Usual disclaimers and thanks: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.
Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.
Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.
As LadyAiredonelle's review points out, Barbarella sees the hobbits as 'short men' not as 'cute little boys'. That's because she's actually there in the battle zone, not safe in her living room. Think about it—if you were in the middle of a war, and you met two people who'd managed to escape the enemy soldiers who'd nearly killed you a couple of times—I think you'd see them as being pretty heroic.
For those who have not read The Silmarillion, Serindë's birthplace of Gondolin was a hidden Elf city that was destroyed by Morgoth in the First Age. Arguably, Serindë is the Mary Sue in this story since she is the one with the secret back story and the amazing combat abilities. But on the other hand, she isn't the main character!
Chapter 04 Girl Talk
When I next cracked open my eyelids the room was still dark, but I could see pink in the sky through Éowyn's sitting room window.
Where could Éowyn be? This was her bed, after all—I was just using the handmaiden's side.
Doing my best to ignore my aches and twinges, I pushed myself up from the pillows and shuffled to the window. There was enough light outside for me to make out the deserted courtyard below. The doors of the King's Stable were shut and nobody seemed to be moving around. It had to be nearly dawn.
Then it occurred to me that those pink streaks were in the west, not in the east. It wasn't early morning—it was nearly night. I'd slept for over twelve hours.
What could Princess Éowyn be thinking of me?
Zooming back to the darkened bedroom (and stubbing my toes twice in the process), I shucked off my dirty shift, poured the water in the bedside jug into a basin, and gave myself a quick spit-bath and hair-wash. Then I fumbled around for a clean chemise (that's what they use for lingerie in Rohan) and put it on in pitch darkness.
By that time I was too frazzled to hunt up a candle, but it occurred to me that Serindë's magic light-up mirror was still in my belt pouch. I dug it out and gave myself a good look over.
Even excluding the greenish tinge of my reflection, what the mirror showed was pretty cringe-worthy. A great big scab covered most of my chin, my hair alternated between tangled and bedraggled, and my unplucked eyebrows had turned into thick fuzzy caterpillars.
I really did look like a scullery wench!
Hastily tucking the Evenstar safely out of sight under my chemise's neckline, I ran my fingers over the wardrobe chest until I found my hairbrush, then desperately brushed and brushed and brushed, hoping that by some miracle, my hair would lie down flat and be shiny and elegant like Princess Éowyn's.
As I started on my second hundred strokes, the bedroom door opened and I was hit by the light of a candle.
"I see that you are finally awake." Éowyn had caught me primping!
Setting down the brush, I flinched and faced her. "I'm so, so sorry, Princess. I should have gotten up much earlier—I must have skipped out on a lot of work."
Éowyn looked beautiful in that white satin gown—even if I hadn't been awake to help her put it on. She set down her candle by the bedside and said, "Don't worry about it—I know how hard it is to get used to a full day in the saddle. You should have made sure that Hasufel was stabled, though, before you went off to bed. Seeing to the horse's needs is the duty of every rider."
Chastised, I answered, "I won't screw up like that again. I promise."
Dimpling up, Éowyn remarked, "Of course, you do not have to do all of this horsetending yourself. Many young Riders would be glad to do it for you."
We both knew how that one worked.
Éowyn set down a covered salver on the bedside table and said, "Oh, Barbarella, you missed the party! Théoden King held a great feast to celebrate our victory. I brought something up for you, though. It's what I thought you would like the best—dessert."
I removed the cover on top of the plate to reveal an apple dumpling drizzled with honey, and my stomach suddenly woke up. "You thought right, Éowyn."
As I devoured the dumpling, I asked curiously, "So what happened at the celebration?"
Éowyn started to pull her gown over her head, so of course I set down the plate to help her undress. But she waved me away. "I will do it, your hands are too sticky."
Which was true, since she hadn't brought me a spoon.
After removing her gown, Éowyn knelt and rummaged through the wardrobe chest to find her nightgown. "First the King and his Riders drank a toast to honor our victorious dead. Then there was a great deal more drinking. Finally Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf started a drinking contest which lasted for some time. Gimli lost—I think that Elf must have a hollow leg."
She hung up her satin gown, then sat on the bed in her chemise and watched me scarf up the dessert she'd brought. "The two halflings, Pippin and Merry, danced for us and sang a song from their homeland. It is called the Shire. Did Pippin speak of their homeland to you?"
"Not really, but I've heard of it before. It sounds like a nice place." No Internet connection, of course—but I was never going to see that again. Like the Amish villages in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania—only not as religious.
A too-innocent expression on her face, Éowyn said casually, "Lord Aragorn told me that Pippin is of noble blood among his own people. He is heir to his father the Thain and a halfling of consequence."
When I realized what she was getting at, I nearly choked on my last bite of dumpling. "Pippin and me? You've got to be kidding."
Éowyn chuckled, then got serious. "Barbarella, I have not seen you smile at a man since my cousin Théodred died. When you looked at Pippin, I saw him as you must have seen him. Truly, he is a courageous young warrior, and both handsome and kind. Although short, of course."
I hadn't considered it before, but the peaceful Shire wouldn't be such a bad place to settle down. "I suppose I could do worse—but let's face it, that Thain father of his will want Pippin to marry a nice hobbitish girl."
I don't really suppose that Éowyn meant for her suggestion to be taken seriously. After a moment of awkward silence, she put on her linen nightgown and slipped under the bedcovers. "Meduseld is quiet now, and tomorrow will be a long day. Perhaps you should come to bed and sleep, if you can."
What, after twelve hours of sack-time?
In spite of that, I took the hint and slid into my side of the bed. Éowyn snuffed out the candle and I pulled the canopy curtains half shut. One of my most important responsibilities as Éowyn's handmaiden was to listen to her talk out her problems and to give her advice when I could. For a while we lay quietly in the dark and I wondered which of her problems she wanted to talk about this time.
Eventually Éowyn spoke. "Today the King's messengers went out to assemble the Muster of Rohan. The King will soon ride to Dunharrow to meet his army, and I will go with him. My uncle will not object if I ride to Dunharrow, but you know that I must go to Gondor too, and you know why."
Yes, I most certainly did. Because Éowyn thought that my 'Second Sight' had shown me that she was destined to slay the Witch-King of Angmar.
It had not been my finest piece of advice.
As Éowyn sat up there was a rustle of bedclothes. "Barbarella, will you come with us as far as the Dunharrow encampment? It is tradition that the women of the court bid farewell there to the men."
"Of course I'm going to come with you! How could you even doubt it?"
"But you are still recovering from the ride to Isengard—and from what happened to you there. You will not find it an easy ride."
"So what? This is War."
It wasn't the ride to Dunharrow that worried me—it was the ride to Minas Tirith. Princess Éowyn would go there—but how could I? I was no rider, let alone a fighter—I could never convince King Théoden to let me tag along. But the thought of being left behind was just unbearable.
Maybe something would come up in Dunharrow.
While I was brooding, Éowyn said in a tense whisper, "I know that I must slay the Witch-King, but it seems impossible. How can a mere mortal defeat a Nazgûl?"
So this was the big problem that she wanted to talk out and get advice on. Strangely enough, I actually had some.
"I can't tell you how to do that, Éowyn—but I can tell you who to ask. Pippin and Merry. They were attacked by Black Riders while Aragorn was taking them to Rivendell. I'm sure that Aragorn did most of the fighting, but both of the hobbits are still alive, which says a lot."
Aragorn himself could have told her much more, but I didn't even bother to suggest it. The man was too stinkin' chivalrous to help Éowyn risk her life that way.
"Take counsel from the little halflings?" Éowyn's voice rose in surprise. "I would never even have considered it. Once again you have given me hope, Barbarella."
In my best prophetic voice, I intoned portentously, "As we say back home, size…matters…not."
Éowyn laughed, slid one hand onto my shoulder and promptly fell asleep. As for me, I peeked through a crack between the bedcurtains and saw that the moon had risen. After twelve-plus hours of snooze, I wasn't able to follow Éowyn's example. Besides, I had a lot to think about.
What did I really know—or think that I knew—about what we had to look forward to?
The big fight at Minas Tirith between our guys and Sauron's army would probably include every scary monster that Sauron could cast his eyeball on.
Frodo and Sam would make it to the very top of Mount Doom. Gollum would grab the Ring from Frodo and fall into the volcano, the Ring would melt in the lava, and Sauron would be destroyed.
Sure, I knew that much about the story. I knew that Rosebud was the name of the sled, too.
But I didn't know what the casualty count would be—just that the Good Guys were going to win.
For awhile I twisted and turned as I worried about what the next day would bring. But let's face it, I was exhausted and I still had a major-league sleep debt. So in the end, I did manage to log some Zs.
When I woke up, the stars were growing dim and I could see a line of pink on the eastern horizon. Dawn would come soon. Éowyn, early riser that she is, was already up and gone. As for me, if I stayed in bed any longer, I'd get bedsores. At least my backside didn't ache anymore—much.
Snapping open my elvish compact to light my way to the wardrobe chest, I rummaged inside for clean clothes. Choosing the Outfit of the Day was easy-after everything that had happened at Helm's Deep I had only one gown left! It was made from soft linen the color of spring leaves thrown into a vat and boiled—which was probably how it had been dyed. But it was comfortable and it looked pretty on me.
I dressed quickly, grabbed a couple of winter apples from the sideboard, and snuck downstairs to the still-empty Great Hall. Most of the people in Meduseld were asleep, but I had an errand that needed to be carried out at the earliest opportunity.
Unlatching a side door, I stepped outside and scurried across the dusty courtyard to the King's Stable. The King's Stable doesn't have big stone towers like the Golden Hall but its tall, wood-ribbed walls are definitely imposing, and it's one of the largest buildings in all of Edoras.
The great doors of the King's Stable were closed but not bolted, so I was able to push one aside. A lighted lantern hung next to the doorway so I could see down the shadowy rows of stalls. The ceiling was high and vaulted, as if the place was some kind of equine cathedral, and the stall doors and roof pillars were carved with the symbols of Rohan. Except for the occasional nickering of sleepy horses, the stable was quiet.
An elderly man in peasant's clothing was slowly pushing a barrowload of manure toward me down the center aisle. He finally wheeled his loaded barrow up to me and parked it by the door. "I am Swebert, night stableman in the King's Stable. What are you doing here so early in the morning, Barbarella?"
I'd never heard of Swebert, but he sure knew me. I had to be picking up some notorious street cred in Edoras.
I held up one of the apples I'd brought. "This is for Hasufel, the horse I rode to Isengard."
Swebert squinted at me skeptically, as if wondering whether I could be trusted so close to a warhorse in his stable. Eventually he raised one gnarled hand and pointed down the aisle. "Fourth stall to the left. There's a pine tree symbol carved over the stall. Don't open the stall door, he might kick."
I grabbed a lantern and carefully touched its candle to the one in the lantern by the door, then walked down the aisle to find Hasufel. It was lucky that Swebert had mentioned the pine tree, because it wasn't easy to see over the tall wooden half-doors into the stalls.
When I reached his stall, my noble steed crowded right up to the door and glared at me. Hasufel could always intimidate me. He was a heavy warhorse, wide-backed and fierce, and he had pale blue wall-eyes, too, so his glare seemed almost supernatural.
Setting down the lantern, I gingerly held my apple over the half-door. "Hi Hasufel, I brought you a present."
Hasufel vacuumed up the apple with one flick of his lips and crunched it down with those big teeth of his. Then the big grey gelding stared at me accusingly with those scary blue eyes until I broke down and muttered, "Okay, right. The other apple was for me but you can have it."
Hasufel slurped up the second apple in a nanosecond and I stepped back hastily, feeling like I'd just been strip-searched. Then I headed out, stopping by the tack room to pick up a pair of saddlebags. I knew I'd have to pack clothing for Éowyn as well as for myself. She wouldn't bother to think about the girly stuff.
By the time I got outside I could see the courtyard by the dawn's early light. Many of the serving-folk were already hurrying to work in the Golden Hall.
My next stop was the wash house of Meduseld, where I'd been imprisoned while awaiting trial for slaying the King's Counsellor. That wash house is where I'd first met Aragorn, and it was there that he'd figured out how to keep me from being executed for killing Gríma Wormtongue.
It was in self defense, I swear it!
As I'd expected, the washerwomen were already hard at work—removing clothes from wicker baskets and sorting them, scrubbing out the stone wash troughs, and pouring water into the copper cauldron over the firepit. I schlepped over the damp concrete floor to where the head washerwoman, Bronwyn, was lighting a fire under the cauldron.
"When did the rest of you get back to Edoras?"
Bronwyn straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. She's a big beefy woman with a square face, sandy hair, and muscular freckled arms. She's also the mother of Breca and Freca, two of 'Barbarella's Kids', the boys who'd served under me at Helm's Deep and before. "Not long before you did—just long enough to put the little ones into bed and start bread rising. We all heard about what happened at Isengard. Did the Wizard Saruman really try to kill you with his sorcery?"
I laughed shakily. "He would have succeeded too, if Princess Éowyn hadn't been so brave. But Rohan won't have to worry about Saruman anymore—he's dead now. Look, I need to ask you something. Did anyone give the washerwomen the gown that I—that I was wearing the night I killed Gríma?"
The reason for this question was practical—if horrible. Gríma had bled all over me that night. If my dress hadn't been washed fairly quickly I didn't need to find it—it was useless.
Bronwyn nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes, I kept it for you. It had to be dyed, though—some of the bloodstains would not come out."
She trotted off and returned with a wicker washbasket. When she unfolded my dress, I saw that it had gone from buttercup-yellow to a dark reddish brown.
I hated to think about the reason why.
"Thanks. Is there any chance you could find me a spare tunic and trousers? The kind my boys wear?"
The trip to Isengard would have been bad enough without having to tuck, tuck, tuck, all the time. Riding a long distance in a skirt is unspeakable—I didn't intend to do it again.
While Bronwyn was finding me some castoff boy's clothes, I put the blood-colored dress in a stringbag and wrapped up a hunk of laundry soap to take along. Trust me—travel dirt doesn't just fall off.
By the time I returned to the Golden Hall it was midmorning. At the Great Door I was confronted with a pitiful sight. Captain Háma had been sorely wounded during the evacuation to Helm's Deep. He had resumed his duties as Doorwarden of Meduseld, but he was carrying out those duties sitting on a wooden stool. With an embroidered cushion on it.
Haleth's Dad still managed to look indomitable, although very pale and weak. He looked up at me (an unusual occurrence for him) and grumbled, "Guthrun the Healer says that I should not stand at my post until I regain my strength. I care not for that, but my son found me a chair and insists that I sit on it."
Haleth, son of Háma, was one of my kids, so I backed him up as a matter of course. "That sounds like good sense. You should save your strength for the bad guys."
No sooner did I finish saying that than the Great Door opened and Haleth appeared—carrying a brass pan piled with slices of smelly fried liver. By then I was so hungry that even liver looked good to me. Almost.
"Here is your breakfast, Father," Haleth said. "Guthrun says you should eat liver to build up your blood."
Without thinking, I blurted out, "Oh, yuck, I hate liver."
Háma made a face, but took the pan anyway. "So do I." He picked up the slices with his fingers and began to eat, all the while scanning the courtyard and the surrounding countryside.
Haleth grinned at me behind his father's back and we both retreated into the Great Hall. Meduseld had finally woken up to a busy day—warriors in battlegear were constantly passing us. As soon as we were out of Háma's earshot I said, "Okay, where can we get some real food?"
Haleth took me to the kitchen, where we sweet-talked the cooks out of venison sausage, hardboiled eggs, and bread slathered with apple butter. Then we picked out a couple of chairs in an alcove and sat down to eat and scheme.
My first question was, "What was happening while I had my nose in Éowyn's pillows?"
According to Haleth, quite a lot. The King's messengers had been sent out to announce the Muster of Rohan to all the Lords of the Holds. Théoden had instructed the Lords to send to Dunharrow not only all of their Riders, but any additional warhorses that they had available. The King would have to mount over five hundred elven archers, or the Elves of Lothlórien would never arrive in Minas Tirith in time to fight.
I suddenly felt scared. Was the King going to take away Hasufel? How could I accompany Princess Éowyn if I didn't have a horse to ride?
Haleth interrupted my spiral of dithering with a question of his own. "Barbarella, I need your advice. As you know, my cousin Alfwine and I have both turned thirteen. We are men now, yet Prince Éomer refuses to take us with him to Dunharrow. What shall we do?"
I was Haleth's captain, in a manner of speaking, so I gave his question my most serious consideration. And my considered answer was, "Look, you've already proven yourselves. Barbarella's Kids saved many lives at the Battle of Helm's Deep—the King himself said so. I know you both want to fight, but I think that you and Alfwine should stay here with your Dad and hold the fort until the King returns. The Riders are all going to Gondor, so Edoras will have no one but you and the footmen to protect it."
"All right, we will do as you say," Haleth agreed grudgingly. I'm sure he would have given me an argument if I hadn't brought up the footmen. I'd been playing dirty—most of the footmen were Northern Cousins, a clan with Dunlending roots that had claimed Gríma Wormtongue as its foremost favorite son. For a boy of Haleth's bloodline, counting on Gríma's kin to defend Edoras was simply unthinkable.
After this was settled, we went back to the kitchen. I bagged what was left of the granola I'd made for the trek to Helm's Deep, and Haleth found a mug and spoon to replace the ones I'd ditched when we'd fled from the orcs. By the time I'd packed my stuff in the saddlebags, we were hearing the sound of horns in the courtyard.