish the loss of a loved one on anyone, not his mortal friends whose time was short enough as it was, but especially not on his father who had suffered the loss of so many during his life, including his own father to the sword, his mother and his wife to Valinor, several childhood friends to war, his grandparents to the blades of Kinslayers, and the list went on.

Throwing his towel across the room in his frustration, Legolas watched as it hit the wall and slid down to the bed. He turned back to the mirror, leaning heavily on the basin. When would the wars cease? When would the pain of death forbear? It had been decades since he had first heard the call of the West, but he had stifled it, placing the needs of his friends and father before his own, and it was beginning to wear on him. He knew that one day, the dike would burst and he would be content in Middle-Earth no longer.

Looking down he found that he was gripping the edge of the basin with white knuckles. He took a deep breath, slowly released his grip, went to pick out a clean shirt for dinner.

Until that time he would remain, and it did his peace of mind no good to linger on the subject more than was absolutely necessary. His stomach growled in a very un-elfly manner, reminding him tersely that he had not had a decent meal for several days, and if he did not hurry he would be late for dinner.

He re-braided his hair, fastened his vambraces in place, tightened his belt and, taking one of his knives with him, headed down the corridor towards the banquet hall, his hunger increasing with every step as the smell of roast meat wafted down the hall towards him.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Mae govannen, hir nîn! ~ Well met, my lord

degyr ~ battles

Gweston ~ I swear

mellon nîn ~ my friend

This chapter is a strange blend of Tolkien and Jackson canon. I had to pick and choose details in order to make this work.

Chapter 6 – Preparations

Early the next morning, Legolas was on his way even before the sun had begun turning the horizon grey. He had promised Éomer that he would return in a fortnight, and he was determined to meet that deadline.

His hood had blown back and his hair whipped itself into his face and tangled in his weaponry strapped to his back. The great sorrel horse beneath him stretched his legs as his feet connected almost silently with the ground time after time, eating up the distance. The lithe rider could feel the rippling of his mount’s muscles as his mighty stallion bore him steadily south-east through the misty morning.

Back in the city, Ceorl, on morning shift that day, had seen the Elven Prince leave the stables. He mounted his own steed and left the city, thinking that he might ride to the border with his new friend. He was more than a little surprised to find, upon searching, that he could barely see the swift courser in the distance. Soon he could see him not at all. He had obviously taken the great horse for less than he truly was.

Dismissing this from his mind, the young soldier of the Mark began the lonely ride before him. As he rode, Ceorl reflected on the coming events. He had never been in battle before, being a newer recruit, and he still did not believe himself to be ready. Still, if war was upon their country yet again, he would do his share, and be proud to do so. He could only hope that death would not touch those he loved too deeply in the coming skirmish.

A fortnight later, almost to the day, Legolas and a force of over one hundred elves arrived in Rohan where they were warmly greeted by the citizenry and Éomer King himself.

Legolas and a chosen few of his captains were lodged in what small space there was to be had in Meduseld, while the rest were housed by willing families of the town. The large host spent the following days in preparation. There was much to do, and the city was a bustle with activity.

Legolas was often to be found in the city, helping his elves make ready. Ceorl, watching him from a distance, could well see that those under the fair Elf’s command loved him, and it was easy for him, who was under the command of another, to see why.

The Prince was never rude, harsh or overbearing without just cause. He was kind to those under his command, never giving tasks that he was unwilling to do himself. He treated his subjects with respect and as equals inasmuch as that was possible with them constantly giving him praise and honor.

The evening before the army was to start out on the campaign, Ceorl and his father Aldor stood together in the cool, misty evening air, watching the last minute preparations in the city. Both Ceorl and his father had been ordered to the front. While Athelwyn, Ceorl’s mother, was proud of them both, she was more than slightly apprehensive. Both men knew it, try as she did not to show it.

At the moment, though, father and son stood together in silence, each simply enjoying the presence of the other. While on duty, they acted as commander and soldier; off duty they were very close as father and child. Every evening, when both were home, they would stand out in the open air and watch the movements in the city and sometimes they would simply watch the sun set. When one was home and the other out, they would watch the sun from wherever they were and simply think of one another. It had been their tradition since Ceorl was in his fifth year.

"Ceorl, my son," Aldor suddenly spoke up, "we are going into battle, for you it will be the first time. I was but a babe during the battle of Helm’s Deep, the battle in which your grandfather died. My mother and I hid down in the caves. I can remember well those fright-filled hours. I was too young to really understand, for I was but in my fifth year, but the feeling of hopeless anxiety was so thick in those caves that one could almost reach out and grab it or cut it with a knife.

"I tell you this, as I have never told anyone, before you go into battle, in the hope that it will better prepare you for what is ahead than anything you have learned or been through thus far. I remember the tearful good-byes exchanged between my parents. I remember my father tousling my hair and telling me to take care of Mummy. I remember watching other families around us, going through so much more, for they were losing, not only their fathers and husbands, but their sons and brothers also.

"Your grandmother, after sending her husband off to his death, steeled herself for what was to come and journeyed around the caves, attempting to be a consolation to other bereaved mothers and wives.

"The one things that stands out in my memory more than anything else, was when Lady Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, took me up in her arms. Mother had let go my hand while she comforted a young lady and I had wandered away without her noticing. The Lady Éowyn found me and, seeing that I was alone, she picked me up and held me on her hip.

"When I was in her arms, I remember looking up into some of the brightest, yet saddest eyes I had ever seen. Of course, being so young, I did not comprehend this at the time, but looking back and remembering how it was, I understand now. She held me for some time, speaking softly to me, until my mother found us.

"I was reluctant to leave the kind lady, but I remember that I did not cry for her. She was kind and gentle, but there had been something about her that was neither gentle nor kind. Thinking back now, I believe that she was had a slightly cold quality about her which frightened me, though I knew it not at the time.

"When the battle began, we could hear noises, but we could not make out what was happening. Then there came the terrifying noise of a large blast and the caves shook. I remember my mother falling to her knees and clutching me to her breast. I think at that moment she knew somehow that her husband had died. He had been blown off the wall and killed.

"A short time later, the king and all that was left of his men joined us in the caves. The king had despaired of victory and would not give any orders but to give up all hope. That was when Lord Aragorn incited one last charge. I remember my mother crying aloud that the enemy was coming in as men barricaded the door.

"When I heard the Horn of Helm Hammerhand blow, my young blood stirred and I watched fascinated as what was left of the forces of Rohan charged valiantly out the door, through the enemy lines and to victory as they were joined by Gandalf the White and Lord Erkenbrand with a large force.

"My mother was never the same after that battle. She lived only for me and the memory of my father. I was not surprised when she died at a relatively young age. I was only in my nineteenth year.

"The loss of my father was hard for me. I had known him for only a short time, but he had been my strength and the strength of my mother. The loss of him is one reason I have tried to be more than a father to you, my boy. I wanted you to feel the love of a father as I was never able to feel it. I hope I have succeeded."

He turned and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. "Remember Ceorl, my son, never despair, for even though the enemy has the advantage, if you stand in the right, your cause will prevail in the end. You may not see the end, and your grandchildren may not see the end, but the end will come, and right will prevail."

So saying, Aldor turned and entered the house, leaving Ceorl to his thoughts and the darkness of night.

Early the next morning, Ceorl saddled his horse and slowly rode to the palace. Belecthor had told him that they all wanted to see him and send him off. They were not scheduled to leave for some time yet, and Ceorl wanted to hurry and get this over with.

In the past fortnight, he had been visiting his new friends almost every day and he had grown fond of the entire family, but especially of Belecthor’s sister, Hirilian. He had hoped not to go through more than the parting with his mother for he had ever dreaded saying farewell, and he knew that this was going to prove to be rather difficult.

When he arrived at Meduseld, the family was outside, watching Belecthor and Narion saddle their horses. Hirilian was the first to spot him approaching. Forcing a rather sad smile, she held her hand up in silent greeting. "Good morning, Ceorl," Belecthor declared in false cheerfulness upon noticing him.

"Are you well enough to fight in the front, my Lord?" Ceorl asked as he dismounted.

"Yes," Belecthor answered grimly, tightening his saddle girth. There was silence among them as the young lord elbowed his steed sharply in the ribs, forcing the stubborn animal to exhale. Impatient and irritated, the horse stamped its foot and blew loudly. "Mother does not like it, but I will be there."

"Keep him out of trouble, Ceorl," Lady Annariel spoke up from her place by her daughters.

Bowing gallantly, Ceorl doffed his helm. "I will try my best, my Lady, though I have heard that the task you have appointed me is no easy one."

"That it most definitely is not," Morwen affirmed sadly. She paused and turned to her father. "You will come home, won’t you, Adar?" she asked in a quavering, sadly childlike voice.

Her father pulled her to him and embraced her tightly. "Of course I will, love," he answered into her dark tresses. "I always have before, you know that."

Smiling tearfully up at him she gave him a filial kiss of the cheek and released him. "Of course, Adari. I shall look to the day of your return."

Narion then turned to his wife who stood silently by, watching him, her eyes brimming with tears she would not let fall in his presence. He took her hand in his and led her silently back into the palace for a private farewell. Ceorl found himself alone with the ladies as Belecthor had wandered back to the stable for some forgotten item.

Morwen turned her sad gaze his way. Ceorl had come to love the girl as a younger sister and leaving her would be as heartrending as leaving his own mother. She smiled weakly, giving him a chaste, sisterly embrace, then she turned and ran to her room as the tears escaped her control.

Ceorl was uncomfortably aware that he was alone with Hirilian. She had, as of yet, said nothing, and he was longing for her to speak, to say anything to break the moment, but she remained silent. "Farewell, my Lady," he said finally, wishing he could think of something more to say. He found, now upon having to leave her, that his affection for her had grown terribly out of proportion, and he was having a hard time controlling his emotions.

She smiled again, the tears trailing unchecked down her lovely face encircled by her dark locks. "Farewell, my lord. I shall wait for you with hope and expectation." She paused, holding out her hand to him. He took it in his own and, bowing over it, kissed it gallantly. She suddenly gripped his rough, work-hardened hand tightly in her own soft, lovely one and looked earnestly up into his eyes, blue-grey meeting ice blue. "Please be careful, Ceorl. You have never been in battle, do not think I am deriding you, for I have only fear for you. I remember my fear when Belecthor first entered battle. I have the same fear now, for you. We have known one another for so short a time, and yet it is as if I have known you an age. You must come back."

Then, just as suddenly, she released his hand and then she also fled to the privacy of her room. Ceorl, his mind and heart heavy, mounted his faithful steed to return home. That had been quick, yet painful. He knew that before him was still the parting with his mother, which would be almost just as quick, but all the more painful.

By the time he was half way back to his own home, an idea had formed in his mind and he was determined to carry it out, despite consequences. With that mindset, he turned his mount around and returned to the palace at a smart trot.

While visiting Belecthor during that past weeks, he had come to know some of the royal family, Eorl son of Elfwine being his favorite among the boys. He had found that those in the royal family, especially the heir, had been well-educated and could read and write, rather a novelty among the people of Rohan. He hoped to put that skill to use.

He arrived at the palace yet again, dismounted and ascended the stairs. The guards, having met him recently, bowed him in. Nervously, he entered the royal hall. He had found the royal court nothing if not friendly and amiable, but he still had not managed to become comfortable around the king.

He was somewhat relieved to find that the Éomer King was elsewhere, no doubt gathering the materials needed for the journey. Only Princess Elfwyn was present. She smiled and held out her hand to him. "Ah, Ceorl, how may I serve you?"

Ceorl approached and, kneeling, kissed her hand. "I wish only to speak with your brother, Eorl, my Lady."

"Eorl, I believe, is preparing in his quarters." She turned and motioned to a servant in the shadows. "Take Ceorl to Lord Eorl’s chambers."

"Yes, my Lady."

"Farewell, Ceorl," Elfwyn said. "If I do not see you again before you take leave of us, I want you to know that both my father and my grandfather the king were quite taken with you. They will not allow you to know from their actions, men being what they are, but I want you to know."

"Thank you, my Lady. I will remember and try to live up to your expectation. Farewell."

"Farewell. Return to our fair city before too long, for I believe there is one who will be most anxious to see you."

"And who is that, my Lady?"

"That is not my secret to tell. Go now before it is too late. Your escort is waiting."

Ceorl bowed and followed the servant down several halls until they arrived at a closed door that looked no different than the others. Ceorl was glad he had the servant to guide him, he would have been lost three halls ago.

"Here, my lord," the servant announced. He then bowed and left.

Unsure of what to do now, Ceorl rapped tentatively on the door. "Come in," the reply came, muffled by the heavy wooden door. Ceorl entered to find Eorl standing in front of his mirror, lacing on his armor.

He turned, a smile lighting his face. "Ah, Ceorl, my friend! What brings you to the palace?"

"My Lord, I wish to beg a favor of you."

Eorl turned back to his mirror, struggling with a strap on his shoulder. "You need not beg, my friend. What is it that I may help you with? While you tell me, could you assist me with this, please?"

Ceorl walked over to his friend and began to fasten the lacing. "I would like to write a letter, but as you know, my Lord, the people of Rohan know not how."

"Well do I know this. I remember as a child rather envying those in the lesser classes who need not sit through such boring lessons on such beautiful days. Who would you like to write?"

"I was wondering if I might dictate a letter to Lady Hirilian," Ceorl answered, hiding on the ground as he fastened the ties of his friend’s greaves.

Eorl was in no way really surprised. He, being savvy to the way of the world, had noticed Ceorl’s affection long before Ceorl himself was aware of it. "Of course. Do not worry my friend, I understand. I will write whatever you wish. Would you like it in the Common Tongue or Elvish? I must warn you that my Elvish is rudimentary and most likely would not impress the Lady."

"The Common Tongue would be sufficient, my Lord."

"Very well. Have a seat on the bed, and I shall ready my pen for your oration."

Once the letter was finished and the fine sand dusted over the wet ink, Eorl folded it neatly and sealed it, using a generic stamp. He then addressed the letter to Lady Hirilian and held it out to Ceorl.

"Really, my friend," he said, "you should be a poet, or a teller of tales."

Ceorl flushed only slightly. "With all due respect, I am a soldier, my Lord, with no wish to be aught else."

"I understand the sentiment, but who will hand the letter to the Lady? It would seem rather foolish for you to give it to her and not just tell her yourself, I must finish preparations and the servants would not do it justice."

"I have heard that your sister is a good friend of Lady Hirilian. If you were to place it in her care, I should have no fears for its speedy delivery."

"How clever, my friend. Yes, I shall give it to Elfwyn. Now you must hurry home and take leave of your mother, for it is nearly time to begin the campaign."

Ceorl arrived home, dreading and deploring the task ahead of him. There was nothing he wanted more than to have already had this out, but it was yet before him. Steeling himself for what was ahead, the young soldier of the Mark stepped across his own threshold.

He found his mother, standing at the kitchen table, kneading dough. It had pained him to see his mother work as hard as she did in the past few years. Though he was her only child, he was a grown man and it took a lot to keep two grown men fed.

"Mother, dear?" he said as he entered the room.

She paused in her work and turned to face him, flour covering her hands and wrists. "What is it, Ceorl, my son?" She picked up a towel and began wiping her hands.

"The column will be departing in only a few moments, mother dear, and I have come to take leave of you."

She set her towel on the table and held out her arms to her child. He went swiftly to her and, kneeling as she sank into a chair, he hid himself in her embrace. He could feel her tears falling on his face and longed to chase them from her eyes. He felt the gentle beat of her heart and remembered the days of his childhood spent this way, clutched to his mother’s breast, longing only to remain there where no danger could harm him. "Ceorl, my dearest, dearest child," she uttered sorrowfully, "I give you only one command before you leave me. Do not abandon your father in the coming fight. There are those who say you are too young, that you will desert after your first taste of battle. I do not believe a word of it, but I command you, only to make absolutely sure. Be a honor to your house. Bring only joy and credit to your father, but never forget your mother who bore you. Should you fall wounded, remember that I am thinking of you. Should you never return, I shall always love you. But you must return to me.

"I feel in my inmost heart that something dreadful will happen, but it is only a feeling I have, only a premonition. I know not what it is, but I know that it will somehow change you, whether for good or ill I cannot say."

They heard the army gathering outside and Ceorl untangled himself from the loving arms of his mother. "I shall remember all you have taught me, Mother: kindness, justice, humility, honor, obedience, but most of all, I shall remember the love we share, and, as my father has commanded me, I shall not despair. I shall return to you. Whether alive, or as a gentle spirit to guard you in your sorrow, I shall return."

With one last embrace, Ceorl turned and departed. He found his father waiting for him. Aldor had taken leave of his wife earlier and wished not to have to do so again. He handed Fréa’s reins to Ceorl without a word. Once they were both mounted, they turned and joined the ranks, ready to depart.

When Elfwyn entered Hirilian’s room, she found her friend lying face down on her bed, crying. She crossed to the bed and seated herself next to the prostrate figure, gently lifting her friend until Hirilian’s head was resting on her shoulder. "Control yourself, Hirilian," she said soothingly. "I have a letter for you, and you do not want to get tears on it. Come now, dry your eyes."

Hirilian smiled at her friend and wiped her eyes. "I am sorry, Elfwyn, but it so hard, and I am so weak. Look at you. You are sending your grandfather, father and brother, and yet you shed no tears."

"That is true, for I have inherited my great-aunt’s coldness in some regards, but you have every right to cry."

"You are not cold, my friend!" Hirilian insisted "You are the warmest and friendliest person I have ever met; even the Elves love you. Come now, where is the letter? I believe I have calmed myself sufficiently."

"Until you see what it is, my friend," Elfwyn declared enigmatically, handing her cousin the letter. "I shall leave you in peace to read that, dearest. I shall be in my chambers should you wish to see me later."

After Elfwyn had closed the door behind her, Hirilian studied the seal. There was nothing striking about the stamp, indeed it looked almost as though someone had simply taken anything within reach and used it, for there were no markings whatsoever.

Shrugging and overcome with curiosity, she broke the seal and slowly unfolded the letter. She found neat handwriting covering the page. She began slowly, taking in every word.

Dearest Lady,

I take the time to write you before I leave, only because I was unable to give utterance to all that I wished to say to you as we bid one another farewell. Now that I have had sufficient time to contemplate, I shall first apologize for my not telling you in person exactly what I feel. My only excuse is that, intoxicated by your beauty, I was unable to tell you properly what my heart was longing to declare.

Thinking back over the weeks of happiness we have shared, I can only wonder that I was stupid enough not to notice long before this; for this fault I have no excuse. It was only as I stood before you, this morning, tears coursing down your lovely face that I truly understood.

You have filled my life and my heart as no other ever has. Today, as I took my leave of you, it felt as though saying farewell would kill all joy within me. My heart ached as I saw your sadness, and yet was helpless to dispel it. I wished only to comfort you, and yet I knew that such an action would only make the parting harder, and as your humble servant, unworthy even to tread the ground you walk upon, I felt that it was not my place.

I yearned to take you into my arms, to hold you forever, never to release you. I feel the need rising ever higher within me, and I am thankful you departed when you did, for I do not believe I could have held out much longer.

As you read this, I want you to know that I am thinking of you and looking to the day when we shall see one another again, for that day will come. I shall return from the wars victorious, only to surrender myself to you.

Please consider carefully what you have read and when I return, answer me only this question. Knowing now that I love you, with all my heart and soul, can you continue to think of me as a mere friend? If you find my presence disagreeable, I shall leave you, never to trouble you again. But if you can find it in your heart to forgive me my rather forward declaration of love and not turn me out of your life forever, I shall remain your friend and humble servant.

I do not ask your love, for I know that would be demanding too much of one so far above me. I would not bind you to a fate such as mine, to work your entire life through, never having the comforts you were raised with.

All I ask is your friendship, in the truest sense of the word. Please do not remain my friend out of pity or any feeling of obligation, but simply because you have at most, a sisterly affection for me.

Also, my love, before I ride out, I shall look to the palace. If there I behold you, seeing me off, I shall ride out as your champion, knowing that you have received my letter with no feelings of ill will against me, but if you are there not, I shall leave merely as an admirer from a distance, a lover from afar.

Before giving your answer, I implore you again, consider carefully that what you say. I pray you, do not take me lightly, for I swear to every word of this letter. I shall await the day of my return to you with hope and expectation.

I remain, very truly your humble servant,

Ceorl, son of Aldor

Once she had finished the letter, Hirilian, in tears once more, rushed from the room, forgetting all decorum in her hurry. She knew for a fact that the army was to start out at any moment and she must be there to see them depart.

She reached the steps of the palace with only moments to spare as she saw the black horse she knew so well approach the gates of the city. She saw its tall rider turn to look one last time before disappearing out of the city.

~*~*~*~

Ceorl, while waiting for the command to move out, repeatedly found his gaze wondering to the palace. Each time he looked, he prayed he would find her there, but his prayers went unanswered.

His heart sank with each disappointment, until he was on the brink of despair. He told himself that a soldier going into battle should not worry about the heart of a lady, but it did no good. As the orders were given and the army deployed, he surrendered all hope, yet as he passed through the gates of the city, he turned one last time, as in farewell to a short-lived dream, and was finally rewarded with the beautiful sight of his heart’s desire, her hair blowing in the breeze, seeing him off.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The army made its way to the border, scouts in advance. Once they reached the mountains, they turned and skirted the border, sending out stealthy elven scouts to send word of any enemy advancement.

They had made camp three times and Ceorl was beginning to wonder how long this would go on, when there suddenly came the cry of a starling from somewhere nearby. Prince Legolas, near the head of the column, suddenly called a halt and again the cry came, this time continuing for a few moments before ceasing.

The fair Prince dismounted and crouched to the ground, his garments merging wonderfully with the tall grasses around him. There followed a quite natural sounding discourse between two starlings, Legolas being one of them.

After a few moments, Legolas stood and mounted swiftly. At his command, the entire legion moved forward at a swift pace. Only half a mile later, again the call came; dismount. This time they were ordered to begin making their defenses.

At the sound of that ringing order, Ceorl’s blood leapt in his veins and the hair prickled on the back of his neck. At last, after so many long months of training and the days of travel, battle was close at hand.

Once they had fortified themselves to the best of their ability, digging shallow trenches and building low walls to hide behind, they settled down, archers directly behind the walls, the cavalry just behind them, each man’s mount lying by his side, waiting.

Suddenly there came the shouting of the Dunlandings as they charged, swords in the air. Ceorl buckled his helmet in place and uttered a silent prayer as the archers released the first volley of arrows into the enemy ranks.

~*~*~*~*~

Sorry if you found Aldor’s speech, Athelwyn’s goodbye or Ceorl’s letter rather long and drawn out (Coriel did). I went back over them several times, but I could not bring myself to cut any of it out. If you have any suggestions on how to improve it, they would be most welcome.

greaves - shin guards

Chapter 7 – The Storm Breaks

The war whoops of the Dunlandings was enough to set anyone’s blood to freezing. Ever had it heralded the coming of the bane of Ceorl’s people. The Wild Men had torn through villages and towns burning homes, crops, women and children, killing the men outright before they could so much as lift a hand to stop them. Ceorl had never truly seen the stomach-churning carnage left after the wild men had passed through, but he knew that he would if he did not stand up and fulfill his oath.

He eagerly awaited commands, shaking slightly with fear, excitement and uncertainty. Fréa lay prone beside him, awaiting the charge. Ceorl could see him tremble, for the young stallion, though trained well, had never been in battle before either. He lay a comforting hand on the colt’s glossy shoulder. "Stille nu, faeste, Fréa," he said softly in his own tongue. The black horse seemed to calm at his touch and voice, laying his head back on the ground and heaving a great sigh.

"Hado i philinn!"

Ceorl watched in fascination as the elven archers let loose with the first volley, knocking down the front lines of the charging enemy as a rainstorm sweeps down grass in a field. Despite how many fell to the elven bows, it hardly lessened their numbers or their fury. They continued to charge headlong into the awaiting lines.

Ceorl crouched low to the ground, eagerly awaiting the call. Ever had his people been wont to ride unhesitatingly into battle, but this time Éomer King had decided to do things in a rather unorthodox manner. Ceorl shivered slightly in expectation, his stomach fluttering. Fréa, sensing his excitement, blew loudly, laid his ears back and swished his tail into Ceorl’s face in a manner which clearly said, Calm down, young master, our time will come.

Ceorl smiled and patted his horse gently again. "Good boy," he said softly into his mount’s ear. Ceorl spotted Belecthor farther down the line watching him. He smiled reassuringly to let his friend know that he would be there when this whole thing came to a head.

Suddenly the command came loud and clear, "Mount!"

Ceorl slid sideways onto Fréa as the destrier lay upon the ground. Slipping his right foot into the stirrup and leaving the left free, Ceorl urged his mount to its feet, sliding his left foot into place as they rose; just as all those around them were doing.

The following charge of well over twenty-five hundred riders nearly overwhelmed the attacking Dunlandings, merely because of the unexpectedness of it all. As far as they knew, if there had been any mounted Rohirrim, they would have begun the battle. As it was, they had suddenly sprung from the ground and attacked in full force, no holds barred.

The enemy charge quickly turned into a panic-stricken rout as the front line crumbled and collapsed back in on itself. The Rohirrim continued on through the lines, slaying those who fought back until they were opposed by a few quick-witted Dunlandings. They had concealed themselves until the last moment when they, in turn, jumped out, bows at the ready, and cut down the mounted soldiers in their path.

The Rohirrim were recalled behind their defenses as the elven archers again took up the fight, Legolas ever among them shouting orders to his own; "Tangado haid! Dartho! Hado ribed!" And so the day continued until ending in a draw. Both sides had lost a great deal of men, but no ground was gained by either side.

As he stripped the tack from Fréa, Ceorl felt exhaustion slowly set in, nearly crippling him. He stifled a groan as he bent down to place his saddle on a handy low tree branch. Fréa nudged him slightly with a grunt, picking at Ceorl’s sleeve with his lip. Ceorl turned to his mount and rubbed the ebon forehead with his fist, tousling his forelock.

He patted the glossy flank one last time before leaving him for the night. Ceorl had no fear of the young horse wandering off, for the colt had ever been herd shy, going nowhere without Ceorl or another horse.

He sat down wearily on his blankets for a moment, his head hanging, before slipping down into them. He had not even the strength to remove his boots. Within moments, he was asleep.

Aldor looked down as he passed, and smiled. He remembered his first battle. It had not been nearly so long nor so intense as the one today, and he was proud of his son. Bending down, he brushed a lock of golden hair back from his boy’s face before continuing on his way.

~*~*~*~

The next two days passed in much the same way. It was fight all day and sleep for only a short time at night. It showed on the face of every Man present while the Elves seemed little worse for wear, though understandably somewhat tense. And Ceorl could not blame them when he considered that those noble beings now faced sacrificing their immortality in a petty war of men that seemed in no way to impact the fate of their own people. Yet nowhere was there talk of desertion.

The fighting had been fierce and long, a never-ceasing carnage for three days straight. The wounded had to make their own way back to safety as no soul brave enough to go after them appeared. Moans and cries for water came from the battle field from the wounded unable to move, torturing those helpless to aid them. Only this wore on the spirit of the Elves, they who could not stand the suffering of an innocent or a friend.

A band of men was gathered and sent out after nightfall to bring back as many wounded as they could, but they were met by a detachment of Wild Men who were out on a reconnaissance mission. The ensuing slaughter decided the Rohirric leaders against any more mercy missions. The risks were too great.

The men watched in agony as their friends and comrades slowly died a tortuous death on the field, the sun beating down upon them in all its glaring heat. Many of the soldiers behind the defenses needed another to hold them forcibly in place to keep them from running madly out to their own death in a foolhardy attempt to ease the suffering of their friends and family. Tempers grew short and arguments broke out over the smallest thing.

All watched in a strange mixture of relief and renewed heartache as the Dunlandings mercifully ended the sufferings of the wounded within their range by killing them outright. Cries of mourning rang through the camp and tears flowed freely for those lost. Slowly, all cries were silenced as one by one, the wounded let go all pain, suffering and life.

Ceorl’s body became slightly more used to the heavy toll asked of it and it became slowly easier for him to stand the wear of battle. Belecthor had found him unable to move the night of the second day and had pulled him up off the ground, forcing him to walk. It had been excruciating, but the stiffness had slowly worn off under his friend’s supervision.

Ceorl had also come to know Legolas a little better. There was not much time for visiting, but the kind Elf had dropped by every evening to see how his young charge and his father were getting along.

By the fourth day, Ceorl was well ready to finish the entire mess. Since the first battle, they had abandoned the surprise attack. Likely it would never work as well again as the element of surprise would be lacking. Therefore, they had returned to the traditional charge of the Rohirrim. Early in the morning, as they heard the attack of Dunlandings and orcs, the eager riders were sent out immediately to counter it. They slowly forced the weakening enemy back throughout the day. Ground was gained for the first time since the battle had begun.

It was but a small victory accompanied by the loss of a great many. Very few of those wounded remained alive as most had been trampled by the horses in the charge or ruthlessly slaughtered by the retreating enemy.

Ceorl felt his stomach turn at the sight of his comrades. He walked slowly through the carnage, feeling as one in a dream, searching for the face of anyone he knew. Was it possible that his friends from the ranks could well be here, dead in the prime of life?

He had passed through the center of the field, where the mass of the devastation lay, mentally noting all familiar faces. It was as he skirted the outer edge that he came across a face too familiar to suit him. It was Belecthor, lying among the slaughtered.

He was not dead, for he met Ceorl’s gaze with something akin to chagrin. "You have found me again, my friend," he said in a strong voice. "Only this time it is even less serious than before."

Ceorl was at his side in an instant, pulling the bodies of the dead gently off him. "What is the trouble, my Lord?" he asked worriedly, searching for any broken bones.

"Do not worry yourself, Ceorl, it is merely a scratch," Belecthor said, struggling to sit up.

Ceorl pushed him back to the ground. "Where is this ‘scratch’ of which you speak, my friend?" he asked. Belecthor self-consciously indicated his upper arm. Pulling back the torn sleeve, Ceorl revealed a deep gash in his friend’s arm. It was bleeding profusely, causing Ceorl to panic for a moment before remembering the bandaging that every Rohir was expected to carry.

It took only a moment to bind the wound temporarily, for Ceorl knew that the young Lord’s father would want a look at it, and no doubt so would Legolas.

He helped Belecthor to rise and they wound their way back to camp where they were met by a distraught Lord Narion. He pulled his son to him, once more a worried parent, not a soldier. "Belecthor, why do you persist in worrying your father?" he chided. He released his boy, only to notice the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm. "Belecthor! What . . .? Come with me."

He pulled Belecthor away to bind his arm, leaving Ceorl alone to find his own father. In the confusion he had lost all track of him. He was relieved to find him absentmindedly combing the tangles out of his courser’s mane and tail. "Ceorl, my boy, how are you?" he asked lightly, turning as Ceorl walked up.

"I am well, father. And you?"

"As well as can be expected on such an awful day. I am only thankful that your mother is not here. I cannot wait to see her again, the dear girl."

"I agree, father," he paused. "Lord Belecthor was wounded."

"Seriously?"

"No, merely a gash in his right arm. He will, no doubt, be forced to leave off fighting tomorrow."

"That is not good," his father muttered under his breath. "Every man will be needed tomorrow. The enemy is weakened and close to breaking. Tomorrow or the next day will be the last day, I am sure."

Ceorl, although cheered by the news, could not help but remember his mother’s feeling of doom. Would he die in the coming fight? Would Belecthor? Lord Narion? His father? Battle was a time of unanswerable questions, and lots of them. He shook his head impatiently and walked off to care for Fréa. He had forgotten his mount in the aftermath of battle, something no Rohir should ever do, and he knew that should his father discover the error he would be punished, though not severely.

He found none other than Prince Legolas talking softly to the black horse, rubbing his face tenderly. Ceorl, although terribly embarrassed, walked up to them. Legolas looked up as he approached. "He is a wonderful horse, mellon nîn," he said quietly.

"Thank you, my Lord," Ceorl said proudly. "He was given me as a colt who had lost his mother and was not worth the trouble he would cause his owner."

"Men," the Elf said deridingly. "Belain thaedo hain. Only a Man could give away such a wonderful beast for convenience’s sake."

They remained together, caring for the young steed until the sun had set and the evening star had appeared. "It has been a most enjoyable evening, my Lord," Ceorl said, turning to his friend, "but I am not as tireless as the elves and must take my rest."

"Of course, Ceorl, I am sorry; I shall see you in the morning. Dhû mán, mellon nîn."

"Good night, my Lord," Ceorl answered, merely guessing at the true meaning of his friend’s last statement.

~*~*~*~*~

Morning arrived far too early for Ceorl. He was still unused to the long schedule of war. Get up early; go to bed late. He prayed that, when this agony was over, his mother and his commander would allow him three days to simply sleep. There was nothing he wanted more.

It was as he thought this that Hirilian leapt, unbidden, into his mind. There was something more he wanted, he corrected himself. He climbed from his blankets, contemplating her lovely face and she remained there, lodged firmly in his mind, until, again, they were ordered to charge as the Dunlandings rose from the ground and attacked. It was back to the business at hand.

Ceorl was placed near the back in the ranks and he was forced to watched as those riders in front of him were cut down and slaughtered, even as they cleared the path for their comrades in the rear. Then he was in the fray, his sword mercilessly cutting down the enemy of his people, taking the life of someone else’s son, brother, father or husband.

He banished the thought from his mind, focusing on the innocent lives he was saving. He charged through the battle, Fréa’s quick movements and reflexes standing him in good stead. He lost all track of time, direction, his father, his friends, and simply concentrated on his blade.

In the heat of battle he hardly noticed as his foe retreated, fleeing Death in all her bare ugliness. Ceorl was swept along in the tide of Riders; the army was in pursuit of its foe, chasing the Wild Men over small hills, through shallow gullies, their horses’ hooves throwing dust in the air until all was clouded and confused. Suddenly, the enemy archers sprung from the ground, affronting the Rohirrim and forcing them back.

The Rohirrim had gained more ground, nearly a mile, in the short time of battle, but they had lost well over a hundred men. Ceorl rode his horse slowly back to camp, his head hanging with weariness, his eyes taking in the faces of the Rohirrim lying below him on the ground.

It was in this manner that he found his father. With a cry of anguish, Ceorl leapt from his horse and fell to his knees by his father’s side, removing his helmet. A lance, broken by his fall, had buried itself in his chest, mere inches from his heart.

Aldor slowly opened his eyes to slits, closed them again and smiled wearily up at his son. "Ceorl," he said in a soft, husky voice followed by coughing; a foam of blood formed on his lips. "Ceorl," he began again, opening his eyes, "care for your dear mother for me," a hacking cough interrupted him and rendered him unable to speak before subsiding. "You have made be proud in the last days, my son. You are a man now, and you no longer need my guidance." Again he was overcome with coughing, his shoulders jerking painfully. "I am sorry. My time is upon me. Farewell, dearest boy." Aldor, Captain of the Riddermark, coughed twice more, then took one last deep breath and his eyes closed forever.

"Father?" Ceorl called, tears choking him. "Father?" He bent over his deceased parent, sobbing helplessly; hopelessly. Tearfully, he kissed his father’s forehead in the farewell of a devoted son. Heartbroken, his body racked with sobs, Ceorl gently lifted Aldor and carried him back to the camp, Fréa following. He was met by Prince Elfwine, who slowly removed his helm in tribute to the fallen Captain. "I am sorry," he said softly before bowing slightly and turning to go. He had felt the pain of death before and knew that all Ceorl needed now was the right person, and Elfwine knew just where to find him.

Legolas found Ceorl sitting on the ground, his father’s head in his lap, gently washing the blood from the pale face. The prince walked softly up to his bereaved young friend. Elfwine had told him of the tragedy and Legolas had come to pay his respects to the dead. After all, having sworn to support the boy’s mother, he felt it his duty.

Ceorl looked up from his place on the ground, tears coursing down his grim young face; tears of which he was not ashamed. "He died in battle," he said quietly, his voice choked with emotion. "It was what he always wanted. Still, I cannot help grieving over him, for he was more than a father to me."

Legolas put his hand on the grieving youth’s shoulder and looked deeply into the tear-filled, ice-blue depths. "Make no apology," he began softly, "for not all tears are an evil. But remember, son of Aldor; the world is thy ship, not thy home. The things of this world pass like the clouds from the sky, but your soul and the soul of your father will live on. His parting from you will be but temporary ere you meet again." He smiled encouragingly, released his hold on Ceorl’s shoulder and left the boy to his mourning.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, before even the sun awoke, the Riders of Rohan were mounted, awaiting battle in the early dawn; the chill air biting through their armor, their horses stirring restlessly beneath them as electric currents crackled through their manes. Today would be the last day. They could feel it in air.

A storm was brewing on the horizon, and the rumble of thunder growled in the distance, hardly loud enough to be heard, but potent in its implications. It would be the last day, but it would also be a stormy one.

Ceorl sat grimly facing his enemy, anger boiling in his heart. His father had been slain, and for that, someone must pay. His friends had tried to pacify him, but their efforts had been in vain. The boy’s blood was up and only through action or even death would he be brought rest. Eorl had tried even recalling the lovely face of Hirilian to restrain his impetuous friend, but the memory and the knowledge of what would become of her should they fail in their mission here caused Ceorl to become only the more determined in his goal.

Son of Aldor, a firm elven voice echoed again through his anger, when today you stain your sword, be it not in vengeance. Turn away from such unholy thoughts before they consume you. What would your father have to say in the face of such reckless hate? Turning, Ceorl could see that Legolas still watched him from afar, his fair face grim in silent admonition. ‘Tis a friend’s place to rebuke a friend’s folly . . .

It was as the sun stretched its tentative first rays into the morning sky that the order came; "Charge!" The Rohirrim had been set loose, and victory or total defeat were all that could stop them. They charged, voices raised in the cry of war, their horses’ hooves drumming upon the earth until it shook. The enemy had time only to gather up their weapons before the Riders were upon them, cutting, slashing and destroying. Orcs screeched in pain and surprise; Dunlandings and the Men of Rohan cried out as they were cut down, never to rise again.

Ceorl charged valiantly, near the front this time, slaying his enemy one by one until he was caught in the left shoulder by an orcish arrow. It forced him around, the pain lancing through him like a jagged knife, but he remained in his saddle, tightly clutching the reins. He continued the fight, his wound burning, feeling his blood rush through his veins and down his arm. The pain quickly stiffened his left arm, forcing him to drop the reins as he lost almost all use of his left hand.

He was thrown from his horse as an orc lunged up at him from the ground. They landed on the opposite side of Fréa, rolling on the ground in a fierce battle for survival, wrenching and breaking short the arrow shaft still buried in Ceorl’s shoulder. He cried out in pain as his wound was enlarged in the tussle. The hooves of frightened horses grazed them as they fought. It ended only as Ceorl pulled his knife from its sheath and jammed it brutally into his foe, tearing the life from him.

He crawled out from under the odorous corpse and surveyed the battle around him, his pain slowly returning as his adrenaline wore off. He watched painfully as Lord Narion’s horse reared and was pierced by an arrow, felling it and pinning the lord’s leg beneath its great hulk. He saw Eorl fighting desperately with two large Uruk-hai, his left hand bleeding profusely as he fought.

Then another combatant, a large and hairy Dunlanding, was upon him, and Ceorl had to fight for his own life, adrenaline once more taking command. His unwounded arm beginning to weary under the constant strain of thrust, parry, thrust, Ceorl felt his opponent’s blade sink into his side and he swung frantically, slaying the Wild Man. Ceorl collapsed to the ground, his shoulder smarting and throbbing painfully, excruciatingly; his side burning fiercely. He watched Éomer King ride bravely through the fray, defying the enemy’s arrows until one grazed his neck, barely missing the great vein containing his life’s blood.

He was pulled, still fighting, from the battle by his son Elfwine and back to camp for care. The wounding of their king terrified the Rohirrim and they began to loose ground, pulling slowly back. The cries of the Wild Men grew to a higher pitch as they sensed victory.

A great roll of thunder shook the plains and the sun was covered by a great cloud, darkening the field of battle. The first few large drops fell as the Wild Men of the West closed in on the Riders of Rohan, preparing for a mortal blow. One that would decide the fate of Rohan.

The heavens were split and the plains lit brightly by a large lightening bolt which reached with spidery fingers across the sky, followed closely by a sharp crack of thunder which reverberated from the nearby mountains, rolling back over the raging battle, shaking the very ground itself. Then it was as if the heavens could hold back no more and the clouds were torn asunder, releasing the rain. Ceorl watched in despair, water clouding his vision, as his comrades were pushed back and slowly beaten. The Dunlandings were wild with joy, therefore unprepared for the sudden rising of an army of mounted Elves from behind Rohan’s defenses. Left behind in the initial charge, they had felt defeat approaching and had taken action.

"Gurth a chyth vín!"

Legolas at their head, the Elves of Ithilien charged with a roar of defiance and fury, swords gleaming in the half-light, their faces drenched by the pouring rain, their fearsome war-horses screaming a challenge. The unbridled wrath of the Lasgalenath was terrible, and they swept through their foes like a flood, crumbling the front lines and destroying what formation the enemy had. They were scattered, divided; running in madness through the darkened, rain-swept countryside, many of their number slipping helplessly in the mud before picking themselves up and rushing after their fleeing comrades. The battle was over and, thanks to the Elves of Thranduil, Rohan still stood.

Ceorl smiled slightly and chuckled in giddy happiness, then grimaced in pain as his side smarted violently. Glancing down, he noted the dangerous flow of blood from his wounds; he grabbed handfuls of mud and slapped them against his side and shoulder to stop the blood. It stung, but he smiled through the pain. His father’s death had not been in vain. He remembered their last long talk before leaving home. What his father had told him was true after all. Those who stood in the right had prevailed. He suddenly doubled over as a shot of pain lanced through his side. He slowly fell forward in the mire and lay prostrate in a shallow puddle. Much had been lost, but Rohan still stood.

He was still prone when Legolas found him. The Elf quickly but gently gathered Ceorl up and bore him into camp where he tended the young Rohir himself. He made three athelas compresses and bound them tightly over his wounds; one for his side and one for each side of his shoulder. Legolas had removed as much of the splintered arrow as he could by pushing it through and removing the head before extracting what remained of the shaft through the entry wound, but he knew that there were, no doubt, still fragments left in the young man’s shoulder. They would just have to stay, despite the danger of infection, for Legolas felt that anymore digging around in the youth’s shoulder would cause more pain and damage than was good for the boy.

"Forgive me, Ceorl," he said gently. "I too have suffered this."

Ceorl lay rigid under the Elf’s attentions, biting his lip until it bled to stifle his screams of agony as the kind prince removed the arrow and skillfully stopped the wound with pledgets. He was glad when Legolas gently lay him on the ground and covered him in blankets. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

~*~*~*~

Stille nu, faeste, Fréa ~ Quiet now, steady, Fréa.

Dhû mán, mellon nîn ~ Good night, my friend.

The world is thy ship, not thy home ~ taken from The Story of a Soul the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux

Many thanks to Coriel for her assistance in regards to Legolas. Without your help his part would have been completely dry and uninteresting. Still, I wish you would translate all those Elvish lines, thêl nîn.

I wish also to send out a God Bless to Éomer of Eastfold for his wonderful beta work. I will be forever grateful for your help in improving this chapter.

Also, thanks for all the feedback from Grey Wonderer, Lisbeth K and Amaniel. Thanks a lot, guys, for all the encouragement! 

Chapter 8 – Journey Home

The next day was spent in cleaning up the battle field. Many of the dead Dunlandings had been dragged off by the retreating army, leaving mostly fallen Rohirrim and orcs. These the Riders dealt with accordingly. The dead Rohirrim they buried in one large grave; the orcs were burnt. What dead Elves there were, were cared for by their fellows. The camp echoed with the fair voices of the Elves raised in mournful threnody.

Ceorl, against the better judgment of his friends, was up and about, assisting in the cleanup. He helped dig the mass grave and placed his father, wrapped in a blanket, his sword clasped to his chest, gently in the bottom. He cried fresh tears as he covered him; not for his father, for he knew his father was at peace, but rather for his mother.

He pushed his strength to the limit throughout the day. He wearied easily and had to be forced to rest often. By the end of the day he was well ready for sleep. He was sitting fatigued on a rock when Legolas approached. "Ceorl," he said admonishingly, "you have done more that your share today, and more than is good for you. I believe you should retire early this evening."

"But there is still so much to be done, my Lord," Ceorl argued half-heartedly. He was tired, actually, and the thought of sleep lured him temptingly, but he felt guilty leaving the remainder of the work to the others.

Legolas, guessing his thoughts, placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. "Do not worry about the rest of the work. There are others, more disposed than you, who can take care of that. Come," he beckoned, holding out his hand.

Ceorl was led willingly away from the cleanup and made no protest as Legolas helped him removed his boots. "Good night," Ceorl muttered as he drifted off, his shoulder smarting as he rolled onto his side. With a sleepy grimace of pain, he rolled back onto his back and surrendered himself to rest.

~*~*~*~*~

Ceorl awoke late the following day, rising from his blankets as the last preparations were made. They were starting out that morning for home, and everyone was bustling to and fro in impatient excitement. They had been away for little more than a week, and yet so much had happened and so much would never be the same again.

Ceorl attempted to pull his boots on, but his side protested loudly and he was forced to sit up straight, his hand to his side, gasping for breath. Legolas spotted him from across of the camp and came quickly over. "May I be of assistance?" he asked quietly.

Ceorl scowled in pain and nodded slightly. Legolas bent to his task. "There you are," he said, sitting back on his heels as he finished. "I think what you need now is breakfast. There is meat at the board for you. I was just able to save it. The Men of Rohan seemed to eat a great deal."

"That we do," Ceorl replied with a grin, pain still etched deeply in his face.

"Are you certain you can stand?" Legolas questioned, concern darkening his gaze. "I could bring your food to you if you would like."

"No, thank you, my Lord. I would rather get it myself." Ceorl stood, forcing back a grimace of pain as he straightened his side. It had formed a large scab which pulled mercilessly at his flesh. He never thought so much pain could be lodged in such a small space.

Legolas led him to the fire and watched passively as the young man dished out his food. The meat was slightly burnt, but Ceorl fell to it with relish, painfully reminded that he had had nothing to eat before retiring the night before. Once Legolas was certain his young charge was able to care for himself, he wandered off to assist his Elves in preparations.

Ceorl, feeling refreshed and well-fed after a good night’s sleep and a wonderful breakfast, went in search of his horse. He hoped Fréa had made it through the battle. He had no idea really what had become of his faithful steed. The day before he had not had need of a mount and, preoccupied with his father and his own pain, he had not thought to look for him.

As he neared the small herd of horses grazing contentedly before being saddled for the ride out, he searched their ranks for the ebon back he knew so well. He whistled and called loudly, "Fréa!" He was rewarded by a joyful whinny and the sound of hooves slogging through mud in his direction.

It was not long before the beloved courser appeared, forcing his way through his fellows to meet his master. He pranced up to Ceorl, his head held high, his mane and tail whipping slightly in the breeze. Stopping within arm’s reach of his caring master, he rested his heavy head upon Ceorl’s shoulder; luckily it was his unwounded shoulder. Ceorl stroked the jet-black neck and ran his fingers through the long mane. There was a great love between the horse and the man; both needing the other. The one for protection and care; the other for companionship and transport, for what is a Rohir without his horse?

"Good morning, Fréa," Ceorl said, patting him on the withers. "How did you survive the battle?" He looked his mount over carefully, checking for any ailment within his limited range, for he could not bend down for fear of reopening his wounds. Kneeling upon the ground, he lifted each foot in turn, scraping away all the mud and rocks with his knife. His rider’s eye caught the signs of recent care showing on the bottom of his mount’s hoof. No doubt the fair Elven-prince had taken the care of Ceorl’s horse upon himself yet again.

Once his examination was complete, in which Ceorl found no injuries other than a few scratches to mar his beautiful hide, Ceorl led Fréa to where his saddle lay nearby. When they arrived, he found himself unable to bend down and pick it up. He was able to snag the blanket with one finger as it lay on top of the saddle, but it caused excruciating pain in his side.

Ever-ready Legolas noted the problem and hurried to help. Although rarely using such things himself, Legolas well knew how to saddle a horse. Taking care not to let the stirrup fall aside, he placed it gently on the stallion’s back, cinching it tightly. He then bridled the black steed and handed the reins to Ceorl. "Really, Ceorl," he admonished, "you should let someone know when you need assistance."

"Why? I never seem to lack for it," he replied with a dry smile.

Once the column was mounted, they began the slow journey home. Lord Narion, his broken leg reset by the Elves, was transported on a travois pulled by the horse bearing his son Belecthor, who’s arm had begun to mend. Éomer would not be coddled and insisted upon riding at the head of the column, though much of his former strength had ebbed during the battle, and his neck was swathed in white cloth. Elfwine had come through the battle unscathed, as had Legolas, but Eorl, having defeated his foes, had sustained a gash on each hand, rendering him nearly helpless in many things; despite this, he, like his grandfather, insisted upon riding out upon his own horse.

The journey was slow so as not to cause further pain to the wounded and, whereas before it had taken them a mere three days to reach the scene of conflict, the return took five. Each evening they halted before the sun set and each morning they waited until the sun had reached the heights before setting out; resting often during their travels.

The army had been on the move for two days when Ceorl’s pain grew too much for him to bear and he fell, unconscious from his saddle. His friends rushed to his side. Elfwine lifted his head and poured some mead down his throat. "Ceorl!" he called, shaking the young man slightly.

Ceorl awoke, but he took one wild look about him, cried out and reached for his knife. Legolas frantically clamped his hand over Ceorl’s lest he or any of the others meet the unfortunate fate of his namesake, Beleg Cúthalion: slain by a delirious friend. This caused the fevered young man to become even more frenzied and he struck out with his left, but it too was blocked and held this time by Eorl.

Ceorl looked, panic-stricken, up into the faces of his ‘captors.’ "Release me!" he shouted at them in Rohirric. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"

Elfwine tried to calm the young Rohir, "Ceorl, it is alright; we are your friends," he called softly. Still he struggled against their kind hold until they were forced to tie him upon a travois until they reached their destination.

A wave of relief swept through the Men as, three days later, they sighted Edoras in the distance. The army had come home.

~*~*~*~

Thanks again to Coriel for your help with Legolas who, without your assitance, would have come off sounding rather like a cowhand.  Which is not good. :)

Chapter 9 – Reunions and Recuperation

Hirilian heard the commotion in the streets and ran through the palace to the front stairs. From this vantage point, she could see the army slowly trailing homeward across the plains below. She was shocked to note that over half of the large force was missing. She felt the presence of others behind her as she was joined by the royal family and her own mother and sister.

"Battle has worn hard on them," Eflwyn gloomed, holding the arm of her elder brother Léod who, along with their brother Haleth, had been left in Edoras. Both had been in battle before, but their father never took more than one of his sons to war at the same time, fearing to lose them all at once. "Their numbers are greatly depleted; and yet I have hope, for I can see Grandfather’s grey stallion leading the column and there is Eorl, riding farther back. I cannot see father’s horse, though."

"Lord Narion’s horse is also missing, as is Belecthor’s," said Lady Annariel sadly, still searching for her husband and son, "but a horse can be lost without the loss of its rider."

"True enough," Queen Lothiriel affirmed, trying to comfort her daughter-in-law Gleowyn, the wife of her son Elfwine, "and it may be that both Lord Narion and Prince Elfwine yet live. Come, we shall meet them at the stables and learn for ourselves whether they live or not."

The small party navigated the streets swiftly, a large crowd gathering behind them. The entire city flocked to the stables as what was left of the once great host trailed slowly towards them. Sure enough, there at their head rode Éomer King, his neck wrapped in heavy linen, his shoulders drooping slightly with weariness, but otherwise unharmed. His son rode behind him, much to the relief of the royal family, but still there was no sign of Lord Narion. Belecthor, riding a horse not his own, a travois trailing behind him, stopped near them and dismounted with some difficulty, his right arm still bound close to his chest. On the travois lay Narion himself, his leg splinted and bound tightly, his face pinched in pain.

Hirilian and Morwen enveloped their brother in welcome, careful of his arm, leaving their father and mother to each other. "Belecthor," Morwen said tearfully into his shoulder, "what happened to you? Are you in much pain?"

"It hurts, sister, but not much. It is only a cut, although it kept me from the last days of battle. A soldier unable to swing a sword or throw a lance is not worth sending into combat."

"And I am thankful for it," Hirilian said forcefully, banishing from her mind the thoughts of what could have happened to him in those last days. "What happened to father?"

"His horse fell on him, broke his leg." Glancing behind him, he noticed that Ceorl had been forgotten and left alone in the shuffle, still unconscious and tied to his travois. "Belain!" he growled irritably. "Do the men of Rohan have no care for their own?"

He tore away from his sisters and walked forcefully over to where his friend lay. He checked him over, to be sure no more damage had been done him, before leading the horse slowly over to his family. The street was mostly cleared now, the men having all been taking home by their families. The Elves, seeing the need, had begun caring for the few horses left forgotten by their riders.

Morwen broke into tears at the sight of Ceorl; the bandages on both his side and his shoulder bloody once more due to his struggling. "Ceorl! Oh, Belecthor, is he dead?"

"No, Morwen, he is but asleep, his mind wearied with pain and exhaustion. You remain with mother while I take him home." He caught Hirilian’s glance and smiled reassuringly. She had been struck speechless at the sight of the young soldier and she had not even the wits to ask Belecthor if she could accompany him.

Morwen turned to her older sister for consolation, but Hirilian had none to give. They clung miserably to each other, both wishing for the strength to comfort the other. Their pain was eased only by the arrival of their dear friend Legolas who chastely embraced them both, silently soothing them as they clung tearfully to him. Gently breaking away from their embrace, he lead the horse slowly up to Meduseld. He carried Narion inside with assistance from one of his Elves, placing him softly on his bed. "There you are, mellon nîn," Legolas declared as he gently covered Narion with a blanket. "All you need for a speedy recovery are: a warm bed, good food, and a loving family. I shall come and see you again before I leave. My Elves are anxious to return home."

"Farewell," Narion called after him, lying tenderly back on his pillows. He sighed softly. The Elf was right; a loving family was all he needed right now. He half closed his eyes and watched the hustle and bustle of his wife and daughters as they gathered whatever they felt would ease his pain. He smiled; it would seem that loving family was already here.

~*~*~*~

The next few days were spent in almost perfect bliss by the wounded staying in Meduseld, their happiness marred only by their semi-constant pain. Every wish and whim was carried out and they wanted for nothing. Narion was taken care of chiefly by his wife Annariel, while their daughters tended Belecthor, although he swore he didn’t need it.

Elfwyn, her mother and her grandmother took turns caring for Éomer. He was not getting any younger and the last battle had worn his vitality a bit thin, loath though the old war-horse was to admit it.

Eorl declared he could take care of himself, but much of the time Elfwyn insisted upon helping him and took the care of his hands upon herself. Meanwhile, Elfwine could almost regret he had nothing more than a few bruises, tender to the touch.

Ceorl, after being brought to his own home, remained out of his mind. All hope of his returning to good health was despaired of by the Healers, but Athelwyn was a strong-willed woman at times and she would not suffer her son to be touched by anyone from the Houses. She had cared for her husband many times before this and she believed she was better able to care for her own son than any stranger.

She remained by his side almost constantly. On the second day he had fallen into a fever, shivering continuously. He was unable to hold any food down and was barely able to swallow. When he was awake, he did not know where he was and when asleep, he cried out deliriously. Athelwyn’s burden was lightened slightly when, on the morn of the third day, he awoke with no sign of delirium in his eyes. He had smiled up at her before falling back into his former state a moment later.

He had been in, more or less, this same condition for a total of four days when Athelwyn was interrupted in her tasks by a knock at the door. Reluctantly she left the bedside of her son and went to answer it. She was surprised to find a fair Elf facing her, a wriggling puppy in his arms. "May I help you, my Lord?" she asked curiously.

"Rather, my lady, I have come to help you," he replied.

"May I inquire as to whom you might be?" she questioned cautiously.

"I am a friend of your son’s. You may address me as Legolas, my lady."

"Will you come in?"

"Thank you. How is Ceorl?" he asked as they seated themselves at the kitchen table.

"His wounds have nearly healed, but I am afraid he is still delirious much of the time."

"Indeed, I am sorry to hear that." He paused for a moment in thought. "I was there when your husband was killed, my lady," he continued, "and I watched Ceorl during what came after." He shifted the pup in his arms as small teeth dug into his finger. "His spirit was not broken, but black were his thoughts. Never have I seen such skill and courage in battle since the War of the Ring. You should be proud of your son." Again he repositioned the puppy as it squirmed in his grasp, whining for freedom. "Sedho, Beleg," he admonished sharply.

"He is a handsome dog," she said, reaching across the table to fondle the pup’s upright ears. The young canine stretched towards her, his small nose wriggling as he sniffed inquisitively. "What is his name?"

"Beleg; the name means ‘Mighty’ in our tongue. He and the rest of the litter were weaned only three weeks ago. I requested one of my couriers bring him from my home in Ithilien. His bloodline is of the wolfhounds of my father, bred for endurance, protection and strength, while retaining the sociable, affectionate tendencies of their lupine brethren. We are very selective in our breeding . . . but then, I suppose you are not all that interested in the details of elvish dog-breeding," he ended, "are you?"

Shaking her head with an amused smile, she held out her hands. "May I?"

"Of course, my lady, what am I thinking?" He handed the squirming bundle to Athelwyn who cradled him in a motherly embrace. "I have brought him here for you, my lady," Legolas said quietly, happily noting the instantaneous bond between the two.

She looked up quickly. "For me? Why do you bring one of your best dogs to me?"

"To stand beside you when I cannot."

Legolas went on to explain how he had sworn to provide for her should her husband or son die in battle, and that if it lay within his power her family would never lack for sustenance, and would be always and ever welcome within his halls in Emyn Arnen. When he had finished, he stood. "But right now, the day wanes and I would see Ceorl before I leave, if I may."

"Certainly; come with me." She led him to Ceorl’s room, still carrying Beleg who had fallen asleep in her arms. They found Ceorl lying in his bed, the rumpled covers pulled up to his chest. He looked as though sleeping, but his breathing was shallow with a ragged quality about it; the bandaging on his shoulder showed small spots of red. He shivered in his sleep, his brow and pillow soaked in sweat.

"What do the healers say?" Legolas asked.

"All hope is despaired of. They proclaimed him dead when first they saw him, but when it was found to be otherwise, they suggested many terrible things. No, my Lord, his is an illness that only love and gentle care can remedy. He has improved wonderfully during the past day or so. I believe that before the fortnight is out, he will be on his feet.

"Belain willing, it shall be so," the worried Elf muttered. "I would that I could advise you, but our people do not suffer this affliction, unless deliberately poisoned, which I do not believe he has been." He lay a cool hand upon Ceorl’s forehead and eyes, intoning something Athelwyn could not understand. But his attentions seemed to appeal to her son, for he lay still, calmed for the moment. "You did not trust the Healers?" the Elf asked, a wryly amused expression upon his fair face.

"Not with my son," she affirmed obdurately. "They insisted upon bleeding him as soon as they could put him beneath their knife."

"Bleed him!" Legolas exclaimed. "Bleed him when great part of his trouble is loss of blood? Belain ned menel, if blade and shaft do not claim their lives, the Healers will. You were right to keep him from them. You clean his wounds often?"

"Every day."

"Do you dress them?"

"We have very little to use, my lord."

"Mm. I will see you supplied with what athelas we can find; it should greatly augment his recovery." Turning back to the boy, he laid a parting kiss upon the limp hand, a common elvish courtesy. "Elbereth tiratha le, Ceorl Aldorion. Losto mae, penneth."

After a moment of silence, he rose smoothly. "I must leave you now. I hope Beleg will not be trouble for you. I requested they send the calmest pup in the litter, but whether or not they chose aright has yet to be determined. Navaer; farewell for now, my lady."

"Farewell, my friend, and thank you for everything."

The soft and ageless smile he favored her with seemed to imply that ‘everything’ would in fact be much more than that.

~*~*~*~

Belain ned menel ~ Powers in heaven (mild elvish expletive)

Elbereth tiratha le, Ceorl Aldorion. Losto mae, penneth. ~ Elbereth will watch over you, Ceorl son of Aldor. Sleep well, young one.

Hooray! Coriel has translated! Again, thanks for your help with Legolas. He needed it. ^_^  

Chapter 10 – A Brother’s Love

Where was it? Belecthor, sitting on the floor of his room, rummaged around in his drawer. He knew he had brought it with him from Ithilien, but where was it? He finally slammed the drawer with a grunt and sat back on his heels, drumming the fingers of his right hand against his chest as he thought. "Maybe Hirilian knows where it is," he mused aloud.

So thinking, he set off down the hall. He knocked on his sister’s door, but when he received no answer, he stepped on in. "Hirilian, have you seen . . ." he stopped, shocked to find his sister crying. "Hirilian," he said softly, closing the door quietly behind him and crossing the room to her. "What is the matter, sister?" he asked quietly, sliding his unbound arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side.

"Oh, Belec, I am sorry. I have been like this ever since you came back from battle. I know I am weak, but I just cannot help it."

"You are the last person I would call weak, dearest sister, strong-willed rather, but tell me, why do you weep? I have never seen you cry, not since you were in your sixth year!"

"It is very hard for me to tell you, my brother," she said tearfully, hiding her hot face in her brother’s shoulder. Ever had she loved her older brother, he had been her guiding light throughout her entire childhood, and now he was a man. It grieved her even as she was proud, for she knew that they could not always be together anymore.

"Could you try? Remember how when we were both little, you would tell me all your secrets?"

"Yes," she whispered, wiping her eyes.

"I know we have both grown older since those days and the telling of your troubles may have grown difficult, but I am still your brother and I still love you. Do you wish to tell me?"

The tears began to roll unchecked down her face again. "It is about Ceorl," she said flushing.

"Ceorl? Surely his wounds are not the cause of your somber mood?"

"But they are, Belec. You see, I am afraid he shall never awake, and the thought is enough to drive me mad."

"I love Ceorl as a brother and his suffering is painful to me, as his death would be, but why should they distress you so?" Belecthor gently questioned his sister.

Wordlessly she reached to her bedside table drawer and pulled out Ceorl’s letter. Silently she handed it to her brother who bestowed her with a curious glance before opening the billet-doux. He read it through twice before turning to her. "Were you there when we left?" he asked quietly. She nodded, the tears once again glistening in her eyes. "I see. I suppose you have not given him an answer as you have been unable to speak to him. Correct?" Again she nodded, blinking back her tears. "Do our parents know about this, Hirilian?"

"No. Other than ourselves, Princess Elfwyn knows, she was the one who delivered the letter. She said that Eorl wrote it, so that is five people who know that anything is going on. Should I tell mother and father?"

"You know how they are, they may already know. Mother can read right through all of her children and father knows everything mother knows."

"You are right, Belec, but still, do you think I ought to tell them?"

"I think it would be best. I hope everything goes well for you." He kissed her gently on the forehead as they stood. "Dearest sister, I shall miss you."

She glared up at him in mock anger. "Belecthor! I am not married yet, not even betrothed!"

He grinned, "You will be soon!"

Her smile dimmed, "If he lives," she whispered.

"He will," Belecthor said forcefully, more to reassure himself than to assure her. "I have met his mother and she will heal him if anyone can. She would suffer no healer to touch him, and seeing with what they treat their patients, I do not blame her."

"Let us pray you be right," his sister answered as they walked out.

Chapter 11 – Recovery

The next day, Athelwyn was rewarded for her loving care when Ceorl awoke with a cool brow. He was aware of his surroundings the entire day, conversing calmly with his mother and acquainting himself with the new addition to the family.

Beleg, for his part, took an immediate liking to Ceorl and protested loudly when Athelwyn gently lifted him from his place on the bed to put him outside.

They spent the day in simple happiness, Athelwyn continuing her task of caring for her son while Beleg lay on his new friend’s chest, sleeping contentedly.

The following day, they were interrupted by a soft rap on the door. Beleg awoke swiftly with a low growl. His hackles rising slightly, he leapt from the bed, ran to the door and stopped, half crouched beneath a table, waiting.

Athelwyn laughed. Obviously what the Elf had said was true. Beleg would make a wonderful guard dog. She just hoped that whoever was outside the door met with his approval.

She unlatched the door and opened it cautiously, one eye on the small watch dog crouched stealthily on the floor. She was relieved to find that it was Legolas himself who stood there, a slight smile gracing his features.

Beleg plopped down on his haunches with a grunt and scratched his ear indifferently, then sauntered carelessly from the room and back to Ceorl. "Good morning!" Athelwyn greeted her friend, opening the door wider and allowing him in. "How are you today?"

"I am well, my lady. I came to see how you were getting along with Beleg," he answered, gallantly presenting her with a bouquet of wild flowers with a graceful bow.

"Oh, thank you, my friend," she exclaimed, happy as a maiden. "I shall get a vase for them. You may go see Ceorl if you like. He is awake, I believe. The poor boy, he is always tired, yet he remained awake and untroubled all of yesterday."

"I am relieved to hear that," Legolas replied, holding the urn steady as she placed the flowers in it. "How has he been lately?"

"His sickness is all but vanished and his shivering has ceased. He slept peacefully last night, with never a moan nor a cry. This morning he awoke and requested breakfast. It would seem that his appetite is returning, for he finished all that I placed before him."

"Wonderful," Legolas replied happily, rearranging the bouquet slightly before placing the arrangement in the middle of the table. "There," he said finally, satisfied with their placement, "shall we go see Ceorl, now?"

Together they entered Ceorl’s room. They found Beleg again lying on his friend’s chest, resting his head on his giant paws, breathing deeply. As Ceorl looked up at his visitors, his smile was overtaken by surprise and he struggled painfully to sit up. Beleg tumbled from his place, rolling over to the side of the bed with an impatient whine, his ears laid back in annoyance. Legolas went swiftly to the young man’s side and pushed him gently back. "Never mind, my friend," he said softly, fixing the rumpled blanket before lifting the whining pup from the bed and depositing him on the floor with a gentle pat. "You are still wounded and should lie quiet," Legolas reprimanded amiably although firmly.

"But Prince Legolas," Ceorl protested, "it is not proper that I should lie supine while you stand erect before me!"

"I shall forgive you," Legolas answered.

"Prince Legolas?" Athelwyn asked, looking from one to the other in confusion. "Prince of what?"

"Northern Lasgalen and Elven Ithilien, my lady," Legolas replied with a small bow, throwing Ceorl a slightly aggravated glance.

"You did not know, mother?" Ceorl questioned, slightly amused.

"No, I did not. That fact seemed to have passed me by."

"Do not concern yourself over it," Legolas assured her, holding a chair for her as she sat down.

He pulled up a chair from across the room and they conversed pleasantly as the morning waned. When the sun had passed over its zenith, Ceorl’s stomach rumbled loudly. He grinned sheepishly and turned to his mother. "Is there anything to eat?" he asked eagerly.

"I am sure I can find something for you, my son," she replied happily. She looked over at Legolas who held Beleg in his lap, stroking the soft head gently. "Would you care for some refreshment, my friend?" she asked.

"No thank you, my lady."

"Are you sure? I would love to cook for you and there is more than enough to share."

He smiled up at her. "If you put it that way, my lady, and if it would not be too much trouble, I would rather enjoy some of your cooking."

"Excellent! Come Beleg," she summoned, "let us fetch some meat."

At the word meat, Beleg jumped from Legolas’ lap and followed her docilely from the room, his tail wagging happily.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas dismounted before Athelwyn’s door. Ceorl was almost fully recovered, though he remained in bed by order of his mother, and Legolas had come to bid them farewell; he and his Elves were leaving for Ithilien that morning.

He heard noise outback and, walking round, found Beleg chasing chickens around the yard. Smiling, he reached out and grabbed the young dog’s generous ruff, pulling him playfully yet firmly to him. "What are you doing, young one?" he questioned in his own language. "Hm? Scaring chickens? Really Beleg, you should know better. Athelwyn would not be happy if you ate one of them."

The puppy growled playfully as he attempted to grasp either of Legolas’ hands in his sharp teeth. Legolas stood and released his hold on the pup as Athelwyn opened the rear door of the house. "Legolas! How are you today, my friend? Come, Beleg," she commanded, pointing to the ground beside her.

"I am well, my lady, but I have come to bid you farewell. My Elves and I are leaving for home today."

"I am sorry to hear that," she replied regretfully, bending down to rub Beleg’s head as he placed himself beside her. "Ceorl will want to see you before you go. Come."

He followed her through the house and into Ceorl’s room. "Good morning, my Lord," Ceorl greeted him as they entered.

"Rhún man, Ceorl. I trust you are resting well?"

"Quite well, thank you. Am I correct in assuming that you are here to bid us farewell?" he questioned, noting the small changes in the attire of their fair visitor.

"Regretfully so. My Elves are eager to return home to their families."

"I understand. Kindly impart to them my sincere gratitude for their selfless assistance in battle. We would surely have fallen had you not been there."

"I will tell them for you," Legolas promised, "although doubtless they know not who you are," he added with a grin.

"Are your Elves awaiting you?" Athelwyn interrupted practically.

"They were assembling when I left them, my lady. By now they will have gathered themselves together and are, no doubt, waiting."

She smiled up at him. "Then you must go to them. After all, they have been waiting long enough for the return home and we must not keep them any longer. Farewell, my friend."

"Farewell, my lady," he answered, bowing over her hand. "Farewell, Ceorl. Heed the advice of your mother and remain in bed until you have fully recovered."

"I will obey, my Lord," he answered, placing his hand over his heart. "Farewell," he added, holding out his hand.

As they clasped wrists, Legolas smiled down at his young charge. "Keep well, mellon nîn." As he left, he ruffled Beleg’s ears affectionately. "Be good," he commanded the young dog in Sindarin before he passed through the door. They listened in silence as they heard him mount his horse and canter toward the gate.

Farewell, my friend, Ceorl called out silently, and to our next meeting.

~*~*~*~*~

Ceorl stepped outside and stretched. After being in bed for so long, his old strength was somewhat lacking, his face had paled and he found it difficult to stand alone. He had been out of bed the day before, but his mother insisted he take things slowly and would not allow him from the house. He sat down suddenly on the front stoop and closed his eyes, simply enjoying the morning sun on his face. He shivered slightly in the warmth. All he wanted now was to take a walk.

With permission from his mother, he started out, Beleg by his side. The puppy was growing with amazing speed and he already acted the part of a wolf, slinking stealthily through the streets before running happily back to Ceorl, smiling up at him, his tongue lolling out. It was actually quite comic as the young pup was somewhat less in stature than a full-grown wolf. It was as a child playing grown-up.

Ceorl’s steps soon led him to the palace where he stopped, unsure of what he should do. He longed to enter, but he feared to face his friends just yet. The matter was decided for him when Belecthor, his arm still bandaged, but out of the sling, turned the corner of the palace and spotted him. "Ceorl!" he cried happily, walking swiftly towards him. Beleg crouched slightly and growled as the young Lord approached. Ceorl pushed the eager dog back gently with his foot.

"How long have you been about, Ceorl?" Belecthor asked as he stopped before his friend.

"A few days, my Lord. I have only been allowed from my bed since yesterday and today I felt that taking a walk would do me good."

"No doubt," Belecthor said with a grin. "Then why do you remain outside, my friend? Everyone would love to see you inside." He took Ceorl’s arm and tried to lead him into the palace but his friend resisted.

"I cannot, my Lord. I have barely the strength to stand here now; how can a soldier of the Mark show himself to the Royal Family of Rohan in such a condition?"

"They-want-to-see-you," Belecthor repeated, placing emphasis on each word. "Now come. You will be fine. If you are as weak as you say, then you must come in and rest before you collapse. Come."

Ceorl allowed his friend to pull him gently into Meduseld, Beleg following closely behind. They entered the parlor where they found the entire family assembled. Annariel was tending to her husband who sat with his leg propped up on a small stool and both girls were reading.

"Ceorl!" Narion exclaimed happily as the boys entered. Morwen and Hirilian looked up quickly from their books. At the sight of their friend, pale and obviously weak, both girls leapt swiftly to their feet and rushed to him.

Beleg eyed the approaching girls suspiciously, but Ceorl did not appear concerned, so the young pup contented himself with following as closely upon Ceorl’s heels as he could. Ceorl allowed himself to be led to a chair and sat down wearily, beginning to wonder if taking a walk had been the best thing for him. He looked beseechingly up at Hirilian as she bent over him, rearranging the pillows in the chair in an attempt to make him more comfortable.

Had she actually read his letter and seen him off? Or was it merely coincidence? If she had read the letter and if she had seen him off, what would be her answer? Would she turn him away? Was she being kind now simply as a façade, a show in front of her family?

Sensing his mental tumult, she smiled serenely down at him, answering all his questions with one simple, honest smile. Relieved, he sunk down in his chair. She had gotten his letter; she had seen him off; she would not turn him away.

Beleg, after searching every nook and cranny in the room, placed himself at Ceorl’s feet with a sigh, his head on his paws. He perked his large ears and tilted his head as his master conversed pleasantly with the strangers in the room. They seemed friendly enough, he decided, rolling onto his side, his head propped against Ceorl’s chair. Still, he kept a close eye on them. It wouldn’t do to let his master come to any harm, now would it?

~*~*~*~*~

Rhún man ~ Good morning

Thank you, Éomer, for your continued readership. The feedback does a lot for this story.

Chapter 12 – Are You Sure?

It had been several weeks since the battle and Ceorl had returned to his friend Eorl’s room once again. He was having the Prince teach him the basics of reading and writing, for, though they were good friends, both felt it would be better if Ceorl could write his own letters to Hirilian in the future. They were interrupted in the middle of a lesson by the door swinging suddenly inward upon them. Guiltily they stared up at their visitor. Lady Hirilian crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. She had eyes only for Ceorl, not even bothering to give her cousin a glance from her shining eyes.

"Elfwyn told me where to find you," she stated quietly by way of explanation. "I must speak with you."

Ceorl stood and she crossed to him. "What do you wish to speak to me of, my Lady?" he asked gently, taking her hands in his own.

"In your letter you expressed great love for me and yet when we are together you say nothing."

"My friends," Eorl said, closing the book before him as he stood, "it would seem that two is a company and three is a crowd. I shall leave you to yourselves."

So captivated were they, they never even heard him. Shrugging slightly, he left silently, pulling the door gently shut behind him.

"What would you have me say?" Ceorl inquired, his gaze tracing the contours of her face as she looked earnestly up at him. Her eyes were bright with pain, confusion and some deeper emotion which Ceorl could not, dared not, decipher.

"Anything. You speak very little, giving all your attention to my family and friends."

"My apologies, my Lady," he declared with a small bow. "I did not realize you wished for my attention. In the future I shall remember."

"Remember! Ceorl, you are the one who, supposedly a poor captive of love, wrote a heart-breaking letter full of feeling and emotion, and yet you must be told to so much as take notice of the woman to whom that letter was addressed! A! Elbereth! Why are men so nescient?"

Ceorl, unsure of his ground, kept his silence. She gazed sorrowfully up at him. "Oh, Ceorl, I am sorry. I should not have lost my temper, but a woman’s heart is a thing of strong emotions and not to be taken lightly."

"I assure you, my Lady, that I meant no disrespect and I would never take your feelings lightly. Every time we are together I am overcome with love and cannot bring myself to make petty conversation. Never have you entered the same room as I that I have not noticed. You are the light of my life, how can I help but notice when you illuminate the gloom of my existence with your presence?"

"If you have so strong a love, can you not recognize it in the actions of another? Or do you believe yourself the only one capable of feeling such emotion?"

"What do you mean?" he asked haltingly, feeling her hands slowly slide their way up his arms.

"Truly, my lord, your eyes are slow to see what your heart tells you. Can you not feel it?"

"Feel what, my Lady?" he asked, becoming uncomfortable as her hands entwined themselves in his hair.

In answer she lifted her face to his and their lips met and clung.

Ceorl, though gloriously happy, was the first to break the embrace. Pulling back gently he gazed down at her. "Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yes! Never have I felt as I feel now! You have filled my heart to the point of overflowing. I long only to be near you, to feel your arms about me, to know you love me."

"I would never ask you to remain only for my happiness," he murmured softly into her hair as she laid her head on his chest. "It will be a different life. I cannot offer you the comforts you have known. It will be hard labor your entire life through, with rarely a rest of more than a day. You will have to manage the household; and if there are children, you must care for them without the help of servants."

"I realize what it would entail. I have not been raised a helpless maiden; my parents have taught me to work, and the raising of the children in the line of Lord Faramir has never been left to the servants or maids. You need not fear for me, dearest Ceorl, I can take what comes."

"Just the same, much as I want you for my wife, the decision must be left entirely up to you and your parents."

Hirilian smiled up at him. "Then, my lord, you must approach my parents, for my mind is already decided."

His faced paled slightly. "You are certain this is what you want?"

"For the final time, yes! I am sure. The more you ask me, the more I begin to doubt that you truly want me."

"There is nothing I want more," he assured her, "but I have entered battle with more courage than I have now at the prospect of addressing your parents."

"There is no need for worry, Ceorl, my love," she soothed him, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand.

He reached up and again took her hand in his own, kissing it gently. "Then, my Lady, let us leave our friend Eorl’s bedroom, for it is improper for you to be here, especially alone with me."

She smiled and slid her hand through his arm. "Very well, my lord, lead on."

~*~*~*~*~

Thank you Eomer and Grey Wonderer for your reviews.  I hope this chapter meets your approval.

Chapter 13 – May the Powers Protect You

Ceorl, having readied himself as best he could, dismounted before the West Wing of Meduseld. His stomach fluttered nervously. He had never been so scared in his life.

He quickly looked himself over one last time. He had polished his armor and shined his boots, removing all the dust and slight rust buildup they had acquired in battle. He had washed himself thoroughly, having his mother braid his hair for him in order to get it perfectly straight. She had also, upon hearing of the occasion, insisted on caring for his helmet herself, just as she always had cared for her late husband’s. She had polished it until it shone and Ceorl could almost see his face shining in it.

He tucked his helm under his arm, took a deep breath and sallied forth. Hirilian had shown him the correct door the day before and he found it again with no difficulty. He rapped softly.

"Come in," came Narion’s call.

Taking one last deep breath, Ceorl entered; he was relieved to find they were alone in the room. Narion looked up from his paper work which was strewn all over the desk where he sat. "Oh, hello, Ceorl," he said, rising with a knowing smile. His leg had only just healed, but he was able to walk without assistance now.

Ceorl stopped at a respectful distance and bowed slightly, his hand over his heart. "At ease," Narion ordered. Rising to the occasion, he assumed the stance of a commanding Gondorian Lord, his hands held behind his back, his legs slightly spread apart.

"My Lord," Ceorl began in a clear voice, "I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."

"Have you asked her?" Narion questioned amiably.

"Not officially, my Lord."

"Which is to say, she asked you, correct?" Narion inquired with a smile.

Ceorl grinned sheepishly. "Nay, my Lord, she told me."

Narion laughed aloud. "Ah, Ceorl, there is none to whom I could give her with more happiness, but I deem her too young just yet. As soon as her mother and I see her as fit for marriage, then she shall be yours. But you might also have need of convincing her brother of your worthiness. Belecthor, the dear boy, loves his sisters every bit as fiercely as my mother was loved and guarded by her brother, Éomer King." He crossed the room and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Do not worry, Ceorl, if your love was meant to be, then she shall wait for you. Her mother may object at first to her marrying into the lower class, please pardon the expression, but I know she loves you as a son already for what you did for Belecthor, and she shall soon give Hirilian to you with no objection.

"You realize," the Lord continued, "that in Gondor it is the custom to give your betrothed a ring, do you not? Have you the means to purchase one?"

Silently Ceorl reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled forth a small wooden box, delicately adorned with gold tracings. "Do you esteem it worthy, my Lord?" he asked nervously, handing Narion the tiny chest.

Narion slowly unclasped the lid and lifted it. Sitting inside amid soft, green velvet was a beautiful diamond ring. Even Narion, who knew almost absolutely nothing about gems, was amazed. "My dear Ceorl! Where in Middle-earth did you find such a thing? Surely not in Rohan."

"I had Prince Legolas send it," he answered rather proudly. He could only hope that Hirilian was as pleased with it.

"Legolas? How did he become involved in this?"

"It is a long tale, my Lord."

"Very well then, Ceorl, it can wait for a later date as I can see you are anxious to present the ring to the intended recipient. You have my leave. You will find her in the . . ." he thought for a moment, "in the parlor I believe," he finally said.

"Thank you, my Lord," Ceorl replied, tucking the valuable package again into its designated pouch and bowing slightly. "Farewell."

"Farewell, Ceorl, and may the Powers protect you!" Narion called after him as the youth hurriedly departed.

~*~*~*~

Hirilian sat in her favorite chair, a book open in her hand, but she was not even looking at the words before her. Her mind was more pleasantly occupied. Since her private talk with Ceorl two days before she had been able to think of nothing else. His face had haunted her dreams at night and she could almost feel his arms around her as she sat now, remembering every small detail of his face when he smiled at her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the parlor door opening. She looked up and her heart leapt as her very thoughts came alive and crossed the room toward her. She set her book down on the table beside her and held out her hand to him.

Almost nervously, it seemed to her, he took her hand in his own and descended slowly to one knee on the floor. "Why, Ceorl," she whispered in amazement, sitting up a little straighter "what is the meaning of this?"

He held her hand tightly in both of his own and looked beseechingly up at her. "My Lady," he began softly, imploringly, "wilt thou do me the honor of accepting a token of my love?"

"I would be more than happy to, dearest, but why the ceremony?"

He reached slowly down and pulled out the delicate chest. Silently he opened it, pulled out the ring and slipped it onto her finger. She gasped, watching fascinated as it glimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window behind her. "Ceorl!" she whispered breathlessly. She tore her gaze from her finger and looked wonderingly into his eyes. "Is this . . .? Is it . . .?"

"Yes, my love," Ceorl smiled up at her. "Will you marry me?"

Her eyes brightened, her smile widened and she threw herself into his arms, clutching his neck tightly, her joyful tears falling into his hair. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, Ceorl, yes!"

Ceorl, still kneeling on the floor, laughed in relief. Wrapping his arms around her and holding her close he rocked back on his heels. "Hirilian, dearest" he said lovingly into her hair, dropping his customary ‘my Lady’ in the intimacy of the moment, "you bring such joy into my life as I have never known in days gone by. Your acceptance lightens my heart as nothing ever has before. What would I do without you, my love?"

She pulled back gently so as to look him adoringly in the eye. "You would, no doubt, live as dull a life as I would without you, dearest boy," she chided, kissing him lightly.

"I hate to dim the happiness of this moment with unwelcome news," Ceorl said regretfully as she pressed her cheek tenderly against his.

"Then do not," she whispered happily into his ear.

"But I must," he said, slowly rising and pulling her up with him. Together, Hirilian still clinging tightly to his arm, they crossed to the couch where Ceorl pulled her to his side, his arm around her waist as she lay her head on his broad shoulder.

"What is this unhappy news you insist upon imparting?" she asked quietly.

"It has no immediate concerns, but your father says we shall have to wait for a time before we marry."

"How long?" she asked softly.

"I do not know, my love, perhaps a year or more."

She sat up suddenly. "A year or more!" she wailed. "Why?"

"He does not believe you to be old enough quite yet."

She leaned back on his shoulder. "I understand. My father worries for me, I know. He may believe I am too young, but more likely he wishes only to be sure our love is true. I do not blame him. Indeed, I love him all the more for it; for what kind of father would willingly throw his daughter to the first man who came asking?"

Ceorl kissed the top of her head. "An uncaring one, dearest love, an uncaring one. I understand him better now. But come," he said standing, "you will want to confide the good news to your family and I wish to do the same for my mother. The poor dear has no doubt been worrying the entire time." He kissed her gently and, taking her hand, led her from the room.

~*~*~*~

Again, thank you Éomer for your reviews. I hope Ceorl meets your expectations and approval in this chapter, too.

Chapter 14 – Chosen

Belecthor rapped excitedly on Ceorl’s door, shifting his weight from foot to foot until the door opened. Pulling his friend eagerly outside, he shut the door quickly. "What has you so ebullient?" Ceorl asked curiously, searching his friend’s face with his eyes, a passive smile flickering in his eyes.

"Uncle Éomer wants to see you," Belecthor answered, his breath coming in gasps; he had run the entire way from the palace.

"Social or formal occasion?" Ceorl questioned calmly.

"Formal, but not too much so. I believe you are presentable the way you are. Come quickly."

Ceorl put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm and went back inside, shutting the door behind him. "I shall be at the palace, mother," he called, buckling on his sword before rejoining Belecthor outside, leaving Beleg in the kitchen. He found Belecthor impatiently tapping his foot, his arms crossed, his fingers drumming against his arm.

"Are you ready?" he demanded as soon as Ceorl stepped out the door. Ceorl nodded and they started out for Meduseld at a fast walk. Upon arrival, they were shown into the Golden Hall where sat Éomer King upon his throne. Ceorl bowed slightly before continuing up the isle at a beckon from the king. Belecthor followed close behind. When he reached the bottom of the dais, Ceorl halted.

"You wished to see me, my King?" he inquired respectfully.

"Yes, son of Aldor. First I wished to express my joy and the joy of my family at seeing you fully healed."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"I wish also to tell you that I watched you in battle, and was impressed with what I saw. You have courage, but what is more, you have skill and potential. You reminded me of your father in more ways than one."

"Thank you, my King," Ceorl said grimly, a shadow of sorrow lingering deep in his eyes, "there can be no greater complement."

"This brings me to the purpose of my calling you here today. We now have need for new captains, as many have fallen to the enemy. The Royal Court has chosen and appointed a great many already, soon after we returned, actually."

"I was aware of this, my Lord," Ceorl replied as if in defense, "and would have attended the ceremonies, but my kind mother would not allow me from the house."

"I understand," Éomer grinned, glancing sidelong at the women of his own family. "But," he continued, "we still have need of a captain to fill your father’s place. Several of my soldiers have been suggested and considered carefully. After much thought, we have chosen you." Speechless with surprise, Ceorl simply stared. "Do you object?" Éomer asked.

"No," Ceorl managed to say, "I have no objections. It is just such an unexpected event."

"No doubt," Éomer said cheerfully, "but I suspect you shall want to tell your mother straight away. Therefore, I shall keep you no longer. We will discuss the details later. Farewell, Ceorl."

"Farewell, my Lord," Ceorl answered, bowing slightly. Belecthor took his friend’s arm and led him down the hall. "Where are we going?" Ceorl asked curiously. "I thought I was to return home now."

"After we tell the family," Belecthor answered as they arrived at their destination. "I am sure they will all want to know."

"But the king told me to go home!"

"No he did not. He merely said that you would want to go home, and so he excused you. He never said you had to go straight home. Come, Hirilian would be upset if you do not tell her right away." Without another word, he opened the door and pulled Ceorl in.

"Good afternoon, my boy," Narion said standing with a welcoming smile.

"Ceorl!" Morwen exclaimed happily, rising from her place at the table. "How are you?"

"He is doing well," Belecthor answered for him. "He has something he wants to tell us."

"Really?" Hirilian said, squeezing her betrothed’s hand gently. "What would that be?"

"Go ahead, Ceorl," Belecthor prompted his friend who had still not fully gathered his wits. "Tell them."

"Um . . . Oh, yes, Éomer King has just informed me that I am to be promoted to captaincy in my father’s place."

"Congratulations!" Narion replied happily, smiling like a proud father. "Do you know when the ceremony is to be?"

"No, my Lord, Belecthor dragged me away too quickly."

Lady Annariel laughed. "Belecthor, what a nuisance you are! I am sorry, Ceorl, but he was rather spoiled by his father when he was our only child."

"No he was not," Narion exclaimed in his own defense. "There is nothing wrong with the boy, and I did not spoil him. If you remember, I was the one who was always taking him in hand."

Annariel simply smiled up at her husband in her womanly way. "If you insist," she replied patiently, as though dealing with a child.

"Here we are, keeping you with us," Hirilian said suddenly, "when you no doubt want to be with your mother. Do not let us hold you a moment longer, Ceorl. You should have gone to your mother first."

Ceorl threw Belecthor a smug, rather aggravated, grin before slipping through the door. "You see," he said pointedly as he closed the door behind him.

Belecthor scowled at the door as his friend left. "Women," he muttered under his breath, "so unpredictable."

~*~*~*~

Admittedly not my best chapter, but it was necessary to the story and I really don’t know what else to put in to make in better. So bear with me.

Also, Ceorl seemed rather deadpan to me, but maybe he’s tired. :)

Chapter 15 – Promotion

There was gathered a large crowd at the palace, for a new Captain was being appointed. The populace of Edoras took great interest in the forces of Rohan and any ceremony held outside Meduseld was sure to attract a crowd.

The éored posted near Eodras, of which Ceorl’s company was a part, sat now, abreast of one another, upon their horses, along the edges of the main streets of the city while their Captains stood, lining the ascent up to Meduseld, their swords held unsheathed before them, their blades glinting in the light of the early sun. At the top of the stairs stood Éomer King himself, surrounded by his family, the wind playing gently through their hair and clothing, awaiting the arrival of the new Captain.

Ceorl, son of Aldor, trotted his proud black steed up the rows of horsemen to the palace where he dismounted at the foot of the stairs. As he passed, each soldier in turn bowed his head slightly and backed his horse a step. Removing his helm, Ceorl slowly approached the palace, the swords of the Captains rising above his head as he passed. As he reached the top, Ceorl unsheathed his own blade and handed it haft first to his king. He then knelt upon the top stair, his head bowed, his hand over his heart.

Holding the falchion over the young man’s head, Éomer proclaimed in a loud voice, "People of Rohan, you have gathered here to witness the appointing of a new Captain of the Riddermark. He has proved his valor in battle and his selfless solicitude for his comrades in war, thus, your king deems him worthy of captaincy. If anyone here has any objections, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."

As no objections were forthcoming, Éomer looked down upon the young man kneeling before him. The king placed his hand upon the bowed head, the sword still held high. "Ceorl, son of Aldor, you have been chosen to take your father’s place as a Captain of Rohan. Do you hereby accept this honor?"

"I do."

"Ceorl, son of Aldor, do you hereby swear to serve your Sovereign Lord, King of Rohan, through all the days of your life?"

"I do."

"Ceorl, son of Aldor, do you hereby swear to lead your men wisely in battle whenever the need befall you?"

"I do."

"Ceorl, son of Aldor, do you hereby swear to protect all members of the Royal Family of Rohan, sparing not even your own life in their defense, if the necessity should arise?"

"I do."

"Ceorl, son of Aldor, do you hereby swear to protect the people of Rohan with your life should the need present itself?"

"I do."

Éomer lowered the sword and handed it back to Ceorl who resheathed it respectfully. Ceorl then raised his old helm with both hands and, bowing his head, handed it solemnly to his Lord and King in a gesture of loyalty and fidelity. Éomer accepted it, placing it deferentially in his eldest grandson Eorl’s hands. He then turned to his son Elfwine who held a new helm. Taking the helmet from him, Éomer lifted it high so the crowds could see it and, raising his voice, he declared, "I hereby proclaim Ceorl, son of Aldor, a Captain of Rohan, who’s duty it will be to guard well the city of Edoras and the surrounding countryside." He then placed it gently on Ceorl’s head, sliding it into place as the crowd erupted in cheering.

"Lead your men well in battle, and may it never be said that Ceorl, Captain of the Riddermark, was a poor leader or a coward, afraid to fulfill his oaths."

Ceorl stood and Éomer placed his hand on the new captain’s shoulder. "Hold the memory of your father in your heart and treat your men with respect and honor as did Aldor, Captain of Rohan."

Ceorl bowed slightly in honor of his king, then faced the crowd as they cheered, the tail of his new helmet blowing gently in the wind. Looking down, he caught the eye of his betrothed and they exchanged quick smiles of love and happiness as Lord Narion of Ithilien emerged from the crowd, Ceorl’s mother Athelwyn on his arm. He led her slowly up the stairs to her awaiting son who proffered his own arm which she proudly accepted. Éomer, his queen on his arm, led the procession into Meduseld.

Many were invited to the great banquet held in the Golden Hall that night. By the end of the evening, Ceorl was more than ready for the day to end. He had been a captain for less than a day, but felt that, should the adulation continue, the job would wear him down in only a few weeks. He met more people than he could remember; was congratulated more times than he could count; and torn away from his family and friends more than he cared to think about.

During a lull in the festivities, he sat quietly in a corner with his mother, his arm around her shoulders. She smiled happily up at her son. "Ceorl," she said proudly, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind his ear, "I have never been more proud. Not since your father was made Captain. We had been married only two days before and I remember it very well; Éomer King lead the ceremony then too. No lord has done more for me than has Éomer King. He has honored my husband as well as my son."

He squeezed her shoulders gently, kissing her forehead with filial devotion. "No woman ever deserved it more, mother dearest," he whispered kindly into her ear.

Needless to say, Ceorl was relieved when the celebration was ended and he was able to sit in the cozy parlor he had come to love with only his closest friends. His mother was visiting with Lady Annariel in another room and Narion was discussing various things with Éomer leaving only the younger generation in the drawing room.

Hirilian and Ceorl sat together on the settee while Belecthor and Morwen claimed the armchairs on the other side of the room. Eorl, Elfwyn and their brothers Léod and Haleth sat comfortably on the couch.

They visited, not as Lords and Ladies, but as young people, informal and relaxed. Ceorl noted, as he had many times before, that he could not help but feel completely at his ease when among them. He looked his friends over carefully, noting their mannerisms and facial expressions as the conversation became heated. Drawing his attention back to what was being said, Ceorl found that the discussion concerned a recent fencing competition between Belecthor and Léod in which Léod won when Belecthor’s blade had snapped off.

". . . had your valet not weakened my blade!" Belecthor cried in friendly wrath.

"That, my friend," Léod countered amiably, "is a lie. You selected the blade yourself. I saw you inspect it carefully before choosing to use it. If your blade broke, it is your own stupid fault."

"I say," spoke up Haleth from his brother’s side, "the Men of Ithilien have neglected their skill with both blade and horse in the last years, becoming practically useless."

Belecthor sat up straighter in his chair, his bright eyes belying the grim set of his chin. "You say that, do you, Haleth Elfwineion? Well then, how do you explain the fact that you carelessly allowed your horse to wander overlong through the winter grazing, resulting in the great horse’s foundering?"

Affronted, Haleth rose quickly, his eyes shinning with laughter and mischief although his expression remained firm. "You, my friend, neglect to mention that the unfortunate incident took place when I was but a child with my first horse. And if my memory does not betray me, you yourself allowed your own horse to . . ."

"It would appear to me," Elfwyn interrupted her brother, placing her hand on his arm, "the men of both countries know how to do nothing more than argue for their recreation. Really, you three, have you not matured in the past twenty years?"

Thus chastised, Haleth resumed his place on the couch, Léod grinned and Belecthor slid back down in his chair. Hirilian lay her head on Ceorl’s shoulder and sighed contentedly as the conversation resumed on a lighter note.

The evening ended when Athelwyn entered the parlor, her cloak over her arm. "Ceorl, my son," she said as the men in the room rose quickly, "it is late and it is time we were getting back home. Who knows what Beleg has been up to in this time."

"Yes, mother," Ceorl said, helping her into her cloak. "Allow me to fetch Fréa and I shall meet you at the door."

"Look at the submissive Captain of Rohan!" Belecthor scoffed. "Taking orders from a woman! No offense intended, my Lady," he assured Athelwyn, bowing slightly in her direction.

"At least we of Rohan obey our mothers," Ceorl shot back as he left the room, closely followed by Hirilian.

They could here the laughter at Belecthor’s expense from inside as they stepped out into the chill night air. Ceorl wrapped his arm around his betrothed’s shoulder. "Are you warm enough, my love?" he asked, concerned.

"I am fine," she answered, looking up at the stars shining brightly overhead. "They always seem so close here in Rohan," she whispered as they walked.

Ceorl stopped and looked up. "Only when I am with you," he said adoringly.

She smiled shyly up at him. "Are you this romantic with every woman you know?" she teased.

"No, love, only you, for my love for thee alone loosens my tongue in thy praise."

She smiled as they continued on to the stables. Could anyone ask for a more loving husband? She hoped the day of their marriage would come speedily, for she was impatient already and she knew not how she would last an entire year without him near her.

Ceorl took down the bridle from where it hung on the wall and gripped the bit tightly in his hand to warm it before placing it in Fréa’s mouth. The well-trained horse took it without protest and Ceorl was able to slip the headstall over his horse’s ears with no trouble. The new captain tousled the black forelock, humming softly the while, as Fréa roughly rubbed his face against Ceorl’s chest in an attempt to rid himself of a pesky fly.

After leading Fréa from the stall, Ceorl placed the blanket and saddle on his steed’s back and cinched them in place. As he would not be mounted on the journey home, he did not fasten them as tightly as usual. Once he was finished, he turned to Hirilian. "This is about as alone as we shall be this evening," he said softly, praying the stable boys had already gone, "so we might as well say goodbye here."

She slid willingly into his embrace. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek. "Farewell, my Captain," she whispered. "Shall I see you on the morrow?"

"I certainly hope so," he said, gently kissing the top of her head.

"No," she pouted, suddenly remembering that her father had other plans for the next day. "We shall not see each other again for two days."

"Very well," he said releasing her and bowing slightly. "May I call for you on that blessed day?"

"Yes you may, young man," she said happily.

"Come," he said, taking her arm, "Mother will be waiting."

~*~*~*~

Now . . . I know nothing about Rohirric ceremonies, so this entire chapter was all right off the top of my head. Sorry if it contradicts anything canonical.

Thank you, Éomer for the info on éoreds and such. It was a big help. And your continued reviews are wonderful.

Grey Wonderer, I must also mention that your chapter-by-chapter reviewing is giving this story a wonderful boost. Thank you very much.

Chapter 16 – I Shall Always Be Here

Hirilian regretfully packed the few belongings she had brought with her to Rohan. Only the day before, her father had told them they would be going home. She knew that home would not be the same anymore; not without Ceorl near her. She hoped her father allowed her to marry the young Rohir soon, for already she longed to start her life with him.

Once she was finished, she carried her satchel outside to where Narion was tying things onto their pack horse. Handing it silently to him, she was glad to note that even the slight limp from his injury was gone. "I know you do not want to leave, Hirilian," he said comfortingly, "but you know we cannot stay here in Rohan while I have duties to perform in Ithilien."

"I understand," she assured him. "I just wish we could stay."

"You will be with him enough once you are married, dear," he said, hugging her briefly before turning back to his task. Their conversation ended as Annariel and Morwen arrived with their own luggage.

"Where is Belecthor?" Morwen asked impatiently as she placed her bag on the ground near her father.

"He went to see Ceorl," Narion said, glancing sidelong at Hirilian. "He said he would be back soon."

"I hope so," Morwen replied. "He borrowed my book and I cannot find it."

"Here he comes now," her father said cheerfully. "It would seem he has Ceorl with him."

Hirilian looked quickly to where her brother and her betrothed were approaching. She smiled up at them as they reined in their horses. "Good morning, Ceorl," she called, shading her eyes against the sun.

Ceorl dismounted and removed his helmet, bowing slightly to each of the ladies in turn. "Good morning, my friends," he greeted them.

"Belecthor," Morwen called, "where have you put my book?"

"Which book?"

"You know, the book of Elvish poems Legolas gave me."

"I believe Father has already packed it."

"That I have not," Narion said positively.

"Then it must be in my room," he said dismounting and dropping the reins to the ground. "Come, let us go search for it."

The two entered the palace, Morwen lecturing her brother on the common courtesies of borrowing things as they went.

As they walked in, Elfwyn slipped out through the open door. "Hirilian!" she called. "You have not come to bid me farewell!"

"I am sorry, my friend," Hirilian answered, embracing her cousin. "I was going to, but I am afraid I became distracted."

"Well come inside where we can do so properly. Ceorl," she said turning to him, "will you not come with us?"

Hirilian, sensing her cousin’s deeper motive in the offer, silently smiled her thanks, hooking her arm through Elfwyn’s. Ceorl followed them acquiescently, holding the door for them as they entered.

Elfwyn led them to the parlor and there she turned to her cousin. "Hirilian, it has been wonderful having you here with us for so long. I do hope to be able to come visit you in fair Ithilien soon. Father says that I may go, but Mother wants me to wait awhile. She still fears the roads are too dangerous and Father says he cannot spare an escort."

Hirilian smiled, "I know what you mean. I hope we shall not be parted long, cousin. I do not know what I shall do without you."

Elfwyn hugged her cousin tightly. "I must go now," she said lightly. "I believe I shall see you again before you leave, though. If not, farewell, Hirilian."

"Farewell, Elfwyn."

Hirilian looked up at Ceorl as her cousin closed the door softly behind her. "I suppose we shall have to say farewell now, too, my Captain," she said quietly, tears shinning in her eyes.

He opened his arms and she rushed into them, burying her face in his shoulder. "Do not cry, love," he said into her hair. "We shall see one another again soon."

"How soon?" she asked tearfully. "I do not think I shall last long without you now that I have found you. Life was dull before, now it shall be ever more so until we are together again."

"Think you not that I feel the same? I have loved you from the very first, trying though you were a times," he added with a smile.

"I do not know how you ever came to love me," she said, looking up at him, blinking back the tears. "I was so rude! I do not see how anyone could have liked me."

"Love sees through all emotions," he said, gently wiping a tear from her cheek. He kissed her brow tenderly. "Your father says we must wait, and I am willing. Do not make this parting harder with tears, dearest. You are leaving now, but I shall always be here for you."

She kissed him tenderly. "I know," she said softly, "I just cannot imagine life without your love. I shall go with my family, keeping close to my heart the memory of the days spent with you in happiness. Remember, I shall always love you and it is the assurance of your love which keeps me alive."

~*~*~*~*~

The entire family stood out by the horses. The Royal Family of Rohan bid each of their relatives farewell in turn while Ceorl watched from his place among the horses. He had no wish to intrude on the family and was perfectly happy simply watching Hirilian from a distance. He studied her intently, impressing upon his memory every small detail of her graceful movements, her happy laugh, her tearful farewells and her clear voice.

He was startled by Narion who had pulled away from the family to bid Ceorl farewell in private. "Ceorl, my boy," he began, "I know how hard this parting is for both of you, but I can see that you both understand the necessity of it. She is young yet and I am only a worried father, watching his children grow too swiftly for his sentimental old heart’s content.

"She has sworn to me that she loves you and I believe she knows her own heart best, but give your love the test of Time. If the Rose of Love grows and blooms in the winter of your separation, then I bless its strength, but if it withers and wilts, then it was best to wait.

"Still, I will always think of you as a son, as does my wife, whether you marry Hirilian or no. Farewell."

"Farewell my Lord," Ceorl said, firmly grasping Narion’s wrist in farewell. "I hope to hear from you again soon. Give my good wishes to Prince Legolas, if you please."

"I shall."

Narion turned away as Belecthor approached his friend. He held out his hand saying, "Ceorl, you have saved my life and for that I cannot repay you. Soon you shall wed my sister and for that I rejoice. You have been as a brother to me and the times we have shared will remain ever in my memory. Farewell."

"Farewell, Belecthor," Ceorl said, clasping his friend’s wrist tightly.

Ceorl helped Hirilian to mount her horse, little though she needed the assistance. She smiled down at him from her mount. "Take care, Ceorl. I shall look forward to the day when again we are together."

"Farewell, my Lady," he said, gallantly kissing her hand. The small cavalcade started the journey, Narion in the lead upon a proud courser given him by his Uncle the king as a replacement for the one lost in battle.

Ceorl mounted Fréa, who stamped and blew loudly, fidgeting restlessly, and watched his friends ride from the city before turning and returning home. Life was going to be dull without them around.

~*~*~*~

Thanks, again, go out to Éomer for the continued readership. Just knowing that I’m not the only one reading this is a great help. Amaniel, I hear you’re keeping up with this too. I hope you like it. :)

Epilogue – The Time Has Come

Ceorl sat, sharpening his sword, Beleg by his side. The past few days the éored had been in Edoras and it would seem that no orders were forthcoming. It was a much needed rest as they had been on the patrol for well over four weeks before returning home. In that time they had seen a fair bit of action and every man in the company was short of temper and energy by the end.

He looked up at the sound of approaching hoof beats. He smiled and stood as he recognized the fair countenance of Prince Legolas. It had been several months since Legolas had visited, but the time seemed to sit easily upon him; Ceorl knew that he himself had changed a great deal. The weeks of exposure to the elements of Nature had darkened his skin considerably and his scant beard had grown out. Also there was that quality about him that marked a veteran leader.

Legolas hailed him from a distance and Beleg flopped his tail lazily in greeting. The pup had grown in the past ten months and his shoulder now reached near to Ceorl’s mid-thigh. He was a strong animal and had matured wonderfully, now serving Athelwyn in countless ways. Ceorl never feared leaving his mother alone anymore, that was for sure.

Legolas dismounted lightly beside his young friend. "Mae govannen, mellon nîn," he greeted the young captain.

"Good morning, my Lord," Ceorl said respectfully.

Legolas sighed. "Ceorl," he said, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder, "how many times have I told you. My name is Legolas; so could you please stop that ‘my Lord’ business?"

"Very well, Legolas," Ceorl said smiling. Ever had this been a friendly dispute between them. As often as Legolas reminded him, Ceorl could not help but address the Prince with the respect due one of such high social rank. Even Éomer King treated Legolas with respect, how could a mere captain do less? "How is everyone in Ithilien?" he asked casually.

"She is doing well," Legolas answered with a mischievous smile. Ceorl flushed slightly, grinning sheepishly at his perceptive friend. "As a matter of fact," Legolas continued, reaching into his small satchel, "I have a letter for you."

Ceorl looked slightly apprehensive. "What is wrong?" Legolas asked him curiously. "You can read, can you not? I thought you were going to have Eorl teach you."

"Yes, my . . . uh . . . Legolas, I can read, but it is the thought of what the letter might contain the frightens me."

"Do not worry, my friend," he said, handing the letter to him. "I shall leave you to read that in peace. Is your mother home?"

"Yes. I believe you will find her in the kitchen. She was cooking the last time I looked."

Legolas patted Ceorl reassuringly on the shoulder, then entered the house. Ceorl resumed his seat on the stoop. The letter didn’t look potent. Maybe it was a herald of good news and not ill.

Impatient, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment; inside was the strong, firm hand of Lord Narion. It was little more than a note really, but it could be enough to change Ceorl’s life. His heart rising to his throat, Ceorl began.

Ceorl, it read,

I send my sincere hope that all is well with you and your dear mother as you read this. The family is well here and, I am happy to say, Belecthor has been granted a captaincy in Ithilien’s army. Hirilian has only grown in beauty and her love for you, I am pleased to inform you. She speaks of you every day and looks to the time when we shall see you again. Your ring has not been removed from her finger since the day it was received.

And now for the news which, I hope, you have been awaiting with bated breath. After much discussion and contemplation, Hirilian’s mother and I deem her old enough to marry as she chooses.

You may send her a letter, asking her to join you there in Rohan, or (we would prefer this choice) you may come seeking her in person. Knowing my uncle, he would grant you leave enough to make the trip, for he was young once also.

We await your answer with hope and expectation.

Narion

Ceorl’s face beamed and he hugged Beleg tightly around the neck. "Can you believe it, Beleg?" he asked the dog, swiftly rereading the letter. "My dreams are coming true even as we sit here!"

Beleg looked tolerantly up at him, yawning lazily. Ceorl smiled and vigorously rubbed the dog’s head. Not wanting to answer any questions at the moment, Ceorl slipped silently through the back door of the house and slid stealthily into his room. He sat down at his small table under the window and pulled out his quill and parchment.

He thought carefully for a moment, then dipped his quill in the ink. Carefully placing it on his paper he began his answer. His writing skills were not honed to perfection by years of practice, but he felt that it would do.

Several attempts were crumpled and thrown to the floor before he completed it to his satisfaction. It read: My Lord Narion,

I was pleased to receive your letter today and have taken the time to answer before you have chance enough to change your mind. Indeed, I have been awaiting this information with expectation since the day you left. It brings peace to my heart to learn of Lady Hirilian’s undying love and I can merely hope that I am worthy of her.

I send my congratulations upon Belecthor’s appointment. If he is half the man his father is, then the men of Ithilien have nothing to fear in their young leader, I am sure. My own command has been far from dull and I am pleased to say that even Éomer King recognizes the efforts my men put forth. They are truly a wonderful fighting force and I am proud to command them.

I remain very truly and thankfully your humble servant,

Ceorl, son of Aldor

He set it aside to dry and began again. This one took much more thought and even more of the precious parchment was thrown to the floor. He spared nothing in his effort to perfect this precious petition.

His ink well was near to empty and his pile of parchment on the floor was greater than his unused portion still on the table when a glance out the small window informed him that it was well passed midday. He had been in here all morning.

He stretched his tired arms and flexed his weary fingers. Slouching lazily in his chair, Ceorl reread his letter. He had strived to faultlessness in writing the short entreaty before him, but it read to his satisfaction and said all that he felt in few words.

Folding both letters carefully, Ceorl sealed them, addressed them and carried them to the kitchen. He found Legolas and Athelwyn, visiting pleasantly over lunch. "Ah! Ceorl," Legolas smiled up at him as he entered.

"Good afternoon, Legolas," Ceorl said, sitting down at the table. "I was wondering if you would do me the honor of bringing these to Ithilien when you return."

"It would be my pleasure," Legolas replied, taking the letters from Ceorl.

Athelwyn placed a steaming plate before her son. "Here, I have kept it hot for you. I hope it is not burnt."

"Thank you, mother. Could you pass the bread please, Legolas?"

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas dismounted before the home of Lord Narion. He had not remained in Rohan long as he knew the importance of the two letters he carried. He patted his proud courser before leaving him. The powerful steed had borne him swiftly and faithfully as always.

He was greeted at the door by Morwen who smiled in pleasant surprise. "Legolas! We did not expect you back for a few weeks! Please, come in." She took his cloak and hung it in the hall before leading him into the parlor.

Narion stood as the Prince entered. "Legolas!" he exclaimed happily. "Please, come in my library where we can talk. You may visit with the family later." Once they were alone, Narion turned to Legolas. "Well?" he asked calmly but with impatience tingeing his voice. "Did he answer?"

"Indeed he did," Legolas answered smiling, "and it took him all morning to do so. I have here two letters. One for yourself and one for the Lady in question."

Narion took them both, thanking his friend absentmindedly. Legolas retired quietly, leaving Narion in peace to read. After reading the sincere words of the young captain, in the letter addressed to himself, Narion called for his daughter. She had known nothing of her father’s letter as Narion had wanted to wait before raising her hopes.

She entered the library like a breath of fresh air, smiling lovingly at her father as she crossed to him. "What is it, father?" she asked serenely.

"I have a letter for you, from Ceorl," he said, noting the quick change in her complexion. He handed it to her with a reassuring smile before leaving her alone in the large room.

Slowly, almost fearfully, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. It was not Eorl’s hand, nor any other she knew. Sure enough, the bottom was signed Captain Ceorl of Rohan.

Her heart beating violently, her breath coming in quick, irregular gasps, she slowly read the lines, few though they were.

My sweet lady, hear my prayer and have pity on me if thou wilt. There is no other maid like thee; so fair, so beautiful, so bright. Sweet lady, pity me and have mercy on thy knight. Gracious lady, gentle and sweet, I cry to thee for mercy. I am thy man with hand and foot in every way I can.

I pray thee; return to Rohan to remain with me as my wife. I can live no longer without thee by my side. Maiden, patient and well-taught, I am in the bonds of thy love and everything draws me to thee.

I shall remain forever your devoted cavalier,

Captain Ceorl of Rohan

She read the letter through several times before truly comprehending their meaning. A radiant smile lighting her face, she called out for her brother. As he entered the library, she handed him the letter. "Belecthor, this is from Ceorl. I want you to read it." Smiling knowingly, he took the letter from her and looked it over. "Well?" she asked when he had finished.

"Would you really listen to me if I said I did not want you to marry him?" he questioned teasingly.

"Frankly, no I would not," she answered, taking her brother’s arm. "But still, I want to know. Do you approve?"

"I have told you before, sister," he said, his arm around her shoulders. "There is no one I would rather you marry. Having Ceorl for a brother and the father of my nieces and nephews will be splendid, truly. Come," he said, refolding the letter and handing it back to her. "Let us go tell mother and Morwen."

~*~*~*~*~

Ceorl raised his spear, calling loudly, "Halt!" The column came to a standstill. Éomer King had sent the entire company to Ithilien with orders to spend some small amount of time scouting their own borders before continuing on to their destination. Ceorl had never been to Ithilien before, but Elfwine had given him explicit instructions before they left, and they stopped now before the Steward’s Halls. He suddenly doubted his worthiness to wed the daughter of a Lord. Would she be happy living in such poor quarters as he could offer?

He had no time to change his mind, for the door was opened by a maid as Ceorl dismounted. "May I help you, my lord?" she asked curiously, looking him up and down.

"I would like to speak with Lord Narion, if I may."

"Lord Narion, my lord? Are you sure you do not mean Prince Faramir the Steward?"

"I am sure."

"Wait just a moment." The small woman disappeared, closing the door gently behind her. After a moment, she reappeared and directed him to the library. Before he left, Ceorl ordered his men to dismount and see to their horses.

The library was empty when he entered, but he was amazed by the vast amount of books lining the walls. "My master will be with you in a moment. Can I offer you something to drink? Some refreshment would no doubt do you good after your long journey."

"No, thank you. I am fine."

Narion entered as the maid left, closing the door behind him. The Lord’s face broke forth in a smile. "Ceorl, my boy!" he exclaimed loudly before covering his mouth and looking guiltily back at the door behind him. But it remained firmly closed, so he crossed the room to the young captain and placed his hand on Ceorl’s shoulder. "After she got her letter, we did not expect to see you here."

"After hearing my options," Ceorl smiled, "I decided to choose both. Is she well?"

"Yes, Ceorl, she is. She is so happy since reading your letter, she is still overcome with joy. Be careful when she sees you, my boy, for she may knock you down in her excitement."

"Fear not for my sake, my Lord," Ceorl replied. "I have withstood many a charge in the time since last we saw one another."

"No doubt, my boy, no doubt." He paused, smiling, before giving a slight start. "But here I am, jabbering like an old maid, when you want to see Hirilian, not just speak of her. I shall send her in. Remember my warning." He left the room with a smile, abandoning Ceorl to the agony of waiting.

She entered calmly and closed the door softly behind her before looking to see who had asked for her. He stood across the room near the large window, a smile lighting his battle hardened face, adorned with a neatly trimmed golden beard. His clothes were dusty from travel and he needed a bath, but she would have known him anywhere.

With a cry she rushed into his open arms, her lips meeting his in a passionate kiss which bridged the gap of time lost since they had last seen one another. When the embrace ended, she buried her face on his chest, clinging to him as if she would never let go. "Oh, Ceorl," she said softly, lifting her eyes to meet his. She encountered the same ice-blue depths that had engulfed her heart those long months ago, but with a difference. He, too, had suffered during their separation. She knew not how many wounds he had received in battle, nor how close he had come to death in that time, but she knew his love held true, only growing and intensifying as she was reft from him.

She caressed his face lightly with her fingertips, lingering over a small scar above his cheekbone. "Where did you come from?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" Ceorl asked with a grin.

"Once I got your letter, I did not expect to see you until we returned to Rohan."

"A host of Uruk-hi could not have kept me from you, love," he said, kissing her brow.

They stood silently for awhile, each simply enjoying the presence of the other until Hirilian pulled away slightly. "Belecthor will want to see you," she said, smiling happily up at him.

"Very well," he sighed resignedly, kissing her cheek. "If the young captain of Ithilien beckons, I suppose we must go to him."

~*~*~*~

I must admit that most of Ceorl’s letter to Hirilian is not my own work. I put in two sentences, to make it fit the occasion, and the closing. The rest is made up of lyrics from Edi beo hevene quene, a hymn in honor of Our Blessed Lady from An English Ladymass: medieval chant and polyphony sung by the Anonymous 4. It’s in Old English and I was going to have Ceorl write to Hirilian in Rohirric, but, as they have no alphabet and I wouldn’t have been able to stick in the pertinent sentences needed to make it fit, I decided he would write in the Common Tongue, but I still used the lines. :)

I’m still very grateful to all who read my stories, but mostly to all who review my stories. Without feedback, I have a tendency to think no one likes it. :) Thanks, especially to Éomer and Grey Wonderer. 

Epilogue 2 – Carrying On the Tradition

Hirilian’s motherly ears caught the high pitched wail from the sitting room. She rushed in, drying her hands on her apron as she went. Little Éowyn sat upon the floor, her hand to her head, wailing as her small, chubby face turned crimson, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Hirilian lifted her up and kissed the top of the blonde little head, murmuring comforting nonsense until the small whimpers died down. Once she had calmed her daughter sufficiently, she turned to the boys who stood awkwardly by. "Widfara, what happened?" she questioned her eldest son.

"She bumped her head again," the five year old explained matter-of-factly. He had never been very vocal, Hirilian reflected, Éowyn’s head still resting on her shoulder.

"She was trying to get up on that table like you said not to," Harding put it, pointing to the forbidden piece of furniture. "She slipped and hit her head on this corner," he added, indicating the offending edge.

Ever had Harding been more than willing to talk. At times his incessant chatter had worn on the nerves of his rather reticent older brother and Widfara had been know to take his younger brother to task about it. He was very mature for his age and was not above scolding his brother when he felt he had done something he should not have.

Éowyn squealed and wriggled in her mother’s grasp, pointing to the floor the while. Hirilian placed her youngest back on the floor. As she left the room, she was forced to step strategically over all the blocks left on the floor.

As she cooked, she reflected on her children. Widfara, the eldest, was the exact replica of his father in appearance, his golden hair and shining blue eyes resembling Ceorl’s so closely, it was somewhat uncanny at times. He had always been serious, quiet and respectful. She rarely ever had to scold him and he did small chores around the house without being told. Harding, on the other hand, had ever been a handful. The small boy looked like a blonde version of her own brother, Belecthor. Like his uncle, Harding was always into new things, finding new ways to worry his mother. She had no idea where the boy’s talkative habits sprung from, for her own family had never had any great talkers among their ranks and Ceorl wasn’t exactly an amazing conversationalist either.

She smiled as she thought of her baby. Éowyn looked exactly like her namesake. She even acted the same, much of the time. Hirilian had always been close to her grandmother, and therefore, was glad Ceorl allowed her to name their only daughter after the Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

Beleg sauntered into the kitchen, his tail wagging a greeting. She smiled down at him as he flopped sleepily down in the corner. The puppy Legolas had given to Athelwyn had grown tremendously, true to his lineage. When standing beside her, his shoulder reached her waist and his huge head could see over the kitchen table. His large feet dragged mud all over the house, but he was a big help with the kids. She had often found all three of them riding him around the house like a horse.

He rolled over on his back as she bent down to rub his belly. All four feet in the air, his eyes closed, his hind foot thumping on the ground, he most certainly did not look the part of a fierce guard dog, but he served that purpose well during the night. Several intruders had been warned off before they even reached the front stoop. She had heard his deep, menacing growl before and it was definitely a frightening sound. His deep chest rumbling like a thunderstorm and his long teeth shining in the moonlight he posed a grim threat to any who entered uninvited and unwelcome.

She rubbed his head and turned back to her cooking after wiping her hands on her apron. They were expecting Ceorl home for dinner and she wanted it to be ready when he arrived. She had learned quickly, as had Athelwyn before her, that Rohirric men had amazing appetites at the end of a long day.

She heard Athelwyn’s happy greeting in the other room. "Hello, mother," she called from the kitchen. Athelwyn made her way through the toys to the kitchen where she removed her cloak and sat down wearily in a chair with a sigh. She fondled Beleg’s ears as he placed himself dutifully by her side. "Ceorl is on his way home," Athelwyn announced.

"Where is he now?" Hirilian asked, stirring the stew with one hand and turning the meat with the other.

"His company was stabling their horses when I saw them."

"We shall give him a while longer," Hirilian said, sipping a bit of stew from the ladle; not quite ready yet. "He still must report to Uncle."

Éowyn wobbled into the kitchen, still unused to using her stubby little legs. The small girl had only just learned to walk, but her new found freedom was a burden upon her mother. No one ever knew where the two year old would be found next.

She toddle over and attempted to climb onto her grandmother’s lap. Smiling fondly, Athelwyn lifted her up and kissed her chubby face. The little girl giggled and clapped her hands, drool oozing down her chin. "Drama," she said loudly in her small voice.

"Yes, Grandma," Athelwyn said happily, wiping the baby’s chin with a rag. "What have you been doing today? Hm?" Éowyn giggled and babbled unintelligibly, her small arms waving in the air. "She is a joy," Athelwyn said, looking fondly over at her daughter-in-law. Ceorl had made the choice completely on his own, but she could not have picked a better wife for her only son.

"Yes, she is," Hirilian said, brushing a kiss on her daughter’s head as she passed. Éowyn, trying to discover who had kissed her, nearly fell backward from Athelwyn’s lap before righting herself and looking over her shoulder.

"Mama," she said flashing her mother a four-toothed smile. Commotion erupted in the sitting room. "Papa!" they heard Harding shout. Éowyn, hearing her father’s voice, called out loudly. "Papa, Papa!" she cried, wriggling in her grandmother’s grasp. Once she was placed on the floor, she reverted to the surer method of transportation and crawled swiftly from the room, gurgling the entire way. Hirilian followed her youngest into the next room. Finally sick of stepping around them, she pushed the blocks out of the way with her foot.

Ceorl caught his daughter up in his arms and held her high above his head. She laughed aloud, her small feet wriggling in the air, her hands covered in slobber as she tried to stick both of them in her mouth at once. As Ceorl lowered her to kiss her cheek she grabbed a handful of his golden hair and pulled, thrusting it in her mouth.

Laughing, but in pain, Ceorl gently removed his hair from her grasp and shifted her to the crook of his arm. With his free hand he pulled his wife to him and kissed her lightly.

"How are you, love?" he asked quietly in her ear as Harding, hanging on tightly to Ceorl’s leg, chattered noisily, Beleg panted loudly beside them and Éowyn squealed down at her eldest brother who stood silently yet happily by.

"I am fine, dearest. How was your trip?" she asked, leading him into the kitchen. On the way, Ceorl handed Éowyn to his mother with a filial kiss on the old woman’s brow. Harding, after riding his father’s leg to the kitchen, finally let go and ran to Beleg who had flopped down in the corner of the sitting room.

"Worth coming home to you," Ceorl said, his arm around his wife’s shoulder as she finished preparing dinner. Hirilian smiled happily as crying once more echoed in the other room. Let Athelwyn take care of it, she decided. Right now, she was just happy to have her husband at home once again.

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Thank you Éomer, Grey Wonderer, and dr_seuss_is_cool for your reviews. I’ve enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I can only regret that it’s finally over. :)

Author’s Notes – Acknowledgments and Such

This story takes place in the year 54 FA. That would make Ceorl 24 and Hirilian 22.

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The Rohirrim don’t write, much as I would love them too. I had Eorl know how simply because, as the heir, if he’s going to be a successful ruler, he had better know how to communicate with the surrounding countries. I had him teach Ceorl how to write because it would make things so much easier. :)

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I know Beleg sounds like a huge dog, but he is. He is part wolf, remember, and if you don’t believe a dog can get that big, I can show you some BIG dogs.

http://www.youngwolf.com

http://www.dysartswolfkennel.com

Now, take those dogs, make them just a little bigger and you have an elvish wolf-hound.

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I don’t know much about ceremonies, romance or anything like that, so I’m sorry if a lot of stuff came off as being rather corny. I strive not to sound too bad, but I don’t really know how it all came off. I hope it was alright. :)

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If there was anything in this story that did not match up, PLEASE let me know. I wrote many of the later chapters in rather mixed-up order so that I could get all my thoughts down as they came to me. Therefore, some things may have been built up, and then dropped completely. Work with me here, people.

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Éomer, I can’t thank you enough for all your help with this; especially chapter 7. Without you, this story would have peetered out and died a long time ago. May God bless you.

Thanks again to Coriel for all your help with Legolas. I’ll miss you while you’re off at college. :(

Also, thanks to all of you who have gotten this far. And a ‘God bless’ to all who have reviewed; namely, Grey Wonderer, for your reviewing of every chapter in this story. Your time and kind words have made writing only that much easier. Thank you.

Chigger <><