In the distance, white waves broke wildly against the cliffs of her ancestral home. The sea was untamed, even menacing; yet to her, it was calming. She delighted in the crash of each wave. It was enchanting. Lothíriel sat on the sand, wet by the endless caress of the sea waters. She felt herself sink in it every time a wave dissipated at her feet. She loved that feeling. It was as if she was becoming one with the shore.
Incessantly, she wondered if she could sail as far as the horizon reached. She wondered if she would be missed, if she did. She wondered if she would spend her life wondering instead of living.
The sun was falling. A golden light was sparkling in the ocean and the skies above were dancing in hues of blue and rose. It was time to return, she knew. To walk back to the marbled stone walls of a stalwart castle, unmoving, unwavering.
She stood coated with sand. It clung to her as if the sea was unwilling to let her go. She was both glad and saddened. There was safety at home; safety, but not much else. Her maid was already calling to her. She could hear her protests; more because she knew what she was saying rather than because she could hear her voice in the distance. The protests were always the same. Her actions were unacceptable. Her dress was ruined. Her tardiness was uncourteous. Her lack of escort, unsafe. There was no room in the maid's protests for her windswept hair, carrying the permeating scent of the ocean in it.
She was reaching the stone steps that led to the top of the cliff where the fortress stood, beaming proudly in the setting sun. Her feet were sandy and wet, and when she slipped on the second step, slick with the remains of the waves that reached it, her maid was there to steady her. The old woman grabbed her by the hand.
In that single moment, her life changed.
Before her eyes she saw her maid, lifeless. Her body was cold and pale. It was a natural passing, but the sorrow ached deep in her heart nonetheless.
Lothíriel shook her hand away in terror. She could not believe her eyes. Her maid asked her if she was distressed. She could make no reply. How was she alive when she had just seen her dead? The thoughts haunted her every breath, but not for long. On the second day of her torment her maid was found, cold and pale. Lifeless. Whatever terror Lothíriel felt before paled in comparison to the realization of the events that transpired. She knew her life would never be the same. The safety of her marbled castle did not ease the wild waves of her mind.
Lothíriel opened her eyes, yet she had not awakened from a dream. She simply dreamt of an ever-present memory.
The sky was dark above her. Stars shone palely, and a small, crescent moon showered the plains below in a dim silver light. When had she fallen asleep? Embers were all that was left of the campfire. She rose to sit as she did before the sun had set and her memory began to return. She had enjoyed the company of the riders around her, but their voices had lulled her to sleep. She must have been tired. She could not recall their conversations.
Carefully, she studied her surroundings. The moonlight did not reveal much. But it, coupled with the sound of a whetstone at work on a spear head, made her realize she was not alone. Across the dying embers sat the female rider at whom she had marveled the day before. When she stopped her rhythmic work, Lothíriel realized she had been staring. She quickly turned her gaze away. She should be more careful.
"I am Ildelith." The woman said, and offered Lothíriel a gentle smile.
"My name is Sílrien," Lothíriel tried to return the smile, but she could not ignore the sinking, burning feeling in her stomach. It was the price of her every lie. Would she grow used to it? She would hate herself if that burning ever ceased.
"So I have heard," Ildelith said, and her smile grew broad. "We know your name. What we do not know is to whom the name belongs. We have all been wondering. It has been the talk of the night." She resumed her work on her spear and continued, "Several theories have been hatched regarding the matter." She looked at Lothíriel, gauging her reaction.
Lothíriel tried to breathe naturally. She knew this would happen.
"Really? What have they been saying?" She tried to mask her nerves with nonchalance.
"Well, the younger lads swear you are an elf. Of course, they have never laid eyes on one, but we let them think so." She started, amused. "Many think you are a spy, but none seem able to name those for whom you are spying. We tell them that for a spy, you are not subtle." She emphasized the last word. "Others, like me, think you are highborn. But we only think so because only a lady who is used to men obeying her would ever speak to Éothain the way you did on the plains." At this, she chuckled. "Yet the wisest among us told us it was none of our business. We are far less boring than they." Éothain. She recalled the clear call from her vision. It was a name. And it belonged to the commander she met on the fields. Have I foreseen his death?
"Éothain? Who is he?" She asked, cautiously.
Ildelith pointed over to the distance behind Lothíriel with the tip of her spear. There was the man, engrossed in a conversation with a shieldmaiden.
"He is the Captain of the western éored." Lothíriel's confusion was apparent. "The Captain is the marshal's first Rider. His command is second only to the Lord Marshal's, and he is sworn to take up his banner if the marshal himself is injured, missing or dead, until Théoden King appoints a new Third Marshal to command the land and armies of the East of Rohan.
"I see." Lothíriel nodded in understanding. "Is he a good man?" She wondered out loud. He had seemed cold and distant to her on the plains, yet she now feared for him. She was certain. The one clear word in her vision was his name.
"Indeed." Ildelith answered proudly. "He is an example to us all. He rose through the ranks of the Rohirrim because of his skill with sword and spear, and not because of his heritage. He and the marshal were childhood friends, and for a time we thought they would become brothers, as Lady Éowyn, the marshal's sister, was smitten with him. Some say he returned her feelings, but it was known that his humble ancestry would never allow him to pursue her, even if he conquered every rank within his reach. Lady Éowyn is, after all, the only lady with King's blood in Rohan."
"Rohan has no queen?" Lothíriel asked, surprised.
"Not for years, no. And the King himself had only one son, Théodred Prince. As his cousin, Lady Éowyn acts as the Lady of Edoras, and of Rohan, really." Ildelith mused.
"And Lord Éothain, is he a good leader?" She asked.
"A good leader and a good warrior. He has bested Éomer Marshal in single combat, and he in turn is the only one who has been known to defeat Théodred Prince in a swordfight, whose skills are the words of legend."
Lothíriel considered Ildelith's words for some moments. Rohan must pride itself in their leaders being renowned warriors. Did they not value diplomacy and wisdom as much as Amrothians did in her father? He was foremost praised as a commander and military strategist rather than as a swordsman.
"I admit, it is strange to me to see a maiden in mail armor. I gather this is the norm in these lands?" Lothíriel hoped the shieldmaiden would not be offended by her thoughts.
"It is a deep tradition, reaching the youngest days of our people." She explained. "There are some women among the éored of Rohan, yet many who desire to become shieldmaidens do not do so."
"Why not?"
"For various reasons. First, they must train vigorously from a very young age, as any young lad does. Our skills must match theirs equally. Not every lass is encouraged to pick up a sword and shield as soon as they are able. Then, Riders do not marry shieldmaidens. They want their wives to bear them sons and daughters, and a shieldmaiden may not bear children. Fathers want their daughters to marry the King's Riders, an honorable rank, and so only second or third daughters tend to become shieldmaidens, or else those who were only expected to marry a farmer or a smith."
Lothíriel's undaunted interest in her explanation ushered her to go on. "Besides that, to be granted the rank of shieldmaiden, you must best a male Rider in single combat. Their strength, experience, and endurance usually proves to be too much for them, especially for those who began their training late in their childhoods. It is challenging, but it is also a great honor to receive the rank of shieldmaiden." She looked at Lothíriel firmly. "But enough about us. Tell me about you. Who are you, truly?"
"I am a diplomat's daughter from Gondor." Her answer was mechanical. Would Ildelith know she was insincere? "My father sent me to hide in Rohan while he negotiates peace treaties with dangerous enemies. Gondor has been under attack by corsairs and tribesmen in service of the East and the amount and frequency of these attacks have only increased as of late. They are not honorable people. I am my father's only daughter, and before he gave them a chance to take advantage of that fact, he requested the Lord Marshal to hide me until negotiations are completed."
It pained her to lie about her father. She truly was his only daughter. What would he think of her now, if he knew what she had done? How long would it be before he realized Boromir had continued his journey without her? What would he do if he learned she was missing? Would he call every banner sworn under his command to raze the land until he found her, alive or dead? Or would he think her dead and mourn her while she yet lived?
"A diplomat, huh? I guess Áwerian was right. He made you for a noblewoman. He was the most adamant among us."
"At least I am not a spy." Lothíriel tried to smile warmly.
"Aren't diplomats just courteous spies, though?" Lothíriel did not know whether she meant to be humorous, or whether those were her true thoughts. Upon seeing Lothíriel's confused expression, Ildelith began to laugh wildly and warmly; the sound made Lothíriel's tension fade from her muscles. Will I ever understand these people?
As they laughed, the night grew darker. Surely, the dawn was near. A cold breeze chilled Lothíriel's bones and she shivered.
"Are you cold?" Ildelith asked, amused and concerned at the same time.
"Are you not?" Lothíriel answered, colder than she had intended, while she tightened her arms around her chest.
"No, I guess not. Winters in this land are much worse than this. Even the first snow has not yet fallen."
"It grows colder than this? How do you live?" She asked to the amusement of the shieldmaiden.
Ildelith thought about it. "There is a saying in Rohan: hit sy inna dréora. It means something like "it lies in our blood". It means that we were made to withstand and endure. I suppose that includes a bit of cold weather."
Hit sy inna dréora. Lothíriel pondered at the words. There was such power in the language of the horselords. Its sound was like its meaning: strong and enduring. Lothíriel smiled. She thought of what might be in her own ancestral blood.
The sea sailed in her veins. A burning desire for freedom; to explore and experience the vast endlessness of the world. The steady wind on a silver sail, and the fiery hue of a setting sun on crystalline waters, ever rising, ever setting, everlasting. She remembered sailing under a dotted sky, each star a bright memory of her childhood. She knew them all by name. She rose her eyes to the dark sky above her. Even as far away from home as she was, she was warmed by the sight of the stars she knew, only slightly different. The sight gave her hope. She would endure.
Lothíriel lowered her gaze to the ground and remained deep in thought. It was then that she realized her saddlebag had been placed next to her, along with her bow and quiver full of arrows. She looked at the items quizzically. Had she forgotten their presence there, too, along with the conversations during supper?
"Éothain came while you slept. He meant to return those to you but found you asleep and decided against waking you." Lothíriel nodded slowly. She picked up the bow and traced her fingers through the intricate carvings of the elven design. The bow and quiver had been a gift from the house of the elven lord Elrond upon her departure from his domain.
"Have you any skill with it?" A voice near her asked. She knew to whom the voice belong, as it comforted her in ways she did not yet understand. Yet it also alarmed her. Its effect on her was nearly paradoxical.
"Not as much as I would like, my lord." She replied and turned her head to meet his eyes. She rose to her feet, then bowed her head. He gently took the bow from her hands and ran his fingers through it. He raised it and tested the strength of the string.
"A fine weapon." He assessed. "Have you ever faced a battle?" He asked her.
Why is he asking these things? "No, I have not." He grew concerned. He asked her to walk with him, to her own surprise. Lothíriel excused herself from Ildelith's presence and did as the Marshal bade her.
As they walked, she noticed the grounds around them. The campsite was in remarkably low ground. She knew there were open plains beyond them but they were not visible from their position. There was a thicket of trees to the west and hills to the east. On the north side a tall rock wall ran the length of her vision and only in segments did it allow passage to the plains above them. Nothing was visible on the south side. There, more hills extended, some greater than others, and any sight of the plains below was shielded from view by the earth itself.
"At dawn, a band of orcs will attack us." Éomer stated casually, to Lothíriel's growing concern. He noticed how she froze at his words, and continued, "You need not fear. We have been expecting them. My Riders are prepared." She looked around them. Horses were stabled, including her sand mare; warriors were sleeping, while others were chatting. They hardly seemed prepared.
"How are you certain of their attack?" She asked him while he resumed walking.
"They have been tracking us for three days. They know of our patrols through the farms and villages in the Eastfold, and became aware of us as we left the last outpost." He explained, "Since then, I divided my company. A group stayed behind in Stánweall, to defend it in case the orcs change course. Another I sent ahead to Aldburg for the same reason. I then brought my best swordsmen and women with me to lure them away from our farms and villages and bring an end to their excursion."
"If you know they are coming, would it not be wiser to move your company to higher ground? This area is indefensible. There is no escape through the north side, while your position would be known to anyone for miles to the south and east. Not to mention the lack of visibility through the trees on the west. From there even an amateur scout would watch us with the ability of a seasoned rogue."
He could not help but smile at her words. She has the mind of a campaign strategist, he mused. Surely she is the daughter of a commander of war. "Yes, I know." He said simply. Infuriatingly. Then, she realized what he had done. "You... we are the bait."
"Aye." He said.
"You have made your company's position as vulnerable as possible... to lure the orcs with the idea of certain victory, which in turn will encourage them to attack."
He nodded.
"Are you so confident in your warriors that you purposefully made your position indefensible?"
"These are the best fighters in the Eastfold."
"Are you so certain you would stake their lives on it?" There is that challenge in her voice again. It is as if it takes her a conscious effort to treat me as a lord.
"So would they. They are eager for the battle."
She frowned, at a loss for words.
He chuckled, "You think me reckless."
You are being reckless, she thought. It is not likely to be both ambushed and victorious. Her father would never plan a battle in this way. Neither would Elphir, her eldest brother, whose passion was as militaristic as any man of Rohan's. But she was not home, she thought. And she had entirely forgotten her place. "Forgive me, my lord. I mean no offense."
"Nor am I offended. I know it is unorthodox. But trust me, I have not gone mad." At least not on this matter. Yet he had trusted her, against all advice; a woman whose true name he did not know.
Trust him. She did trust him. Her cousin Boromir trusted him enough to send her into his care.
"The scouts returned an hour ago." He continued, more seriously. They had reached the western edge of the campsite by now. "The pack is around eighty orcs strong. They will attack from the south side around dawn."
Lothíriel was visibly uneasy. He noticed it and stopped walking. He looked straight into her eyes when he spoke. "You need not fear." He assured her once more. "You are among great warriors. We will keep you safe." Lothíriel nodded, as it was all that she could do. "But, I do need you to stay here when the battle has begun. A group of Riders will guard the west end of the camp, making sure none of the beasts make for the shelter of the forest once they realize they have marched towards death. They have orders to ensure your safety as well. This will be the farthest point from the heat of the battle."
You will not give your name to those who will sacrifice everything for you, she remembered his words and a sinking feeling took over her insides. "Thank you." It was all she could say to him. Even after hiding herself from him, he sought to keep her safe. He was a man of his word. It was no wonder Boromir had sought him. She knew when her cousin came back, he and the marshal would become friends. In ways, they were very much alike.
He gave her one last, long look and nodded confidently, then took his leave of her. Afterwards, the night and the natural darkness that came with it lingered around her, as did the cold. She returned to the camp in search of her weapon, but found the area devoid of the sleeping figures from before. The men, Ildelith among them, were wide awake and roamed through the camp, focused on various tasks. They were readying themselves for battle.
She grabbed her elven bow and reached the western edge of the camp. There, she rested against the cold stone. She sat and held her knees close to her chest. She tried to steady her breathing and forget a battle was imminent. That she should ride through peril only to reach a war camp was not a possibility she had considered. She thought she would be warm and safe in a rustic, charming city by now.
She tried to sleep, and was able to for a while.
Then she heard the roar of a battle horn. It grumbled deeply and its sound echoed through the air like thunder. It was sounded once, long and steady, then twice more in short succession. It bore the alarm of battle.
Lothíriel tried to still the beating of her anxious heart, to no avail. The Riders' focus was bent on the approaching beasts, but she could not shake from her mind the sight of Éomer, stained with blood black as night, calling frantically the name of his friend and captain.
Two other horns answered in unison, from the center and far end of the encampment. The Rohirrim were ready for iron and blood.
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading and for the reviews you have written! I suppose this chapter has answered one reviewer's questions. To the others, you are most welcome. And to all the others who have read, followed, and favorited, I hope you like this chapter and that I have not disappointed!
