The mist was slowly clearing, a gentle breeze blowing it away from the fields of Cormallen. It was the early hours of the morning and only two hardened warriors remained awake in the camp of the Rohirrim. The men were tall and strong, one wide set and golden haired, his dark green tunic creased and torn. The other esteemed warrior bore smooth, long limbs and black hair that fell gracefully into his eyes, his dark colouring set off by the blue cloak at his shoulders. The dark haired warrior flipped his head, the movement pushing the silken hair over his shoulder.
"Béma!" Amrothos said vehemently. Éothain rolled his eyes.
"No - less strength, more growl."
Amrothos curled his lip, perplexed, then tried again. "Béma," he growled, lips flattening out with a baritone rumble.
"Béma!" Éothain said clearly. Amrothos swore he heard the chink of a woman's earrings as no doubt a hundred heads turned towards the exotic word. "Try again."
"It's no use," the Prince said mournfully. "Perhaps one day..."
Éothain shrugged and handed him another full tankard. It was a miracle that he could even see straight enough to pour from the jug, but pour he could and pour he would. He took his time with his own drink, swishing it around his mouth, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet.
Amrothos, having finished his tankard, was having significantly more difficulty in organising his limbs to obey his commands. Attempting to fold himself into a nonchalant pose as demonstrated by the Captain of Éomer King's guard, Amrothos succeeded in rolling onto his side, his head thudding onto the grass. And that was when he saw her.
"Valar," he breathed, watching the tall woman exit the tent opposite him. She was blurred, naturally, but never let it be said that Amrothos of Dol Amroth did not know a beauty when he saw one - and she was a beauty. Golden hair like the mane of a lioness, hanging just past her shoulders (what a rule breaker!) and half pulled back to show her tanned face and dancing eyes. He groaned at the sight of leggings on long, shapely calves and a thin white linen tunic, looking like it had just been thrown on. Lucky sod, he thought bitterly, narrowing his eyes to try and discern whose tent the goddess had walked out of.
"Béma," Amrothos muttered ruefully, the word causing Éothain's head to snap up.
"Wrap me up and send me to Mordor! You've got it!" Was all Amrothos heard before his eyes finally closed for the night, a pleased and dazed smile on his face as the woman knelt down in front of him and tapped his forehead.
"He's asleep?"
Éothain stared at the limp Amrothos strewn on the ground, and measured his breaths. "Can't be sure. Asleep or dead, one of the two."
Éomer shook his head with a snort. "What did you give him, anyway? Look, he's drooling."
"The same as we all had," Éothain said innocently. "Not our fault these southerners can't hold their drink."
"Too right," Éomer said with a shake of his head. "He was looking at me like I was a piece of meat. Béma!" The new King of Rohan shuddered and with one last bemused look at the young Prince, made his way back into his tent.
Thank you to the lovely Medea Smyke for the inspiration from her hilarious 'Cameos' story - Amrothos and I are in your debt!
