1.
When she had the thundering of hooves getting closer and closer, like a rolling summer storm, her heart had almost stopped. She knew better than to move too suddenly, however, or even so much as twitch at this point. But despite her learned carefulness, she still felt the cold kiss of a blade at her throat.
"You know what to do, girl."
He spoke slowly, her jailer, without inflection.
She nodded.
He showed her his yellowing teeth in a smile she would have preferred not to see. "Good."
It was then that a large group of horses thundered over the brow of the hill and straight past them. Their leader, riding at the head of them, signaled with his spear and with astonishing speed and skill, the riders checked their steeds, wheeled around, and charged the caravan.
She was pressed between two men, in a move that to anyone looking would have seemed aimed to protect her. She heard the clank of metal against their armor, beneath the raged cloaks they were wearing, but she doubted that sound traveled too far. Furiously, she started thinking of all the ways this could go bad, all the ways she could die.
The riders circled around the caravan tightly until the tip of their drawn spears were so close to the men on the ground, that there was not even room to draw a bow. One of the riders moved forward, and spoke to them from his steed.
She did not understand his tongue, though the tone sounded harsh and impatient to her. Her captor stepped forward, arms raised. He spoke calmly, as ever. As if it was the pleasant day he was speaking of.
She bit her tongue hard enough to feel the taste of blood in her mouth, but still, no words would come. If she had any tears left, they would have fallen.
One of the riders pointed at the cart, asked something. The flap was raised, showing the rider the barrels of spices and the wine inside.
Tradesmen, indeed.
The rider asked something else. A moment later, the hood of her cloak was pulled down. She met the pale eyes of her captor, before she looked up at the collection of faces staring at her.
"Mîn wîflic, mîn fengel." He said, and then pointed at her face. "Yfel sêcan hîe fæstnianoferscêawian hiera of hê hîwian ymbhammen thither we âlêoran."
She looked up, met the rider's gaze. Tried to find his eyes under the shadow of the helm he wore. She didn't know what she wanted him to see in truth, didn't know if she wanted him to look beyond her ragged cloak and dirt streaked face, or not. Couldn't tell whether the evil she knew was better or worse than another she did not. Passing from the hand of ten men with weapons into the hands of fifty, with weapons did not seem like much of an improvement, at the moment.
And they looked so like each other, her captors and these soldiers: fair haired and foreign, with their harsh tongue and pale skin.
One of the men by her side tightened his hold on one of her wrists, and it was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling in pain. She smiled bowed her head instead, managed a clumsy courtesy.
The leader of the riders lowered his spear, and as he did, so did all the others of his company.
"Aræfnan swilce êow hagian, siððan." He turned to his riders and shouted an order. As if they were all of the same mind, they turned and rode away, towards the sunset.
She took a deep breath and let the tears spill down her cheeks.
Her captor turned to her, wiped one of them away even as she tried to lean away from his hand.
"You did well, lady. My thanks."
She only glared at him, jaw clenched tight. But then she was pushed to walk, and almost tripped over her feet in the effort to do so.
"Steady." The big one ordered. He was always the one who stood closest to her. She hated him the most, some days. "We have a long way to go yet."
o
Night was quick to fall. Even quicker, she thought, than she was used to. With the dark came the cold and the further she got from home, the more unforgiving it was. They tied her to the caravan, and then gathered around the fire, where they ate.
As usual, their leader came to bring her her meager share of hard bread and cheese. He sat there in front of her as she nibbled at it, and watched. He did this every night. For almost a month now, she had been afraid he would do more than just look, but he never did.
There was a threat in that too. She felt it every time he lay eyes on her.
He looked at her as if she was not a person. He smiled at her as if he knew what she was thinking. The threat did not need to be made. He seemed to enjoy it more that way - when he saw it in her face, no matter now impassive she tried to be.
"Will you not speak then?" He asked softly. He asked that every night too. She kept chewing on her portion, trying to move as little as possible, so as not to jostle her wounds.
"Not even if I promised to have those ropes off your wrists?"
She did not answer. Did not even look at him, fixing her eyes on the impenetrable darkness of the forest.
"You are stubborn, lady. All of your kind are stubborn."
Her hand tightened around the small water pouch. Yes. Stubborn. She had heard that many times in her life.
So fast she almost choked on her water, he came close. Close enough that if he leaned in one inch more, his chest would brush hers.
She looked into his eyes for the first time.
"Are you afraid?"
She took a breath, and nodded slowly.
"Are you always afraid when I watch you?"
She gulped. What was better to say? What did he want to hear? She did not know! So she shook her head, told the truth. She was not always afraid, no. She could tell when he meant to scare her, and when he just looked for his pleasure. Both made her skin crawl.
He smiled then. It pleased him, to scare her. Perhaps she should not have made it so plain… and perhaps he would hurt her more, to get his pleasure. With his regular features and bright eyes, he could almost be a good looking man, but there was something hard in those eyes, something cruel about the way they glinted on his face. Something she had not recognized at first, but that she soon learned to: ruthlessness.
He reached out and she flinched, eyes widening at the sight of his dagger. She tried to move away but her back hit the cart. There was nowhere to go! He gripped her arm hard and shushed her as he slowly cut the rope that bound her hands together.
"You did good today." He said with one of his small smiles. "If you behave just as well in the days that come, I will take away the ropes around your ankles as well. I know they chaff horribly on your soft skin."
He wasn't looking at her as he spoke, but at his own hand on her arm, as if it didn't belong to him.
She sat as still as stone, arms tight against her body.
"Do your arms hurt?"
She nodded.
"They might go on hurting for some time."
The idea seemed to excite him almost. Her stomach turned. She wondered how one man could speak this way. Speaking words of care, without the least bit of care.
"Are you afraid now?"
She exhaled, put her hands on the ground at the sides of her body. Noded.
It made him smile.
He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, stroking it gently. "I've never touched you before. Is that why you're afraid?"
She just looked at him, without blinking or breathing. She hated the way he looked back.
"Why do you not ask what we mean to do with you?"
She gasped, felt her skin raising gooseflesh in disgust, and her tears finally fell, just as his fingers traced her collarbone. His face was now so close, that she could smell the wine on his breath.
Just as she felt her hand close around a sharp rock, the first blow fell. If she could she would have screamed.
A spear flew through the night. She did not see it until it struck the body of her captor so hard that he slammed into her, and she against the cart behind her. The force of the hit was such that she lost her breath. It only lasted a few moments but it it was enough to make her think she'd never breathe again.
But she did.
And with her breath came the awareness of everything else. Of steel against steel and the screams of battle.
Immediately she pushed the man off her and scrambled for his dagger. The metal hilt felt cold and heavy in her hands, but she did not let go of it. She cut the ropes around her ankles and then looked around to see riders bursting into the camp, too many to count, throwing spears and making quick work of the men that had captured her, without ever getting off their horses. The sight made her sweat, and it took moments she could not afford to convince her limbs to move, terror making her numb and rooting her on the spot.
Get up, Lothiriel. Get up!
She rolled under the cart and crawled to the other side of it, away from the fighting, or most of it. Once she got to her feet she started running, with nothing more than nerve and a prayer to get her through the mayhem of the clash unnoticed, begging the gods that her captors be too busy keeping alive from the attack of the riders to search for her or even take much notice as she fled. So she dashed through the plain and the dark - until she had to stop so suddenly she fell on her ass when a horse came out of nowhere and almost trampled her under its hooves.
But she got up again, knowing she could not stop. That she could not rest, or cry, or give up. She was either going to run, or die here on this night.
She chose to run, cutting through the night and the unknown, narrowly avoiding horses, spears and falling men. Her breath was loud in her ears, her legs hurt, and her arms too, but she did not stop running even as she made it outside the ring of the skirmish. She knew they would catch her fast if she did not reach the woods. A running girl was no match for such a cavalry. Her only hope was for them not to realize she was gone until after everything was over over.
But such a thing was not to be. Just as she saw the dark mass of the trees in front of her, she heard the sound of hooves behind her, and she knew it was over. They had her surrounded in the space it took her to take ten more steps.
It all seemed to happen so slowly. She'd heard it said that one's last moments on earth always happened too fast to realize. Her brother had told her once that men don't even feel the wound that kills them. But she… she saw it all happen at a snail's pace. The way they surrounded her. How she was left with nowhere to run, and how everywhere she turned she saw men, armored and mounted. Looking at her. At one girl, and the knife in her hand.
The man to her left raised his bow but did not loosen the arrow. All she was thinking of was 'this is how I'm going to die.' but then one of their riders stepped off his horse, and she brought her dagger to her own throat.
He looked immediately alarmed. "Don't!"
Her breath hitched. It wasn't his command that stopped her, but the words he said. Words she understood.
"We mean you no harm, girl. The men who held you are captured or dead."
Her hand shook. The blade at her throat was growing warm by her heat. The man in front of her did not move towards her and his palms when he showed them to her were empty.
He took off his helmet slowly, never looking away from her.
"You're a long way from home, aren't you?" he said, and it sounded almost gentle. But then he frowned. "Do you understand me?"
She took one breath, and then another. What harm could it do now? If they meant to kill her, she was already dead.
So she nodded.
"Will you please put the dagger down?"
She didn't want to. But even as she thought of it without moving more riders came in their midst. They spoke to each other, but it was just noise to her. A word here and there jumped out, but not much else.
She willed herself to straighten her arms at her sides. To stand tall and breathe easy, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. When he took a step towards her, immediately she took one back. He showed her his palms again, as if the absence of a weapon in them would make him less of a threat.
"Easy. My name is Theodred, son of Theoden, Second Marshall of the Mark." He waited, and then angled his head at her silence. "Will you give me your name?"
She pursed her lips, gritted her teeth. The frustration felt like a bubbling scream, and she might have let it out… if she could.
How though? How to make herself understood? How to keep herself alive?
She looked up, determined, into the eyes of Theodred, son of Theoden. Tapped her throat twice, let her hand linger there so that his eyes might see and then shook her head, so that he might understand.
His confusion was momentary. "You… cannot speak?"
She let out a long breath, a silent sob. Nodded. No, she could not.