Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 5 |
| Chapter Five |
| Lothíriel was having a wonderful evening with her ‘girlfriends’ Galador and Selimir. Galador she had known from childhood in Dol Amroth and they had always been close, despite the five year age gap between them. He was closest in age to her middle brother, Erchirion, who had always seemed to resent their friendship. Selimir was Galador’s new lover from Minas Tirith. They had taken her to a discreet establishment off one of the side streets in the Delantine Quarter, on the port side of the city. This section of Minas Tirith had long been the centre of the livelier forms of entertainment in the city, albeit ones frowned upon in public. While brothels were tolerated, establishments where other like-minded men would gather, such as the one to which Galador had taken Lothíriel, were not. It had not always been the case, but under Denethor’s long rule, such activities had become increasingly persecuted. In the dimly lit and boisterous atmosphere of her colourful yet tasteful surroundings, Lothíriel felt utterly at home. These men were not interested in her physically, understood her emotionally and had the keenest, sharpest wit of all. It was an evening of riotous hilarity which was just what she needed after the previous night of emotional turmoil. They treated her like a princess, not because she was a princess but because she was like them, rejected and ostracised. Even before her abduction, Lothíriel had never been ladylike. Galador was always more of the girl in temperament than she was when they were growing up. She was the fighter and he was the damsel in distress, a dynamic which had never changed. As the only son of Belegond, the widely disliked Steward of the Palace of Dol Amroth and his even more despised and feared wife, Melian, he had been endlessly picked upon, especially by her brothers. Their behaviour towards her best friend was a constant source of tension between Lothíriel and her siblings, and for their part, they had found her combativeness regarding Galador extremely irksome. Inseparable as they were, Galador had accompanied Lothíriel to Minas Tirith the night after the battle and found himself and his natural Amrothian chic to be most popular with the men of Minas Tirith of his persuasion. It was deep into the night when the party eventually spilled out on to the street as the men started to head home, or to whichever dark corner they might want to not be seen in together by less accepting onlookers. Galador was to escort Lothíriel to the Citadel and change back into his men’s clothing before returning to his own lodgings. They duly left Selimir to make his own way home and went after a group of their fellow revellers heading up towards the Citadel as the shortest route to the other side of the city, despite it being a steep climb. As they rounded the corner of the side street leading to the main street on the fourth tier of the city, three Rohirric Riders, who had been on their own ale-imbued evening out sampling the delights of Minas Tirith, were walking towards the group that had just left Lothíriel’s party. Ever observant and vigilant, Lothíriel quickly noted they were not Riders who had previously crossed her path and forced Galador to halt in the shadows. While one of the Riders, the tallest and broadest, was swaying in an alarming but harmless way, the other two had a more belligerent air about them and they stopped to stare somewhat malevolently at this bunch of overly made-up, very tall, broad-looking women, who were staggering around, singing with deep voices and hugging other more obvious men, but drunk as they were, the Riders were slow to react, and the group passed on their way. Lothíriel noted, however, that the two less amiable Rohirrim were slowly beginning to understand what they had just seen, and she indicated to Galador to wait until the three Riders had moved on. As they stood silently hidden from view a slightly wicked image crossed her mind that had the Rohirrim been foolish enough to decide to make trouble with the group ahead of them, they would undoubtedly have regretted it, as most of the men in the former group were battle-hardened fighters and not to be trifled with, despite how some of them might like to dress as women. Galador, however, was another matter. He was as useful as a damp lettuce in a fight. Lothíriel on the other hand, despite being elegantly attired in a dress, was by no means defenceless. Still, she did not want any trouble and the pair only started to wend their way up towards the Citadel on the seventh tier having waited long enough for the Rohirrim to be far enough away. The streets were reassuringly deserted, but as they walked through the archway of the sixth tier a harsh sarcastic whistle pierced through the silence. Lothíriel heard a voice say weakly in Rohirric ‘Leave them alone, Joric’. Damn, she thought, and we were so nearly there. ‘Can I help you Riders of Rohan?’ she said neutrally also in Rohirric. ‘Ah look boys, this one speaks in our tongue. How did you learn that then, sweetie pie?’ Joric said staggering towards them. ‘I saw you and your friend here down with those other queers.’ Lothíriel could hear the sound of the man who had spoken previously vomiting violently. So, we’ll get no help from him then, she thought. The other man stumbled forward, ‘How can you tell they’re not women, Joric, they look like women to me!’ he slurred. ‘That’s because we are women. You are obviously not as drunk as your friend here. Might I suggest you get your sick friend home?’ Lothíriel said calmly. Joric was looking intently at Galador. ‘Nah, they are queers alright,’ he leered. ‘Your sort are no better than orcs,’ he growled, becoming instantly belligerent. ‘You are disgusting parading around dressed as whores, teasing normal guys with your fancy ways…’ Oh, here we go, thought Lothíriel, another one who got stung by mistake in some brothel or other and has taken it personally. ‘I must ask you to leave us alone, sir,’ she continued calmly, inserting herself between Joric and the frozen Galador. ‘Joric!’ warned the voice of the man still being sick behind a fountain. Joric tried to push Lothíriel out of the way but she swiftly knocked his legs from under him and shoved him to the ground. ‘Lothíriel!’ screamed Galador. ‘Stand back, you idiot,’ she shouted back at him in Sindarin. He complied readily. The other man had been slow to react at first, but seeing how expertly Lothíriel had knocked down his friend, eventually he bellowed, ‘By Béma, they are men!’ and he too came at Lothíriel, who deftly punched him in the face. Joric by this time had got to his feet and was bearing down on Lothíriel with a look of fury on his face. She kicked him hard between the legs and whipped out her dagger from under her sleeve and held it at his throat as he collapsed in front of her. At least the puking had stopped. ‘Lothíriel?’ the sick man rasped out. ‘Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?’ he looked dreadful as he came into the light of the street torches. Unusual for a Rohirrim, he had stubble rather than the longer beards favoured by most of his compatriots, handsome in a more classic way than Éomer, whose stature and manner he closely resembled. She felt an immediate connection to the man. ‘Yes, indeed. I am returning to my cousin Faramir’s house in the Citadel which is but a short walk further,’ she answered haughtily, more for Joric’s benefit. The man turned even paler than he had been and looked as though he might be sick again. ‘Our apologies, my Lady. I recognise you from the paddock. I am Genting, Rohan’s Master of Horse. Please accept my apologies for our behaviour tonight, my Lady.’ The man looked truly dreadful, as well as sincerely contrite, although not as concerned as Joric and the other Rider as the truth of their mistake and its likely consequences dawned on them through their drunken haze, despite their pain. She let Joric go. ‘No hard feelings,’ she said. ‘It is rather late. My friend here will be escorted home by one of the Tower guards. I trust there will be no further trouble tonight, nor indeed any other night,’ she finished pointedly. Genting bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I will inform the King first thing and await his just punishment,’ he replied with a tortured air, which intrigued Lothíriel as well as panicked her. ‘No, please don’t. There is no need to inform the King of this. I would sincerely prefer it if you did not,’ she countered swiftly. Through the dim street lighting, she observed him more closely. He had the demeanour of a man defeated by life, or more likely by death, a state it struck Lothíriel that he craved for himself. Her heart bled for him; his pain of loss was one she could not allow herself to feel. It would destroy her. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Genting. I know from the many men I have treated that you are one of Rohan’s most respected leaders. Please do not involve the King is such a minor incident. He has far more important matters to deal with. Just make sure you drink some boiled Trilline leaves when you get back to your lodgings. It will help with your sickness. If you’re still feeling bad after that, you can come and see me in the House of Healing tomorrow morning,’ she instructed Genting with great empathy and with that, she turned and grabbing Galador by the arm, they walked swiftly up the remaining short distance to the Citadel. |