Chapter 3
That night, thunder rolled over the Riddermark.
The air was heavy with the tension of the storm, so that it almost felt like one could not breathe; but the tempest brought no rain to relieve the atmosphere. It was the perfect setting for nightmares and other strange visions, though usually Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, would not be haunted by the phantoms of the night. Often he collapsed in his bed so late that he was just too tired to have dreams. Tonight he dreamt of blood and screams – which, he later thought, was doubtlessly but an echo of some battle in his past.
He startled awake as thunder roared – directly over his hall, it sounded like. He was gasping for air, but it did not seem to bring any relief even as it filled his lungs. Cold sweat covered his limbs and somehow in his sleep, he had managed to imprison himself inside his sheets. In the urgent moment before his mind cleared, he fought to free himself of the tightly wrapped fabric, and by some primal instinct his hand sought for the hilt of the dagger he had hidden under his pillow.
But as the dream fell away, Éomer remembered he was in his own house, and in his own bed. There were no enemies here, except what nightmares might conjure. His breath calmed and he laid down his knife, but his mind remained uneasy.
It's just the storm, he thought as he sat up, wiping perspiration from his brow. He would be riding out tomorrow with his men to patrol the borderlands, and he'd do well to get as much rest as he could. But apparently tonight, the darker currents of his mind had a different plan.
Hair at the back of his neck and on his arms stood up, anticipating the strike before it came. Then lightning did come and it bathed his bedchamber in white, brilliant light. With warrior's instinct Éomer knew he was not alone before he even saw her, and sharply he turned to look at the door.
She stood there staring at him, her lips moving though he could not hear her voice. She was perhaps slightly taller than average and her night gown, only a few shades paler than her skin, hid a slender figure. Her long hair, darker than night's shadows, fell freely down her white shoulders. Though there was distress on her oval-shaped face, Éomer thought her mouth was more prone to smile than to sneer, and even in this brightness he could see the light of her glance. In his eyes, she was fair as a dream might be.
"Help me", was the silent words on her lips, or so he thought at least, and then darkness fell. When Éomer rushed to the door, his hands blindly grasping before him to reach her, she was already gone.
The day after they had crossed Mering Stream greeted them with drizzle, the kind which seeped into the very bones of the travellers, and which seemed to dampen the brilliant green grass of late April. Eager to get going as fast as possible, with the hopes of perhaps finding some settlement and shelter tonight, the company started early on.
The weather and its effect also robbed the first sight of the green plains of the beauty sunlight would likely have given this place, and so they did not spend long to take in the landscape of Rohan. Lothíriel kept gazing ahead in the hopes of spotting riders or perhaps the horses this land was so famous for, but the borderlands were quiet and empty. In this damp silence, Lothíriel's mind turned back to the way they had come, and she thought of her family in Dol Amroth. She imagined her brothers would have heard of her disappearance by now, and her heart ached when she thought of what they were going through. At least to her, to think of losing a member of family, seemed like a nightmare. She could only hope they would not be too hard on their father.
Rain continued as they rode on. It had its effect on her mood, drawing her thoughts to loved ones who were far, and that was probably she did not sense the shift in atmosphere – she just thought the rest of the company, horses included, were dismayed by rain. She at least had some difficulty keeping her gelding calm, and glancing around she could see others' horses were uneasy as well. But when Sergeant Celon and Aradol began to murmur between themselves, too close for Lothíriel not to hear it, she felt perhaps something else was amiss. Frowning to herself, she urged her horse to ride near the leader of her guard.
"Is something wrong, Sergeant?" she inquired him and pulled her hood deeper on her head to keep away the rain.
"The horses have grown uneasy. I think they're smelling something", he said warily, looking like he was deliberating if he should speak or not.
"Smelling what?" she wanted to know, holding tighter to her reins.
"My lady", Sergeant Celon spoke, his voice very grave, "I believe we are being hunted."
Lothíriel didn't need more explanation than that. She knew exactly what kind of a hunter would be out here in these borderlands, never mind the rain, and unnerve the horses in this fashion. She had never seen such creatures in her life, but she had grown up listening to scary stories about them, and she knew exactly how dangerous the situation was if the Sergeant were right.
"What do you think we should do?" she asked in a strained voice, trying to fight the freezing feeling of being afraid. Her hand crept to the bow she had packed just in case, though she had hoped it wouldn't be needed; while she was not a warrior, Lothiriel could draw a bow and even hit her target. Even so, she knew battle was another thing entirely than leisurely sending arrows at an unmoving object.
The look on the face of the leader of her guards spoke in volumes. Though he was accompanied by four other knights, all of whom were capable fighters, their numbers were not enough to pursue combat – to engage in a battle would be incredibly foolish.
"We must ride fast", Celon said, his voice hard and loud, "and pray to Elbereth that Rohirrim may be near."
As they raced deeper into the realm of horselords, rain began to fall harder, wrapping the landscape in a thick grey veil. This did not help with the anxiety growing in all their hearts: in this weather, they would not see their pursuers before it was too late. Still, Lothíriel kept glancing back over her shoulder, peering into the grey rain so intently that she was almost certain dark shapes were approaching from afar. But she told herself her uneasy mind was just making her see things, even if there were something vile and horrible after their company.
Sergeant Celon kept rising up on his stirrups to scan the road before them, though it was hard when they could not see far ahead, and she knew he was hoping to catch a glimpse of patrolling horsemen. But who knew how where the Rohirric riders might be at this time? Borderlands were a wide and wild place, full of danger. Perhaps their swords were more needed somewhere else, protecting the lives of the people inhabiting this land.
"Those creatures daring to set foot on the Great West Road... it's an ill sign, I tell you", she heard Thangan muttering to Bandir behind her as afternoon progressed; though they were in great need, they had no choice but save the horses, and so they had switched to light gallop for the time being.
"It might not mean anything, Thangan. Maybe they caught our scent in the borderlands and decided to pursue", Bandir said in an attempt to keep up the spirits.
"It doesn't matter what happened. If the Enemy cuts the road to our allies, then we are in a very serious trouble", Thangan growled darkly.
"Not as long as Rohirrim guard these lands", Gaelon put in heatedly. Trust him to have faith in Gondor's allies even in this uncertain hour!
"But they can't be everywhere at once, can they? And the Enemy has enough blades at his disposal that it's more or less the same thing", Thangan told him, and even the young Swan Knight with his carefree view could not counter those words. He lowered his eyes and frowned, while his hand crept to the hilt of his sword.
"Shut it, you three", Celon spoke suddenly, his voice sharp and stern, and it was the first time during this journey he was using such a tone. When Lothíriel glanced at the man, he was not able to turn his eyes away from her, and she realised he was hoping not to make her worry. While she could appreciate his concern, Lothíriel kept to herself it was all too late for it.
The afternoon turned towards evening, and with it the unease of the horses seemed to become outright terror. No calming word of Sindarin helped them for long now, and on the faces of knights around her, Lothíriel could see grim certainty growing. Having watched it for the entire afternoon, she was not terribly surprised when Sergeant Celon lead his horse next to hers, his face a mask of determination.
"My lady", he addressed to her, his voice much softer than one would have expected in this situation, "I do not yet know how this day will end, but of one thing I am certain. That is you must survive today, so that you may continue your journey to the town of Marshal Éomund."
She looked at the man in disbelief, for she could already see the meaning behind his statement. For why else would he approach him now, on this moment?
"You can't purpose to sacrifice yourself for me, Celon!" she said quickly, glaring at him.
"Lady Princess, I vowed to your father that I would keep you safe. My honour and duty binds me to do whatever necessary to ensure that you remain unharmed", he said steadily, and judging by his expression he thought this the most natural course of action in the world. Solemnly he continued, "My lady, we do not know yet if things should go so ill as to threaten all our lives. However, I must know what ever happens, you will not try to do anything rash, and that you will remember your father."
At those words, she lowered her eyes and bit her lip. How she wished she could argue with the good sergeant! And yet she knew how it was. Father had sent her on this road with good faith, and she knew exactly how much pain and grief it would cause to him if she somehow got hurt. In fact, he was sure to hold himself responsible for it. Suddenly, she felt desperately angry at herself: she should have realised what a foolish plan this was!
"My lady, do you promise to keep on going, no matter what happens?" Celon asked her. Though she knew the reason for his insistence, his voice was gentle.
"I promise", she said, her voice not much stronger than a whisper. Somehow the faithful knight was able to smile.
"Thank you, Lady Lothíriel", he said, and to her it seemed he relaxed slightly in his saddle. But she felt only more troubled, thinking of what he had just made her promise: that she should overlook the lives of her knights in favour of her own!
Two hours before nightfall, Celon had them stopping next to a steep hill. Looking around herself, Lothíriel could see they were all tired, horses included. However, the five knights all looked fiercely determined, like no shadow could frighten them. Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, she wished she could be just as brave as them, even against chances so uncertain.
"Lads", Celon spoke up, "my lady. I believe it is time for us to face the inevitable. We know what's after us, and we also know at this point there's no escaping it. Our horses are not going to last for much longer and there is no sign of any villages where we might find shelter and help. Also, with the night coming our chances grow even smaller, because in the cover of darkness orcs grow stronger. In my opinion, our only choice is to meet these animals and give them what they deserve while we still have daylight on our side."
The other guards muttered in quiet agreement, glancing between each other grimly.
"Also, it is to give the Lady Princess a chance of making it to safety. We swore her father we would shield her, and that is what we shall do", Celon continued, but before he could say more, Lothíriel interjected.
"You can't ask me to just ride away and leave you behind", she said sharply. "I will not have it! I can't let you sacrifice yourselves for me!"
"My lady -" Fairion tried, but she didn't let him go on.
"I can help you – I have my bow, and I can shoot. My brothers tell me I'm pretty good", she hurriedly pointed out. If they were lucky, her arrows might just be the thing to make the difference.
"It's true – I've seen her at the training grounds", Gaelon added, and she cast a thankful look at the young knight.
"Lady Princess, I cannot let you participate in a battle. It's far too dangerous", Celon said heavily.
"I don't have to barge into the thickness of it. I can stay behind and cover you", Lothiriel countered him, at which Gaelon nodded eagerly. But the sergeant narrowed his eyes.
"And you would promise to stay behind? To flee if the battle goes ill?" he asked her and in his voice, there was a demanding tone.
"... yes", she allowed, sensing it was the only way he would let her help. And truthfully, she was not as mad as to try and ride into the fray. While she could handle a bow, having a sword in her hands would probably just result in hurting herself rather than any opponent.
Sergeant Celon sighed, looking ten years older than he actually was, "Normally, I wouldn't let a first-timer participate. But seems like I don't have a choice now... perhaps your bow will help us today. Still, I expect you will not endanger yourself in any way, my lady."
"Of course", she quickly affirmed, holding on tight to her bow. She could do this – she had to, if she wanted to survive with her knights.
The sergeant shook his head as if to rid himself of some unpleasant thought, and then he straightened in his saddle, growing taller in the process. In the fashion of a true leader, he began to give orders to his men and outlining his plan. They would use the benefit of the high ground, and Lothíriel would stay behind them; she would provide cover with the bow, but she would stay away from the fight and flee if necessary. Celon decided they would not be splitting up, not before they knew how many creatures were after them – they might need all five knights to fight in order to make a difference. However, if the force against them was moderately small, then Gaelon would take her and they would ride as fast as they could, to seek for help and shelter. The plan stood on too many ifs and maybes, but in this situation it was the best they could do. As Lothíriel took her position on the hilltop, where she could command the road, and secured her bow and the vine by her side, she felt a stone grow on her heart. It was nothing like she had felt so far, and she had already thought to have known fear and uncertainty. She desperately wished this could have been but a nightmare, born of the strain of the road.
And the creatures that reached them not half an hour later were certainly fit for black dreams. They came bearing no sign of wearing down, as though they were driven by sleepless malice that did not need rest to go on. She counted twenty and five of them and her heart sunk: the odds of this battle were not good, and Celon would need each man he had to fight. Perhaps, if she could just hit enough of them...
"Hold still! Fear no darkness!" the sergeant's voice rose, clear as a ray of moon in the night. It heartened her as well and her hands were steadier as she lifted the bow. I'm at the training grounds of Father's palace, she thought to herself, I have a clear shot and Amrothos is giving me advice. I can do this. I must do this.
Orcs swarmed closer, their terrible voices ringing in what sounded like war cries, and Lothíriel had no desire to know what was the content of those shouts.
"Fire at will!" Sergeant Celon bellowed and at his command, she released the arrow she had placed on her brow. Lothiriel did not know which one was more surprised when it hit: herself or the orc that now sported an arrow in its forehead. Though she might try to encourage herself with memories of home, this was nothing like shooting arrows on the training grounds of the barracks back in Dol Amroth, and she certainly had not expected the rush flowing through her veins. However, while she might have hit one orc, her success did not halt their charge in the slightest.
"For Dol Amroth!" cried her guards, and then they were riding down the hillside to meet the enemy, their swords ready to drink orcish blood. With trembling hands, Lothíriel lifted another arrow on her bow and took aim, but this time she only hit one orc's shoulder, and judging by how it kept going, the arrow probably hadn't even reached flesh under the scraps of armour.
For a moment it looked like Lothíriel and her knights might actually prevail against the orcs. The explosive charge on horseback down the hillside had the orcs in dismay as sword met sword, and Lothíriel's arrows rained here and there, but perhaps she had been right to think some inhuman malice was driving their enemy. For the orcs closed in around the knights like a deadly noose, until her guards were fighting for their lives rather than to conduct an assault. Celon shouted something over the noise of battle, and Gaelon fought to disengage – Lothíriel realised the sergeant had ordered him to get to her and ride away as quickly as they could.
But poor, brave Gaelon never reached her. Lothíriel had just about second to see the orc with the spear, and she cried out in warning. However, it was too late. Pierced by a short spear, Gaelon fell from the saddle, his smiling face frozen into a look of terror, and the shout died on her lips.
Tears blinded her eyes and she lifted her bow again and sent arrows flying, not even knowing if she hit anything; one by one she saw her brave knights fall and vanish from her sight, until only Celon was left.
Lothíriel could see the exact moment he gave up. He turned and sought her eyes. Then, as she watched in despair and horror, he mouthed "Flee", not even trying to get his voice over the loathsome voices of the enemies around him.
He was pulled down from the saddle, and then she saw him no more.
When the morning came, it was bright and brilliant as a bride on her wedding day. Rain clouds had been wiped completely away from the face of the sky and the green of the great plains seemed more lush than anything Lothíriel had ever seen in her life. Two days before, she would have marvelled at the beauty of this northern land, felt thankful for having the chance to witness it.
However, last night she had seen five good men die, and so even the most beautiful morning would seem bleak when she awoke the day after the battle against orcs.
In tears, she had fled the site of the slaughter; though all in her had screamed not to leave her brave knights, her reason had guided her from that terrible place – it was too late to help them, and she knew they would never wish her to join them. She had to flee, not only to honour Celon's dying wish but also knowing five men had died to save her. Still, it had caused her pain like a knife stabbing in her heart over and over again, and she had raced away sobbing in despair and agony unlike any she had ever known before. Though herself and her horse were both weary, the animal had seemed to find one more resource of speed and endurance, and Lothíriel guessed the horse's instinctual fear of orcs was the reason for the mad flight away from battle.
By the time her gelding slowed down and stopped, night had been falling already, and both the horse and the rider were too exhausted to continue or to care whether there were more orcs chasing them or not. So, in misery she had laid down on the ground and shadow had come to her, and Lothíriel had felt she would not have risen even if the orcs had circled her. Why they never pursued her she did not know – maybe her horse had carried her far and fast enough, or perhaps they did not care about her when they had brought down five men.
As light grew and the night passed, Lothíriel returned to the waking world. She would have gladly remained in the dark dreamless sleep, and as she struggled to sit up in the narrow dale between two hills, she felt more afraid and alone than ever in her life – and she was, because all her life she had been surrounded by people, and now the only living thing near her was her horse. Oh, what would she give if only she could have her father here! To toss herself in his arms and let him carry her fears... but he was countless leagues away, she was alone, and all she wanted to lay down again and never wake up.
But even as she sat there shivering and despairing, she could not forget what had happened only yesterday. She thought of her brave knights charging against the orcs, shouting their war cries as they went. She lived now only because of their sacrifice, and Lothíriel realised: she owed it to them to get up and keep going. For if she gave up now, they would have died for nothing.
With trembling fingers, she was able to find a handkerchief in her purse. There she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, determined to let these be the only sign of her weakness – even if the only witness was the sky above her.
To keep on going was not so easy, though, as she saw quickly enough. For Lothíriel did not feel particularly hungry, but her reason spoke she should eat something, and so she dug through her saddlebag. She found a piece of cram – waybread made to last lengthy journeys such as this – and some dried meat and reminded herself she needed to eat if she wanted to keep up her strength. However, the taste of food was particularly foul in her mouth and quickly the task of eating became a hardship. Lothíriel closed her eyes and courageously tried to chew on, but bile rose in her throat, and then she was throwing up.
Once all was out, she washed her mouth with deep sips of water from her flagon and decided it was not a good idea to eat now. She would do that later... well, what ever later would be.
While she was painfully aware of what she needed to do, it still took a while for Lothíriel to hearten herself into moving. At the time the sun was climbing higher towards the zenith, she finally mounted her horse and looked ahead. She had got herself well and truly lost, as last night she had not exactly been paying attention to where she was going. She had been too desperate to just get away, and in the process she had ended up in the middle of the green Rohirric plains, perhaps far from the Great West Road. The rolling hills expanded to every direction, wide and unknown as the very sky itself.
This could have driven her into a frantic state of mind, hadn't she remembered an important thing about her maps: the White Mountains were south to the Great West Road. So, as long as she kept the mountains to her left, she would be going roughly to the right direction. If she were lucky, she might even find the road again at some point. Surely she was bound to come across some village or other settlement sooner or later, and then she could ask for directions, perhaps even someone to escort her to Aldburg... the gold she had in her purse should take care of that.
She rode. Minutes and hours were lost in her riding as she sought the path west, to the lands of the horselords. At times, she would sing to encourage herself, but eventually her voice would die weak and pathetic, and the silence would be all the more deafening; in the wind, she thought she could still hear the cries of her knights as they died.
As night came, she stopped again in one dale, half convinced this green country had no living inhabitants. Yet in the morning she went on again to seek shelter, or at least one other person – she feared she might go mad if she did not find someone of her own race soon. Food still tasted ill in her mouth, and though she was able to force down some nutrition, she still felt like the deed somehow defied the fates of her knights.
Maybe it was this grief, dulling her mind and blinding her eyes, that drove her to the path that took her out of the frying pan and into the fire, for on the third day of her lonely wandering she rode into a bog.
Lothíriel had read there were fens in Rohan, but she had not realised it took a keen observant eye to see them, or that one should be more careful when travelling the plains of the Mark. In her defence, she was making the way without the guidance of a clear mind: grief was still plaguing hers when she accidentally rode her horse into a bog.
She realised it when her steed's legs suddenly sunk into the ground. It came so suddenly, for she had been riding in a haze, her mind in a places far away from this field. So the bog only entered her mind when he poor gelding stepped in it, sinking into the moist depths. Lothíriel cried out as she felt the mount falling into the bog, her hands grabbing for any guarantee of life. As her gelding sank, her only safeguard was the long green grass, by which she pulled herself on the ground. She sobbed as she felt the ground beneath her and she turned, her shivering hands grabbing at her horse's reins. The poor animal was shrinking and shrieking as he tried to claw his way back to steady ground, and she did what she could to pull him there, but she did not have the strength to pull the poor animal through...
"No! Please no!" she was sobbing when the panicked thing sunk, and his terror was her terror, but it was all in vain, and before her eyes the poor horse went under with one last shriek of terror.
Lothíriel lingered by the bog for what felt like hours, tears streaming down her face. She had no desire to go on, but as the wind rose and she felt cold in her damp, stinking clothes, she knew moving was the best way to get warm again. Yet what purpose it would serve, when her horse, all her supplies and even her bow had disappeared into the fen? How was she to survive now, when she had no means to defend or feed herself?
But then she thought of her brave knights once more and how they had ridden to their death, fearless against their terrible fate. She had resolved she'd go on, if only for them... and she owed it to them that even now when her situation was growing so hopeless. Gritting her teeth, Lothíriel struggled to stand up, though her legs were weak, and she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. The salt burned in her hands, covered in bog-filth and chafed from trying to pull her horse on dry land. She could only imagine how she looked now: a dirt-covered ghost of the Princess of Dol Amroth.
She breathed deeply and took a step, and then another, now minding carefully where she lay her feet. The first steps were more difficult than she could ever have said, but it got easier as she kept going and life and warmth returned to her shivering limbs. West, she thought, I must keep going west.
Arms wrapped about her middle-section, Lothíriel walked. Her thoughts ran frantically, from the sight of her horse sinking under to her knights falling, and at last to her dear, dear father. Oh, how horrified he would have been to know where this road had taken her! What madness had possessed them to try this road when it had only held misfortune and death?
She continued her dismal journey until nightfall, at which time her feet were heavy as stone and her heart sick with all the misfortune she had faced. As the sun set in the west, she knew there was no reason in going on – most likely she'd just get even more lost in the darkness. So, when she found a small dale and a narrow stream there, she decided it was as good as any. Handfuls of cold water did not do much for the pangs of her empty stomach, but at least she was able to wash her hands and face of the bog-dirt. Fresh water stung her chafed hands, and with a grimace she ripped some fabric from her shift; she wrapped the pieces around her sore hands. At least her cloak had dried somewhat, and she might not freeze during the night as she had feared.
Then, as the first stars were lit in the sky, she curled up under her still damp cloak, shivering as the cold crept on her. If she had thought before she had never felt more alone and scared, it had nothing against the blackness of her mind at this moment.
O Elbereth, send me a guiding light...
Morning came after what seemed like an endless night. Lothíriel had not slept much, for each small noise of the night had startled her, making her think orcs were near. She couldn't get comfortable on the ground and the cold air had seemed to seep into her very bones while her belly kept growling louder and louder, demanding for some nourishment. So, she was glad for the dawn and its light.
After drinking some water and washing her face again, she continued her hopeless journey, mindful of keeping the snow-clad mountains to her left. She went on more careful now, as she had no wish to drown in a bog like her poor gelding. Thinking of the animal's fate, her heart twisted. He had been a good mount, sweet-tempered and faithful. She could only wonder how her heart could still bear all this grief and pain, instead of growing numb and weary.
It was in this desperate hour that her luck turned. For as she made way, stumbling more than walking, a distant sound of thunder came to her. Only, it occurred to her it was not any making of the weather, unless such element now raged in the very earth. Then she heard the horses, and in sudden burst of hope Lothíriel sprang forward. Horsemen! Rohirrim were here!
She ran, her weary feet strong again with the hope, heading for the top of the hill where she might see the riders and call to them...
However, she never got that far, for then a figure of horseman appeared at the top of the hill, almost as suddenly as he once had in the brilliance of a lighting. With a gasp, Lothíriel fell down, her feet giving out in surprise and dread, and she gazed up at the rider before her. For a moment, she was sure her eyes were tricking her, or she had strayed into some strange dream... because the man before her was one she had seen before. She would have remembered this face anywhere, even though she had only glimpsed it for the briefest second.
The great grey warhorse, his hooves pawing at air, and the man riding him... broad armoured shoulders, a flash of blond hair, the tall gleaming spear, and a white horsetail flying in the wind... Lothíriel gasped and fell backwards, her hands shooting up to protect herself from the inevitable fate of being trampled by a horse, but she never felt the hooves of the horse coming into contact with her body.
He spoke sharply in what she guessed was his own tongue, but she could not answer either in Sindarin or Westron. Her voice had failed her on this moment when she desperately needed help; instead, she remained on the ground, staring at him with wide eyes. Surely he'd vanish any moment now, disappear like he had that night, and she would be left wondering if her the stress and grief had tipped her sanity off balance...
That moment, more riders appeared, emerging on the hilltop to flank the man with the horsetail helmet. There were dozens of them, tall men with bearded faces and long blond hair falling on their shoulders, and she could only gape at this vision before her. Father had said Rohirrim were quite different from their allies in south, but nothing he had said could have prepared her for this moment – the very wildness they breathed. She gasped softly as many bright eyes fell on her, and one of the horsemen even had his spear at ready, as though he was seconds away from pinning her into the ground. Lothíriel sunk closer to the ground, covering her head with her arms. Breath caught in her throat and the only sound she was able to produce was a pathetic little whimper.
Voices began to talk, speaking in that strange northern tongue, and the still working part of her terrified mind wondered if they were trying to decide how to kill her. But then one voice rose above the others, deep and strong and clear – the voice of a man who knows how to command. Others fell silent and there was the sound of feet falling on the ground and metal clinking, but she didn't dare to raise her head to see what was happening.
Suddenly, a pair of greaved feet stopped to stand before her, and she saw them from between her crossed arms. Stupidly she stared at the red-brown leather and metallic engravings. Though she could see they were well-looked after, they had seen use and many battles. Before she could think of this more, he lowered himself on one knee before her, and warily Lothíriel lifted her eyes to see the face of the man from her dream.
He had taken off his helmet, which made him look slightly less threatening. Long blond hair framed his face, which now seemed softer and gentler. Carefully he offered her his hand, and he spoke in Westron, "Are you injured, lass?"
For one reason or the other, she could not answer. Her voice had utterly failed her, and all she could was just stare at this man she had taken for a phantom of dream; yet there he was before her as real as the sun. She searched his face frantically, wondering if he recognised her too... but she could not read his expression at all. The keen, intense burning of his eyes could mean anything.
The lack of an answer made him frown and one of his companions said something, which had the man half turning his head. He answered in their tongue, his voice hard now. Then he looked at her again and his expression softened once more. He reached his hand closer to her and she flinched in alarm. He stopped and his gloved fingers hovered in the air some inches from her arm.
"Don't be frightened. I will not hurt you", he said gently. Lothíriel swallowed and again met his eyes, which were dark as a night in the woods of her home, and she saw a great warmth revealed in them. Abruptly she felt she could trust this man, even with her life if it came to such a dire situation. Perhaps that was what the dream had meant – just to tell her that once he came along, she should not be afraid. So, without a further thought, she placed her hand in his own, feeling its strength even through his leather glove.
A small smile touched his face and the expression made him comely – in a bearded, rugged way, unlike the cleanly shaven, refined lords of Gondor. He rose up on his feet and pulled at her hand to raise her as well, but her legs would not support her, and she fell as soon as she was standing. But he quickly caught her and lifted her in his arms. Lothíriel's heart picked up speed, her head too confused to make sense of the frantic flow of emotions. And yet... she was starting to feel like she was safe at last.
"Lass, where did you come from? Did you get lost?" he asked her, but still she couldn't answer. What could she tell him, anyway? Her knights were gone, and so was her disguise. Should she declare herself or stick to the tale she and her father had invented? What would this man do then? Maybe he'd wish to be rid of her and send her back to Gondor, straight into the hands of her uncle...
"Is she mute?" asked one of the riders, and she was glad they were now using a language she could understand.
"I don't know. Perhaps she doesn't know the Common Tongue... we will find out. In any case I'm not going to just leave her here", said the man who was holding her. He called for his horse and the stallion trotted next to him. He lifted her on the animal's back and in surprise, she grabbed some of the steed's mane to stay in balance.
"Is that wise, my lord? She could be a spy from Dunland", said the other rider, raising some agreeing mutters among the rest of the company. Lothíriel quickly looked at the tall man, whom she now knew was the leader of these horsemen, and he answered her gaze steadily. Something moved in those dark eyes, making her wonder if he did recognise her... but she could not tell. All she could do was to place her fate in his hands at this moment.
"No... no, I don't think she's a spy", he said at length and mounted the horse to sit behind her. In one hand he gathered the reins and the other he wrapped about her midsection, to keep her steady on the back of the steed. He looked around his men, some of whom looked bewildered and doubtful. He spoke again, "We ride until nightfall."
But if his men were bewildered, so was Lothíriel herself, too. And yet, though the events had made an unexpected twist, she felt this was indeed a turning point... and whatever would happen next, she was secure as long as the man from her dream was near.
At the time of sunset, the company stopped in a dell by a small stream. With efficiency and precision that marked them as professional soldiers, the horsemen prepared a camp for the night: fires were lit, horses were cared for, and supper was started. Their leader managed them with quiet authority, and as she watched him, Lothíriel felt more and more assured that she could at least trust him with her life, if not with the truth.
Their ride through the green plains had given her some time to calm down and think of what she should tell them. She had decided truth was out of the question, and any mention of Gondor would be ill-advised, at least as long as she didn't know where she stood with these people. It was unlikely the story of some lost princess would have reached the ears of these men, but if it ever did, she did not want anyone thinking of her. However, she knew she could not pass as a woman of Rohan: her appearance did not fit in at all and she did not know their language. Perhaps surprisingly, it was the words of one of the riders which gave her the idea. He had suggested she was a spy from Dunland, and Lothíriel decided the smartest thing she could do was to use this presumption. From the scrolls and books she had read, she knew Dunlendings were a people who lived west of Rohan, though they would have rather taken the green land of horselords for themselves. Some of them lived even as far as Bree in the north, and Bree came very near to the ruins of the lost kingdom of Arnor. And there wild lands of the deserted realm still lived a scattered people not unlike her own... Dúnedain of the North whose eyes were grey as the sea. Best part was, though she had to lie, she could also spin some truth into her tale.
So, when she was sat down by a camp fire and a mug of hot tea was pushed into her hand, she felt a bit better. Her and Father's plan may yet be salvaged, the sacrifice of her knights appreciated, though she had a feeling it would not be easy.
Lothíriel was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts of her reformed story that she did not notice the tall rider stopping next to her. She startled and nearly spilled her tea, but his calming voice soothed her. It was odd to look at this man and see how precisely he matched her dream, and she had to wonder: what power had brought him as a vision to her? Why had he been there in her chamber, unless as a herald of fate? The frustrating thing was, even back home there had been no one she could have spoken of this, no one who could have made sense of her night-time vision. Best of times, she had taken it for a dream and in the worst, she had wondered if she were mad. But now he was before her eyes and she didn't know what she should think.
"Have peace. All is well and you are safe", he said softly and sat down next to her. He was not alone, for another man squatted next to him, and both their eyes were on her.
"I am named Éomer, son of Éomund. I am the Third Marshal of the Riddermark and the men you see around us are my riders. This is Éothain, my second in command", he started, making her look up sharply. Son of Éomund? Yes, she was having some luck here. He looked at her keenly, "What is your name, lass?"
"... Daerien, my lord", she whispered, surprised that she was able to make sound. It was weak, though, in the verge of breaking and falling right back in to silence. The two men glanced at each other, but their expressions did not reveal their thoughts, not to her at least.
"And how did you come to be here, Daerien? Where did you come from?" asked the Marshal as he looked back at her.
"I... I rode from the west. I was seeking passage to Gondor, but I got lost, and my horse... I rode into a fen", she said, her tongue stiff from being alone with no one to talk to for what felt like such a long time.
"So you come from Dunland?" he inquired, but his question made his captain scoff in doubt.
"I don't think she looks like them", he muttered, but his lord glared at him and said some Rohirric word that sounded like a reprimand.
"My mother was from the north", Lothíriel said, and the suspicious look on the captain's face softened. She hoped it was a sign he was starting to believe her – or at least entertaining the idea of doing so.
"She was of the Dúnedain?" the Marshal asked, and she nodded quietly. He regarded her for a while before making another question: "What made you leave your home, Daerien?"
Lothíriel swallowed hard before speaking, "There was... I couldn't stay there. I had to flee. My uncle was going to..."
This hit all too close to home and her voice died. Struggling against the tears, she wrapped her fingers tight about her tea. In a tiny voice, she stammered, "He wanted me to marry someone horrible. I couldn't agree to it."
Once more the two men glanced at each other. Whatever they thought of her fleeing from this fate, it did not show on their faces – perhaps it was inconsequential in their eyes altogether, which wouldn't have surprised her at all. These were men of war, and they faced far more terrible things in their daily lives.
The Marshal cleared his throat and looked at her once more.
"I see. You have suffered much as of late, and it is my duty to help those in need. I do not have men or horses to spare, so I suggest you travel with us for the time being. Once you have rested and recovered from your ordeals, you may continue you journey, if that is your wish", he said, and even as he spoke he undid the clasp of his cloak. To her surprise, he set it next to her. "Eat and then get some sleep. We are not going to ride before the dawn."
"My lord, your cloak -" she started, but Marshal Éomer shook his head, smiling slightly.
"Keep it. Nights here on the plains can be chilly", he merely said and stood up.
Lothíriel looked at him in silence. There he stood, looking at her with warmth in his eyes, and she felt safe. For the first time in many, many days, she felt well and truly secure, and the simple kindness he had shown to her was like balm to a sickened heart. If Éomund was at all like his son, then she could understand perfectly well why Father trusted him still. Marshal Éomer had found her, he had picked her up when her own feet would not carry her, and now she had a promise of shelter and refuge because of him. She felt so thankful she nearly burst in tears right here on the spot, but she was able to keep her calm. Instead, she smiled at the horselord.
"Thank you, my lord", she simply said and bowed her head to show her respect.
After finishing her tea and eating some hot stew, which tasted glorious after going without food for so long, she curled up under the green cloak. Though the smell of wind and horses was unfamiliar to her, it was comforting like a mother's embrace. Surrounded by the tall riders, who were alert even as they sat down to eat and talk, she knew no danger could get to her... and tonight, she could sleep peacefully.
A/N: First, there was some wine, and then there was inspiration, and in the end I sat up half the night typing away. No one is surprised, yes?
With a curious mixture of bad and good luck, Lothíriel is now moderately safe, though her future in Rohan remains an open question. Éomer has also made his formal appearance - though I must admit that when I was editing this chapter, I realised the part in the beginning with his dream of Lothíriel should have taken place at the end of the last chapter. But alas, some ideas occur too late! I'll see if we can get inside his head in the next chapter. :)
I hope you are having a great weekend, my dear readers, and if you got time, please let me know what you think!
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
quickreader93 - I can only hope that feeling will persist! :)
Cathael - Glad to hear you liked it! :)
Rachetg - She is indeed having pretty hard time, knowing her brothers are likely grieving her and having to watch her guards die like that. But at least now she is somewhat safe with Éomer's riders.
As for what will happen now and how she will find safe haven in Rohan, that will have to wait for the time being!
Wondereye - I must admit I was anxious to get her to meet Éomer. I am quite hopeless. :D
Solar1 - Thank you! :)
itricky - That both delights me and scares me! Because I'm now afraid I will disappoint you at some point. But I will try to keep things interesting!
Unfortunately, this is the end of her knights - though I did not get to fleshing out their characters so much, I admit I was rather sad to have to kill them. However, it was necessary for the story.
sailor68 - Thanks! :)
EugeniaVictoria - Happy to hear you enjoyed it! Hopefully I succeeded with pacing out this chapter, too, although lots of things are happening here. And also I hope you liked his first meeting with Lothíriel. It's from her eyes for now, but maybe we'll get to see his side of thing soon.