AN: This is a short sequel to my fic The Shieldmaiden of the North but I hope it makes sense to anyone who hasn't read that story. Enjoy!
The young prince of Rohan climbed the sentry tower and peered across the Plains. His hazel eyes fell upon the herd of mearas cantering across the grass in the distance and his heart twisted in fear. One of them was meant for him but which one?
A pair of boots thumped across the boards of the tower behind him.
"Stop worrying, he will find you. You just need to have faith," his father said, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. He didn't answer. "Elfwine," his father added, a more stern note to his voice. "You must stop this incessant moping. It's affecting your training and your mother has noticed. I don't want her worrying about you on top of everything else."
"Yes, Father," Elfwine said obediently.
They paused for a moment, the two of them enjoying the morning sun. Éomer looked out across the Plains.
"That's odd, we weren't expecting him for a few more months," he said to himself and left his son. Elfwine peered at the Rider approaching the city. He grinned when he saw the familiar dark hair and scrambled after his father to greet the new arrival.
"Hail, Éomer King!" the newcomer called in his strange rolling accent as his horse trotted into the courtyard in front of Meduseld.
"Greetings to you, Cahal!" Éomer called back. "We weren't expecting you so early in the year. Has something happened?"
"No, sire. But something is going to happen," Cahal said as he dismounted. "My brother will be turning eighteen shortly and he will come into his birthright as Lord of the Wold. Mother asked me to ride to you to request that he takes his Oaths in the Golden Hall."
Éomer's brow furrowed. "Yes, I don't see why not," he said slowly. "But why your younger brother? I always assumed your mother meant for you to take the Lordship."
"I'm not Mother's child by blood," Cahal grinned. "I couldn't be Lord even if I wanted to; you know how much of a stickler we are for tradition and protocol in the North, sire. There is no way that Mother could convince our people to accept me as Lord."
Elfwine listened to this exchange with some confusion. He was aware that Cahal's mother was from one of the ancestral lordships although he had never seen the woman in his life. He knew that Cahal had a younger brother because he often told stories of their adventures together but he had assumed that as the elder, Cahal would be the one to inherit the lordship. Yet here he was, four and twenty years of age and freely giving the power to his eighteen year old brother!
"If that is what your mother wishes, I don't see why not. Do you require an escort?" Father was asking as they climbed the steps of Meduseld.
"Oh no. There will only be eight of us and after all, six of us are warriors. Anything we meet shall be more than a match for anything that wishes to attack us!" Cahal said cheerfully. "Besides, nowt much in Rohan will attack a party of five men and three women any longer!"
Elfwine halted as he followed them. Only five men? How could they possibly have six warriors?
What strange people the Northerners must be.
Some months later, a small party rode the long distance from the Fortress down to Edoras.
As they caught the first glimpse of the city in the distance, the woman leading them was jerked from her thoughts by the voice of her eldest son.
"Mother?"
She turned to look at him and smiled. He brought his own horse alongside hers and gave her a concerned look.
"Mother, are you well? You seem to have become more withdrawn the closer we get to Edoras," he asked. She returned his gaze. From the bright blue eyes that they both shared, many assumed that they were blood. In reality, he was just an orphan she had adopted.
"I am merely worried, that is all, Cahal," she said.
"What do you have to be worried about?" he asked.
"It is nearly nineteen years since I saw the King. Times were different then. There was a war, we were young and foolish. We are different people now."
"Is that all?"
"No. I... I'm worried about what he will think of Eadric."
They turned in their saddles to look at her only blood child. Eighteen years old, he rode his horse with a carefree arrogance that reminded her of herself at that age, his golden hair streaming in the wind.
"He is going to be the Lord. He will take both the Oath of the Riders and the Lord's Oath in the Golden Hall. In times of need he will be required to sit upon the Council. All this responsibility was his before he was even born and now he has to accept it without question. The King knows this but I don't think he understands it," she said.
"I think it is more than that," her other son said. He leaned closer to his mother. "The King is Eadric's father, isn't he?" he asked and saw in her panicked glance all the truth he needed.
"No-one can know, Cahal. Promise me that you will not breathe a word, even to Eadric," she hissed.
"Yes, Mother. I promise," he said. She relaxed and blew out a shaky breath.
"Now we just have the other problem," she said and they turned to look at her.
"You should have just left her at the Fortress," Cahal said grumpily, turning forwards again.
"And we both know that would never happen," his mother replied.
Queen Lothíriel was in a thoughtful mood. She had always been intrigued by the mysterious Lady Ailith, one of the two Shieldmaidens of Rohan. She had not been present at Lothíriel and Éomer's wedding, nor at the presentation of Elfwine and their other children to the court, instead spending all of her time at her home in the North. Occasionally a Rider by the name of Cahal came to give reports. Yet her husband and her sister-in-law spoke very highly of her, as did some of the veteran Riders. Others did not speak so highly of her.
As she swept through her home and joined her husband and family on the steps of Meduseld, her mind turned to this unknown woman and the three entities presented to the Queen.
The first was Ailith the Shieldmaiden. Despite the undeniably feminine nature of the other Shieldmaiden, Ailith somehow conjured up a decidedly masculine and fearsome woman who ruled the Northern provinces of Rohan with an iron fist. A woman who was never seen without her armour or weapons and who rode into battle with confidence and pride.
The second was Ailith the Healer. A kindly matron who, if the stories were to be believed, gave her all to her patients and strived for a whole night to attempt to prevent the death of Prince Théodred.
The third was the woman that was spoken of with great disdain. Ailith, the Mother of Bastards. A coy woman who ensnared lonely men. A woman of few morals.
The woman who led the party was not any of these personifications. She was not some strange hulking figure with a build to rival Éomer's but a woman whose slight build was discernible even under her armour. Her face was not openly inviting nor warm but instead had an odd almost regal quality. The thin scar above her brow and the handful of white hairs coming through at her temples did not so much detract from her appearance as enhance it. She was neither beautiful nor particularly plain. Average at most.
She dismounted and bowed respectfully. Her companions did the same.
"Lady Ailith, welcome back to Meduseld," Éomer said formally. She inclined her head again.
"It is good to be back," she said warmly. "And my greetings to you, my Queen, I am sorry that so many years have passed without our meeting."
Lothíriel nodded quickly, a bit thrown. She hadn't expected to be addressed so openly. She saw Ailith's eyes slide over her children and she fought the urge to gather them to her like a mother hen.
"Your birth place is very beautiful. I had the privilege of visiting Dol Amroth on my travels," Ailith continued and then glanced over her shoulder at her seven companions waiting behind her patiently.
"Éomer, you already know my adopted son Cahal as my envoy. And you remember my Captains, Folcred and Grimfast?"
The grizzled veteran who, to Lothíriel, looked like every other veteran in the Golden Hall jerked his head respectfully in their direction, as did the hulking Beorning.
"Folcred's daughter, Ailith," Ailith continued a little sheepishly. The girl who bore her name smiled prettily and bobbed a curtsey from where she stood close to her father.
"And Beleg!" the other man added. Ailith shut her eyes.
"Of course, how could I forget," she said drily. "My cousin Beleg, my companion on my travels and kin to King Elessar through his father's blood."
The Dúnadan winked roguishly at the Queen and one of the young Princesses behind her giggled nervously. Her chuckles were instantly quelled by a glance from her mother.
"And finally we have my son and heir, Eadric," Ailith said. She stretched out a hand behind her and her son stepped forward to face the Royal couple.
Lothíriel had the strange sensation of falling backwards. The lad was undeniably handsome and stood a good few inches above his mother. His golden hair could be from any man in the Riddermark but she only knew of two who shared his strong and confident hazel gaze. The man who stood beside her and her own son.
Her eyes met Ailith's and she saw the fear shrouded in those bright blue eyes. Oh yes, she knew exactly who had fathered her child.
"A fine son," Éomer approved and she turned her head to look at him. Nothing. Not a spark of recognition. The fool, she fumed. He could not see what was right in front of him if it ran up and screamed in his face.
"That is only seven," she said with feigned courtesy. "I was informed that your party was eight in total."
A flash of surprise flittered across Ailith's eyes and then her face twisted into open worry.
"Please," she said. "Don't react badly. I know there is some bad blood between our people but she is innocent in that whole ugly affair."
She turned and said something in a strange, harsh tongue. A slight figure slipped between Grimfast and Folcred and approached them nervously. A pair of gloved hands pushed the hood of her cloak back and small gasps echoed through the watching crowd.
The straight black hair; the clever, dark eyes; the skin tanned by generations under the desert sun. The girl before them was Haradic. And the Rohirric campaign to pacify Harad had cost many lives and caused a deep enmity between the two races.
She bobbed a curtsey to the King and Queen, her eyes flicking nervously between them and Ailith.
"My, you are a pretty one," Lothíriel said diplomatically. "What are you doing so far from your country?"
She bit her lip, her glance towards Ailith plaintive. Ailith nodded encouragingly.
"Tell them, Sabirah," she said.
"Rohan is my country now," Sabirah told the Queen in perfect but slightly accented Rohirric.
"You do not want to return to your country of birth?" Lothíriel said. Sabirah shook her head, her eyes wide in shock, and then said the worst thing she could possibly ever say. The one thing Ailith had been hoping she would never say.
"Oh, no! A good slave never runs from her mistress!"
I could really use some names for the Princesses, even though they are not going to really be featured, so if anyone wants to name them then feel free. :D Thanks for reading, the next chapter should be up soon.