Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 3 |
| Chapter Three |
| Dunland, Rohan’s ancient and implacable enemy, was occupying most of Éomer’s time. Arriving back from a council with Erkenbrand and the western lords in Helm’s Deep where he had been discussing Rohan’s strategy for much of the week, he asked for his sister. He had much to discuss with her. He was not in the mood to be told by his worried steward, Findhalf, that she had left over an hour before for a village some leagues away to the north, fearing Lothíriel had put herself in a potentially dangerous position. Éomer swore and asked for the details. Findhalf could only tell him that he had been ordered by Éowyn to send by cart a few large kegs of their best mead immediately to the village and Éowyn had left herself with four guards. She had mentioned something about a wedding. ‘Is Cissy with her?’ he demanded. ‘No,’ the man replied. ‘Cissy came back only a few moments before you did, Sire. Shall I fetch her?’ Cissy flew into his antechamber apprehensively. ‘What is wrong, Sire? Findhalf said that Lothíriel might be in trouble. I don’t understand how. She simply offered to play the music at a wedding. Surely that is a joyous occasion and nothing to be worried about. She won’t be unprotected if that is your concern. Finglor will be with her, even if he is out of sight,’ she said hoping to calm him. ‘What exactly happened, Cissy, how did she end up making this offer?’ he asked urgently. ‘We had both been called early this morning to assist in a difficult birth, twins as it happened. As we were entering the village, my horse was spooked by something and backed into a cart at the wrong angle and it overturned onto a man on the other side of it. I left Lothíriel to tend to him while I went to the mother. She came in sometime later to see if I needed help and when she realised I didn’t, she told me that the man’s hand had been badly crushed and he was distraught because it meant that he couldn’t play at his cousin’s wedding in Fendel and protect her from the ill will of her prospective in-laws, who were not at all happy about the nuptials. She said it was the least she could do under the circumstances. I didn’t worry as Finglor is with her and she said she would make sure she was back before nightfall. She told one of your guards to stay with me and she sent the other one to let Éowyn know where she had gone,’ she explained in an uncharacteristic rush. ‘Fendel, Fendel, Éowyn mentioned something about this before I left for Helm’s Deep,’ he pondered aloud. ‘Oh Béma, it must be the wedding between the Nadlend girl and the son of Lady Rist. His family are furious and have sworn to stop it and the lady’s family are equally furious because he got her with child. Éowyn told me about it and asked if I thought we should send some men there to make sure the laws of the land were respected, and I decided against in case that inflamed the situation more. I ordered Hamláf to go as my representative but that is all. Éowyn has gone with four guards you say?’ he quickly asked his steward, who nodded. ‘She’s more concerned than she led me to believe or perhaps she has more news of how bad the feeling between the two families stands since last we spoke. Let me change my clothes and ready my horse. I had better make a personal appearance after all.’ He arrived mid-afternoon at the same time as the cart carrying the barrels of mead and he could already hear the music playing with the celebrations in full swing. His warrior’s eyes strafed the scene for hints of trouble. Swiftly he noted that the marriage vows must have already taken place; the new couple were happily seated together outside in the sunshine at the head table raised on to a platform with Éowyn sitting next to the groom in a place of honour. Hamláf was on the other side of the bride as his representative, strategically placed between the parents of the bride and those of the groom. He quickly surveyed the faces of the wedding party. That it was a love match was evident from the bride and groom’s demeanour; the bride’s parents looked relieved; the groom’s most ungracious. All this he saw while his attention was drawn to the tall figure, dressed in the working clothes of a midwife, standing on the platform with them all, playing a merry tune on the fiddle. The music appeared to be having the appropriate uplifting effect on the wedding guests at least, all except for one table of rowdy decidedly unfriendly-looking young men. Éomer now understood the wisdom of Éowyn’s judgement. Lothíriel spotted him first and abruptly stopped her playing, bowing deeply in his direction. With obvious relief, his envoy Hamláf quickly stood up to announce the arrival of the King, willingly ceding his place at the table to him. It seemed to Éomer that he detected a sudden relaxation of Éowyn’s guard as he was ushered to his place beside the bride. He studied Lothíriel more closely; her gaze was drawn to the unruly table of trouble-makers and Éomer could swear he saw the faintest curl of disdain in her otherwise soft lips. He glanced back at Éowyn, who flashed caution in her eyes in acknowledgement of his perception. His eyes rested on the innocuous ‘belt’ around Lothíriel’s dress and noted that her hidden daggers were strapped around both wrists resembling innocent and elegant forearm decoration, almost like extra sleeves. As Éomer raised his newly filled glass in honour of the couple and made the happy announcement that he had brought two more large kegs of mead to celebrate the nuptials, Lothíriel felt that the groom’s parents showed signs of relenting their distaste of the situation now that the King himself had deemed them worthy of his attention. Insinuating that it was a special relationship with the bride’s family which had brought him here, his eyes rested pointedly on Lothíriel, who smiled coyly back at him. Having ascertained that Lothíriel herself was in no immediate danger, Éomer scrutinised those around him more carefully to appraise the situation. The bride was very pretty. Éomer understood why the groom had risked upsetting his family by marrying a girl of lower status than his own, despite the girl’s family being reasonably wealthy. Lady Rist’s brother, Lord Evinwine was the chief Lord of the region and it was this side of the family that had been most aggrieved at the match. Lord Evinwine had shown his disapproval by his refusal to attend, sending only his second son, Widden, a sullen young man, probably with his tacit approval to behave as boorishly as he liked with his young friends who had accompanied him, if Éomer was any judge. He could see why Éowyn had been concerned to allow someone as volatile, and attractive, as Lothíriel into this setting. These were the worst kind of entitled young men who would not hesitate to take liberties with the beautiful lady fiddler. Éomer shuddered at the thought; he had no doubt the lady would fight to the death if so abused, theirs or hers, and with the castatas masquerading as her belt and the two daggers, however prettily attired, close to hand, he suspected it would be theirs. He wondered given her demeanour if they had not already given offence. The food was soon cleared to make way for the dancing and singing, and the tables and benches were shunted to the sides to reveal a large wooden floor below the raised platform of the bride and groom’s table. Other villagers had brought out some musical instruments and were striking up Rohirric tunes for their own style of dancing. Éomer beckoned for Lothíriel to join him. ‘Well, how are you enjoying your first Rohirric wedding?’ he asked expansively as he had imbibed a fair amount of the beautiful mead Éowyn had had brought. ‘Might I tempt you with the first dance?’ ‘I am not familiar with this style but if you would be willing to put up with my mistakes, I would be delighted to learn,’ she answered happily. They joined the bride and groom, Éowyn and Hamláf with the newlyweds’ respective parents on the floor and the dance began. It was highly energetic and not complicated to follow. Lothíriel bounded around enthusiastically without any pretence of elegance as the purpose of the dance was enjoyment, not to be on show. Éomer twirled her around easily and instructed her in the movements well ahead of time so she easily kept up with all the other dancers. Laughing gaily throughout, her high spirits seeped into all those around her, exerting a magnetic pull on the attention of the other guests. They were a magnificent pairing of dark and blond, a head taller than everyone else, and it was clear to all those present that their King was scandalously taken with the lady fiddler. None there, except Éowyn and her guards, had known that the lowly-dressed fiddler was in fact the honoured guest of the King and daughter of a Prince. Her significance once explained first to the bride and groom, the news spread, and the mood lifted even more – this wedding was receiving the highest royal patronage! The groom’s father was the next to ask Lothíriel to dance, which she did willingly as the groom partnered Éowyn and Éomer the bride. When eventually there was a break in the music, Éomer took Lothíriel a glass of the superb mead as a refreshment. ‘Thank you, Éomer, I know that this is some of your best mead, I will gladly try it,’ she said raising the glass to him and taking a deep swig. She savoured it in her mouth before swallowing. ‘From one who produces the best sweet wine in Gondor, I confess, this is truly excellent. I can see an export opportunity,’ she winked at him. ‘And young Master Widden and his friends, were you perhaps tempted to export them somewhere unpleasant? Have they done anything I should know about to upset you?’ he asked pointedly. Her mouth twisted into an amused yet slightly vengeful smile. ‘Nothing that I couldn’t handle…’ she responded a little too sweetly. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded gently but firmly, his amusement somewhat fading. ‘Well… I arrived with Gellan, the bride’s cousin, who has had, let’s just say, some… err… experience of Widden and his friends before…’ ‘Yes?’ Éomer said, elongating his encouragement for her to elucidate further. ‘I might have said some sharp words to them when they tried to gang up on him…’ ‘Yes…?’ ‘And one of them might have accidentally slipped and landed in a heap of manure, but that was because luckily,’ she said heavily emphasising the last word, ‘some horses had escaped the paddock and came straight at us, forcing us all apart before it could become more interesting… and then, of course, some of the other villagers arrived running after the horses.’ ‘Most fortuitous…’ Éomer intoned, his thoughts turning to Finglor. ‘Most indeed,’ she answered deadpan. ‘For them…’ she quipped as she left him to dance with a man with a bound hand he presumed to be Gellan. Éomer could not help himself but to laugh, shaking his head in relief that Finglor was as resourceful and protective as he had been described. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The sky had taken on a pink hue of the coming sunset by the time Lothíriel found Éomer again to ask him where she could find Éowyn as she needed to return to Edoras. Éomer put his arm friskily around her waist to lead her to his sister. ‘I have arranged with the mayor of the village for you both to share his daughters’ room as they are away at their grandfather’s. I will sleep with the guards in the stables with the horses…’ Lothíriel swung round to him which he took for concern for his humble sleeping quarters, ‘…which is a luxury I’ve rarely had when campaigning, so you need not worry, it is more than comfortable.’ Lothíriel almost stopped breathing, visibly panicked. Seeing Éowyn approaching behind him she put her hand pleadingly on his arm. ‘Éomer, that is very kind of you, but, erm… I’m not good at wedding nights.’ She looked up at him hoping for understanding. Éowyn arrived with a determined air, ‘Hamláf just told me of your decision. I think it is a good idea that we stay. I do not like the way Widden’s table is behaving. I can see there could still be trouble if we leave, and if both Lothi and I stay, it doesn’t look so obvious that we are doubting them and risk acerbating Lady Rist’s prickly pride.’ Lothíriel looked crestfallen. ‘You are alright to stay aren’t you, Lothi? I took the precaution of packing night clothes for both of us and had them brought in the cart with the barrels just in case we needed them.’ Éowyn asked suddenly concerned. Éomer groaned, he had only just understood what Lothíriel had been trying to tell him. ‘I think Lothíriel needs to get back to Edoras, Éowyn. There is no need for her to stay. I will ask two of the men to take her back,’ he said firmly. Lothíriel had become pensive. She looked away from them both for a while, staring into the descending dark shadows behind the village buildings. ‘No, I will stay.’ Lothíriel said sharply, suddenly decisive, ‘I am just being stupid and irrational. I must… I must…’ she looked down frustrated with herself and continued almost inaudibly, ‘I must face this.’ She looked up at Éomer and took his hand, repeating resolutely. ‘Thank you, but I must face this. Come, I think there is more drinking and more dancing to be had! I might even sing for you by the end of the evening.’ Letting go of his hand, she dragged Éowyn off to find partners for the next round of dances, where her exuberance and the presence of the King and his formidable guard kept the simmering tension in check and made the occasion a far more joyous celebration, and one without incident, than it otherwise would have been. Éomer was thoughtful, intent on sobering up quickly. He had understood Lothíriel’s foreboding and what this might lead to. He began to prepare himself for a long night. Before Éowyn retired to the room she was to share with her, Éomer was able to speak privately with his sister about his fears for Lothíriel. She had heard from Gelian that Lothíriel would need special attention over the Hithui period and what this entailed but she had not realised that there were other triggers. ‘I suppose it does make sense that the knowledge of what might be expected of a bride on her wedding night might be difficult, but the bride tonight is already with child so…’ she mused. ‘Which is why she said she was being irrational,’ Éomer reminded his sister. ‘I should have thought of this before suggesting you both stayed,’ he said annoyed with his lack of foresight. ‘There is no reason why you should have, Éomer,’ Éowyn argued sensibly. ‘Anyway, she is determined to stay now. I will not touch her if she starts to become restive and will come and fetch you immediately. Let us not forget, there is always the elusive Finglor, whom no one has seen. I begin to doubt he even exists,’ she snorted. ‘He exists, Éowyn, and he is held in the highest regard by many who love her the most, and also by Aragorn. He will be close by. He can probably hear you now, so be careful what you say….’ he advised with a sincerity which caused Éowyn to quickly cease her derision. When Éowyn finally retired for the night, Lothíriel was already in a deep sleep. Looking at her friend sleeping so sweetly, Éowyn wondered how such a peaceful, beautiful creature could become the violent monster she had been portrayed. And yet she was an enigma. So strong and yet so fragile. Her brother, like their father, had always been drawn to the most damaged of horses and they to them. Horses in pain or traumatised by battle sought him out and became calm around him. Their father had also been famous within Rohan for this gift. Their mother Théodwyn had been unlike her much older siblings and had been troubled as a child. Éowyn and Éomer had not realised the extent of their mother’s fragility until their father was slain in the skirmish with orcs. With his calming touch ripped from her, she had fallen apart so rapidly that her brother, King Théoden, ordered the family to Edoras in haste. He had tried to protect the children from their mother’s decline as best he could, but ultimately he could not save his sister. The memory of those days was still painful. Éowyn had only just fallen asleep when she was woken by stifled cries of ‘No, no.’ They were coming from Lothíriel who was struggling in her sleep. Before reaching for her shoes Éowyn watched patiently to see if she would calm. All of a sudden Lothíriel sat up rigidly on the bed. Éowyn called out softly to her to check that she was not awake, but received no answer, no recognition of her presence. Silently, Lothíriel stood up, walked to the door, opened it, descended the stairs and left the house in a trance. Fetching a warm shawl she had purposefully placed beside her bed, Éowyn followed her quietly out of the house and ran to the stables to wake Éomer. He was only half asleep and fully clothed. His horse was swiftly made ready. ‘Go back to the house and try to sleep, Éowyn, I will take care of her,’ he reassured his worried sister. Just as he mounted to leave, Éowyn remembered to pass him her shawl, ‘Brother, she is only dressed in her night shirt. You need to hurry or you will lose sight of her,’ she warned him. Lothíriel was already out of the village when he caught up with her, fortunately the moon was full and bright and she had not strayed off the road. He walked with the horse a discreet distance behind her, only mounting to jump a hedge when Lothíriel eventually took a more minor pathway over a stile separating two fields from which Éomer could see the shimmer of a small lake in the far distance. She walked barefoot in the bright moonlight for almost an hour until she came upon the lake. She stood looking over the water for a few moments. He was not to interfere; this he had been told was the ritual; he could only stand by and watch her strip off her night shirt and walk naked into the water. He stood at the water’s edge making sure she was in his sight as she went up to her neck in the water. He was becoming increasingly nervous. She went under. He was about to wade in after her, when a hand came out of nowhere and pulled him back. She surfaced. Instinctively Éomer had swung round about to punch whoever had laid a hand on him, but the hand had withdrawn quickly enough. A deep, calming voice said quietly, ‘Leave her be. It’s best not to wake her when she’s still not truly with us.’ ‘Finglor, I assume?’ Éomer asked, already sure of the answer and receiving a nod of acknowledgment from under the hood the man was wearing. Finglor was even taller than Éomer and more powerfully built but other than that, he could see little of the man. Though dark as it was, he had still noted the deformity of the hand that had touched him. ‘She is coming back,’ Finglor observed. He was carrying something, which Éomer took to be a thick cloak, heavier than the shawl he had himself brought with him. Éomer watched with considerable restraint while Finglor casually wrapped the cloak around his naked charge, who stood patiently while he used his own cloak to dry her loose hair, which he then plaited quickly for her. ‘Do you have your sister’s shawl here?’ Finglor asked him. Éomer went back to his horse to retrieve it. ‘Is she awake? Does she know that we are here?’ He asked him, while Finglor wrapped the shawl expertly around Lothíriel’s head. ‘From experience I would say not. She usually remembers nothing on waking. I would normally either stay with her here until she wakes or carry her back if we were staying not too far away, but since you have your horse and it is quite a distance, I think it’s best if you take her back to your sister. Here is her nightshift. I will lift her up to you. She is ready for sleep now. I don’t think she will wake again until dawn, but if she does, she’s used to waking up in strange places, and as it seems you are one of the few men she is comfortable with, you will not frighten her.’ Finglor had picked up Lothíriel in his arms as though she weighed nothing and once Éomer was on his horse, he lifted her up to Éomer with ease as though they were both handling a child. She was sleeping calmly. Éomer tucked her nightshift into his tunic and turned his horse back towards the village. ‘I know you care for her and I have seen I can trust you with her. I’ll watch over her again once I’m back so you can sleep, if you could stay with her until then? I’ll give you a bird call like this…. to let you know I’m back,’ said Finglor demonstrating the same bird call Éomer remembered hearing in Minas Tirith when Lothíriel had jumped from the window at their house after the row with her family. ‘It’s good to meet you finally, Finglor,’ Éomer said in parting. Finglor simply bowed his head politely. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Firefoot cantered upwards across the fields they had walked through. Éomer knew he would have to find a different way back to avoid jumping the hedgerow and pushed his horse to a faster canter when he could. Once he had found the road, they were not so far off the village and the sound of Firefoot’s hooves on the harder ground jolted Lothíriel awake. ‘Finglor?’ she said blearily. She bolted awake when she realised it was not Finglor and Éomer was forced to come to a halt. Lothíriel turned sharply round in his arms to face him. She looked around her and sighed, ‘So here we are again… I believe you were warned. Do you have my nightshift? The cloak is warm but I’m still a little cold,’ she said unperturbed, unwrapping Éowyn’s shawl from her hair and draping it casually over his shoulder. He handed her the nightshift he had tucked inside his tunic. Lothíriel unwrapped her naked body from the cloak causing Éomer to involuntarily move back from her in the saddle, which inadvertently showed him more of her nakedness. He winced as he felt a sharp stab of desire. ‘Éomer, you have seen it all before,’ she said dismissively and pulled the nightshift over her head, lifted her buttocks off the saddle briefly to tuck it under her and quickly wrapped the cloak back around her against the slightly chilly night. She pulled her feet up and set them close to Éomer’s body. ‘My feet are freezing. I don’t suppose you would mind sitting on them for a while to warm them. I should have kept my shoes on when I went to bed, but I thought that Éowyn would have found it too strange,’ she explained. Éomer’s constricted throat made a small squeak as he felt her feet to see how cold they were. They were indeed ice cold and as he was feeling very hot in the region she wanted to put them under, he was only too happy to oblige, despite his obvious discomfort. It proved a counterproductive move. He found himself becoming harder at her touch. ‘I’m sorry I am such a burden, Éomer,’ she said seemingly oblivious to the impact she was having. ‘My hair is wet, I assume I went for a dip somewhere?’ she asked taking the shawl from his shoulder and wrapping her exposed ankles with it instead. ‘This cloak belongs to Finglor, was he there?’ she went on, stifling a yawn. ‘He was,’ Éomer answered stoically, trying to calm himself and focus on getting them both back to the village. He walked the horse on while she curled herself into him to warm up. He wrapped his own cloak around her and nuzzled the top of her head affectionately. She raised her head and looked at him, remembering the last time they were facing each other on a horse, as was he. He desperately wanted her to kiss him as she had then, but this time she lowered her head, pulled herself closer to him and rested it on his chest. ‘Will you stay with me until sunrise? I only wander at night,’ she whispered as she fell back to sleep. Éowyn was waiting impatiently for them outside the house. She had dressed in case she needed to go out to find them. Relieved to see them both, she gladly took Firefoot by the reins as Éomer jumped down lightly with Lothíriel sleeping in his arms. While his sister took Firefoot to the stables, Éomer carried his charge to her room, and lay her gently down on the bed, sitting beside her just long enough to kiss her on her forehead. She grasped his hand and held it to her face, murmuring something he could not make out. The bird call must have penetrated her sleeping mind as she immediately let go of his hand and turned on her side to sleep. Éomer left her with Éowyn, who had just entered the room and went out to meet Finglor, bringing his cloak. ‘You were quick,’ Éomer said first, genuinely astonished. ‘I run fast,’ came the reply. ‘Even so,’ Éomer commented. They both walked away from the house towards the stables. ‘Did she wake?’ asked Finglor. ‘Briefly. She’s asleep again now,’ Éomer answered succinctly. Finglor paused awhile as they approached the entrance to the stables. They were speaking softly preferring not to be overheard by any of the men sleeping inside. ‘She trusts you very much,’ Finglor continued. ‘She’d never let her own brothers near her like she does you. I’m not sure she’d be so accepting even with Faramir. It is strange.’ ‘Why so?’ Éomer asked a little too abruptly. Finglor hesitated. ‘No one will have told you this, but you resemble Cirion.’ Éomer was stunned by this unwelcome revelation. He had always assumed Cirion to have had the darker characteristics of those from the South. Finglor continued, ‘I saw him only once, just before his execution…’ ‘You were in Dol Amroth? I thought…’ Éomer interrupted. ‘That I was not welcome? I was not, not when Amahlia was alive… I had been with Amahlia’s mother that whole year. She was already dying and as my presence in Dol Amroth was… problematic, I wanted to stay with her until the end. In hindsight, that was a mistake. Cirion would never have been able to wreak the devastation he did had I been there. There are those who even now believe in his innocence, so polluted had their minds become with his lies. They believe Lothíriel accused him falsely, such was the level of mistrust and slander both her and her mother endured. Cirion was a master deceiver.’ Finglor’s voice had become harsh with the memory, but he restrained himself enough to make the point he wanted. ‘He was clean-shaven and lacked your stature, but otherwise he was very like you: blond hair, blue eyes… handsome. Lothíriel never trusted him. But you, you she trusted instantly, and for this, I am truly grateful. I realised it when I saw her reaction to you when you found her in the pools in the woods above the Pelennor.’ ‘You were there?’ Éomer exploded in a hushed but forceful tone. ‘Yes, of course. And unlike you, as I was on foot, I didn’t miss where she turned off the track,’ Finglor returned good-naturedly. ‘You couldn’t have run so fast,’ Éomer exclaimed. ‘As I said, I run fast.’ Finglor seemed to deliberate what to say next. ‘I can tell that she trusts you. Whether she trusts herself is another question. You do confuse her though. And I suspect she confuses you,’ he half-laughed. He turned to face Éomer square on and told him in a calm and measured voice, ‘She will not be free until she has found what she seeks in the North. To keep her, you will need to let her go,’ he ended portentously, before bowing his head in farewell. |