Chapter Three
A Fear of Dark Places
Finds Unexpected Solace
The Black Stone of Erech, Gondor
April 30th of the year 3020 T.A.
Eomer hadn't known really what to think at first, when the procession of Dol Amroth had first appeared around the bend of the valley. Firefoot had shifted and pawed at the earth a little as they watched their approach, picking up on his nervous agitation. Yet the stallion had been well-trained and didn't falter much more than that, thereby betraying his rider's inner turmoil. Something Eomer was very grateful for.
He had done his best to assure himself several times over the last few weeks—with increasing frequency in the past twenty-four hours—that this Princess Lothíriel was a woman. Just a woman, no different than any other. That his meeting her would present no difficulty, that it would be no different than his meeting any other woman, and that he had no reason to feel so damned nervous and awkward about it.
Unfortunately the self-assurances weren't working, and Eomer was stunned to find himself more than a little unsettled by the sight of that small host of riders coming toward him. Hell, in that moment he suddenly felt more afraid than he had been facing down the whole Host of Mordor at the Black Gate. Which was so utterly ridiculous he couldn't even begin to put it into words.
Despite his anxiety, Eomer found himself quickly seeking her out. His intended bride wasn't very hard to spot in the press, at the front of the group astride Gyldenfax and firmly wedged between two Princes; that of Dol Amroth—her father—and Ithilien—the Lady's first cousin and his sister's husband. The closer she got the clearer—and more real—she became and his first impression of her was very different than what he'd been expecting. So much in fact that the greeting he'd prepared over the last three days got lodged somewhere in his throat and died before it was ever uttered. Instead Eomer could only stare, stunned mute.
By Béma, she was so . . . tiny.
Lord Imrahil and all three of his sons were decently sized men, if not quite as tall as himself and of a more lithe and narrow build than his own broad frame. Yet they were each of them well above six feet. Therefore he had expected Princess Lothíriel to be of similar height as Eowyn perhaps, who was around the range of five foot nine. Yet that was not the case at all. Astride Gyldenfax she looked no more than the size of a child, and he could discern that her frame would be thin and delicate even from this distance and the many layers that concealed her. No doubt the large mare felt more strain in wearing her brocaded saddle than she did the rider.
Though he had been eager to see Eomer agree to the match, Imrahil had painted no false picture of his youngest child eight months ago, in the darkened great hall of Meduseld. He had cautioned him instead to the fact that Lothíriel was not a great beauty in the like of Queen Arwen or even Eowyn. Though admittedly Eomer was to be no judge of the fairness of his own sister's face, many a man had claimed she was more than pleasing to look upon. But Imrahil had been very careful to label his daughter only "passing fair."
It was true that her face was not so attractive that it caused his breath to still and his wits to dull, and yet . . . there was certainly something singular about the female that caused him to continue to stare, unable to break free from his stupor. She wasn't ugly by any means. Rather, her countenance just seemed to be more . . . profound than anything else. Intense. One that demanded a second, even a third glance in order to take all of her in. Her eyes were very large, he could tell this even from a distance, and were by far the dominate feature of her small, heart-shaped face. They only increased the air of delicate child-like innocence that surrounded her. He couldn't tell the exact color of them just yet but Eomer strongly suspected they might be of a similar shade to her father—which was a steely silver gray. These large and luminescent eyes combined with her tiny, pert nose and a somewhat pointed chin gave the girl—for he couldn't quite bring himself to think of her as a woman—a sort of fey appearance. This more than anything else hinted to her supposed elfish and Númenorian ancestry.
Also in common with her father, the young princess was in possession of inky black hair, seeming to take on a faint bluish sheen in the bright sunlight. The mass was currently pulled back tightly and pinned in a somewhat severe binding of coils at her nape. The style only served to accent the smallness of her body and the fine-boned delicacy of her face. Though he had learned that such was the fashion of women from Gondor during his brief stay in Minas Tirith, Eomer himself didn't care for it. He much preferred the way of his own people, which was to wear their hair completely loose or at the most bound in braids. Several tendrils had begun to defy this one's stern coiffure, though, and Eomer suddenly found himself intrigued—wondering just how long her hair would be if set loose.
The party had come to a stop in front of him, then, and Eomer had felt a brief stab of terror as he realized that he still had utterly no idea of what to say. And then, Eowyn had come to his rescue in her usual, completely artless fashion.
It did his heart good to see her, and his joy was genuine when he swept her up into his arms and hugged her just as fiercely as she did him. Her arms tightened around his neck for a brief moment, then, "'Ware brother," she had murmured as they embraced, her tone teasing but strangely urgent as well. "Put away the fierce warrior and try to smile, or you will frighten the poor thing to her grave."
Her words were heard by him alone, and he was quite sure that no one else even suspected that she had spoken. When he set Eowyn down again, he only listened with half an ear to her half-hearted apology to Prince Imrahil for her interruption and breaking of protocol. Instead his eyes had turned back to his betrothed.
He witnessed a definite softening in her formerly pinched expression, a slight smile pulling at her pouting lips. Yet even as he watched, the relaxed demeanor disappeared again and she visibly tensed in the saddle. Perhaps then the ramrod-stiff seat she kept was not from distaste or disappointment as he'd first feared. Was she afraid of him, then?
Well of course she was, he amended to himself disgustedly only a moment later. He must seem a giant to her, let alone being of a country and culture that her own viewed as uncivilized and wild. What else had he expected?
"My Lord Eomer," Imrahil suddenly called, snapping the young King back out of his inner censure with a start. "It does me great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter at last." The older man motioned needlessly to the girl at his side. "I give you Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."
The barest of moments passed, heavy with his hesitant silence.
Unseen by the others through the massive folds of his ceremonial cloak, Eowyn faultlessly found the space between his armor and his hauberk and gave him a sharp, prodding jab with her bony little finger. Eomer managed not to outwardly flinch only through sheer force of will. Instead he forced his features to relax a little, and tried for a welcoming smile. He doubted he'd succeeded very well, for the Princess's expression of unease didn't relent much. Once more he inwardly cursed his lack of courtly ways. Flirting smiles and soft words did not come easy to him, if at all.
In the end, he opted for honesty. He inclined his head in a slight bow, and met her eyes squarely with his own.
"I am honored to meet you at last, Princess. Words alone cannot express the depth of my gratitude for what you have given me, of what you will give, and all that it has meant for my people. The Riders of the Mark bid you welcome, and hope that you might one day grow to love our land as much as we do ourselves."
He saw her swallow somewhat convulsively, perhaps as nervous as he was himself, then she gave him a wobbly smile that was as unconvincing as his own had been moments before. Yet her words, when they came, were dulcet in tone and soft with sincerity.
"It is I who am honored, sire, by your suit as well as your gratitude. I am glad to accept your warm welcome, and I as well hope that I will come to cherish my new home just as much as I love the one that I have left behind."
Eomer blinked, slightly taken aback. He couldn't help but silently applaud her tact, for her words were meant as much for him and his riders as they were the twenty Swan Knights surrounding her. She hadn't forgotten the pride or the emotions of her father's men, and was careful to soothe any feathers that might be ruffled at her change of loyalties.
So, for all her child-like build and innocent eyes, she was a subtle and intelligent one. Crafty without being obvious, much like her cousin. Perhaps these two had more in common than blood ties, then. This was an unexpected boon, but a welcome one indeed. Eomer himself often had no patience for court subtleties, and they existed even in his own lands. If she was as cunning as he was beginning to suspect she was, then Princess Lothíriel would make him a very fine partner indeed in the coming years.
That is, if he could ever manage to wipe away that spark of terror from her eyes.
Perhaps for now it would be best to simply move forward. They had another week or so of travel ahead of them before they reached Edoras. There wouldn't be much time for him to get to know her better during the ride, not with everyone else so close at hand and well within earshot. Yet after they arrived in Edoras, there would be time perhaps for him to get her alone and acquaint himself more personally with his future wife before he actually wed with her. And maybe from now till then he would figure out a way to soothe her anxiety, as well as his own. If he were to accomplish this feat, Eomer suspected that the kingdom of Rohan would become rich indeed in return. The halls of Meduseld would be filled once again with the grace and nobility Eomer feared it would lose now under his untutored rule.
"Then come," he announced, motioning to his riders, who at once closed ranks with razor precision. "Let us be away. Only a few hours under the mountain and you shall see your new home with your own eyes."
Eomer turned back to Firefoot and mounted quickly. The Lord of the Mark hesitated however when he saw the princess stiffen visibly in her saddle. Her color seemed to drain a little, though she said nothing, and no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. Imrahil instead issued out a few terse orders to those of his men who would be staying behind to await his return, oblivious to his youngest child's sudden discomfit. What had just spooked her so, he wondered?
Then Eomer shrugged off his unease, telling himself to stop reading so much into the girl's every twist and turn. He was going to make himself go mad if he kept it up.
His mind was taken away from his betrothed and her mysterious ways for a time, as they continued north toward the Dark Door. Eowyn brought her horse up near to his, and he found himself lost in conversation with her. She demanded to know all that had happened in Edoras since her departure last August, and he in return asked about all that had transpired with her in Ithilien that their letters had not shared. She assured him with a mischievous grin that her wedded life was bliss, and that she and Faramir were enjoying their work restoring Emyn Arnen to its former glory. Yet, for all her excited chatter, Eomer sensed a prick of suspicion.
He and his sister had always been very close. Eight months apart had not diminished that bond, and Eomer could tell that Eowyn was holding something back from him now. He didn't press her just yet, however. When they returned to Meduseld would be soon enough for him to probe deeper and find out just what it was she wasn't telling him.
Conversation grew quiet as soon as they took their first steps into the Paths of the Dead. Though the Oathbreakers no longer haunted these halls, it was still an unsettling place and more than a little discomfiting for most to go beneath the mountain. The horses especially were reluctant to enter. The Rohirric mounts were calmed with a few soothing murmurs from their riders, though the Gondorian horses took a little more firm coaxing in order to get them to enter the darkened passages. Several riders bore torches to light the way as the blackness of the underground closed around them.
Noises grew muffled and echoed, so that even the sound of a horse's sigh or a shift of a cloak seemed to grow ominous. Eomer forced the eeriness from his mind through sheer force of will tempered by several years worth of battle conditioning. And though Eowyn's face was slightly more tense than it had been, it appeared as though she did much the same.
Not all were as successful.
About two hours into their journey—half way through the passage—someone from behind him suddenly called a halt. Eomer turned in Firefoot's saddle to see what was the matter, and saw Prince Imrahil and his sons clustered around the princess. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. In the pale and flickering torch-light her face looked ghost white. Her eyes were widened to their limits, and even from his distance from her he could see that her chest was rising and falling sharply with her rapid breathing.
"Lothí?" one of her brothers, Amrothos, questioned softly at her side. She didn't respond, merely stared straight ahead at nothing and continued to breathe erratically. Gyldenfax began responding to her rider's distress, side-stepping nervously and tossing her head.
"What is the matter, Lothíriel?" another, Erchirion, demanded gently soon after.
Whatever it was causing it, her terror was building by the second. The princess soon began taking in great gasps of air, as if she were drowning.
"I . . . I can't," she gasped helplessly, fists tightening on the reins. Gyldenfax immediately reacted as she'd been trained, rearing slightly in alarm and bucking her head. Lothíriel's family members immediately and wisely backed their horses away from the larger Mearas mare. "I can't breathe!" she mewled out at last, quickly followed by a dry sob.
The warbling tremor in her soft voice and the look of cold terror on her face spurred him into action. Before Eomer even realized what he was doing, he had Firefoot wheeled about and ordered all those in his path to clear away with a sharp word.
"What is wrong with her?" he demanded, tone low but firm, doing his best not to startle Gyldenfax any more than she already was. If the mare was spooked and bolted, the princess would most certainly be gravely injured if not even killed.
"When Lothí was a small child, she accidentally got herself locked inside a large chest while playing with her brothers," Imrahil revealed at last, speaking quickly and quietly. "It made her scared of dark closed-in places for a time, but I had not realized she still suffered from this fear," he explained at Eomer's darkening expression. "She did not mention any unease in taking this path."
It was on the tip of his tongue for Eomer to snap that no one would so plainly reveal their innermost, darkest fears and that as her father it was his job to know them already. Yet he held himself in check, deciding that sharp counsel was not what was needed here. And besides, it wasn't as if he had any right to judge Imrahil's skill at parenting. He himself had witnessed her unease when he had mentioned taking the road under the mountain, and did nothing. The road left behind was always clearer than the pathes ahead, and now Eomer cursed himself for a fool to not have investigated her unease more thoroughly.
Presently, the situation was going from bad to dangerous. Gyldenfax began responding unfavorably to the amount of stress and tension in the air, especially under the stranglehold Lothíriel now held on the reins. Her dark eyes began to roll back, and with her ears flattening the great mare began to rear up, letting out a screaming whinny to warn all those around her to back away. Amrothos suddenly made to reach out for the halter, perhaps thinking to control the horse himself, but Eomer immediately snapped out for him to halt.
If anyone made a move on that horse now in a way that she would see as threatening, she would do what she had been trained from a foal to do. Lash out with her deadly hooves, clear a path and then take flight, bearing her rider away from danger. Which, in this instance, would be a death sentence for both the horse and the tiny woman astride her.
"Everyone back away!" he growled at last, and his fierce tone left no room for argument. Even Imrahil backed his horse away without a word.
"Gehebban, Gyldenfeax," he called out then, pitching his voice in such a way as to be soothing but authoritative at the same time. Though he had retrained her in Westron for her new rider, the horse was still more familiar with her native Rohirric. As he had hoped, at the sound of the words the mare responded immediately, her ears pricking forward again. "Cól, cól," he continued to murmur, easing Firefoot up along side the mare. He wrapped his stallion's reins around the horn of his saddle in preparation for what he planned to do next, using the pressure of his knees alone to keep Firefoot steady. "Átemian núna, gylden-cyninge," Eomer soothed when the stallion's sudden nearness would have upset her more. Gyldenfax pranced nervously, but stilled again, and finally showed signs of settling down. If not completely calm, she had been pulled back from the point of bolting at least.
"Loosen the reins," he then ordered of the princess. Much closer now, he could see the trickles of cold sweat on her brow and the tears glistening unshed in her huge eyes—which he then realzed were more of a bluish sea-gray rather than her father's silver steel. He could also see that her entire little body was shaking like the last leaf in a fierce autumn wind.
She didn't look at him or at anyone else, merely continued to stare ahead, trapped in her own personal hell. Lost into a place where panic and terror ruled. A seasoned veteran of some of the most horrible battlefields this Age had seen, it was not the first time Eomer had seen such a look. To see it on a woman, however, especially one so small and vulnerable, did something to him that Eomer could not name. Something in his chest squeezed almost painfully and the young King decided then and there that the sight of his future wife in agony was not something he wanted to experience or see again in the near future, if at all. He was determined now to take that look off her face by any means necessary.
When she didn't respond, he tried again. "Loosen your grip, princess."
He saw her slender throat work with the effort it took to try and force out the words, then, "I can't," she finally whispered. "I-I can't. I can't move."
"Yes you can," he contradicted, keeping his voice gentle but firm. He spoke to her as he had Gyldenfax, commanding yet soothing. "You are the master of your own fate. Do not let your fears control you. You are stronger than that, princess."
She blinked a few times, then hazarded a glance in his direction without turning her head. He kept his gaze steady, expression calm, and nodded once. "Relax your grip on the reins, Lothíriel," he ordered again, her name passing his lips almost without thought.
Finally, with obvious effort, Lothíriel slowly managed to loosen the reins enough that Eomer was able to reach over and snatch them fully out of her grasp without spooking her mare. He tossed them to Ceorl—who had approached slowly from the other side after guessing his King's intent—then reached out and scooped her up out of the saddle and into his lap, in one swift motion.
Firefoot didn't flinch, and though Gyldenfax side-stepped again, Ceorl quickly had her back under control with little effort. The tiny bundle now in his arms was another matter entirely, however.
Her whole body was wracked with violent tremors, and as soon as he touched her she began to sob uncontrollably. She didn't fight him, though he actually wished she would have. Any movement at all would have shown him some glimpse of returning spirit. What worried him more was that she simply hung in his grasp, unable to do anything more than shake and cry. As if her terror had completely broken her. For a moment Eomer was at a loss as to what he should do. Yet he had dove head-first into this however, and there was no backing out now.
Heedless to the many eyes that watched him, Eomer quickly positioned her in a more comfortable seat—with both of her legs falling down Firefoot's off side and her back braced in the circle of his left arm. He tucked her face into his chest, beneath his chin. Then he drew the edges of the voluminous cloak secured to his armor around them both, completely swallowing her whole. Beneath the shielding layers, Eomer wrapped both arms around her still-violently-trembling frame and held fast, as if he alone might hold her together. That by his hold and his will he might keep her from shattering completely from the strength of her fear.
"Close your eyes, little one," he murmured, keeping his voice the same steady and soothing rumble that he had used to soothe the horse. "Close your eyes and imagine yourself at home, safe in your bed. Far away from this evil place. This darkness is only a passing thing. It holds no power over you." He kept speaking such soothing nonsense for a short while, though he couldn't really tell at first if he was having any effect. He thought her tremors might have begun to ease, however. "That's it," he urged her gently, "match your breath to mine. Slow and easy, now."
Very slowly her trembling began to lessen. Until, at last, Eomer felt her move in away that was not a mindless shake or sob. She shifted in his old instead, showing the first signs of recovery. Eomer felt his own tension ease considerably. He then loosened his death grip on her accordingly, but did not let go entirely.
He suddenly found himself unable—or unwilling—to do so.
"My Lord?"
Eomer suddenly became aware of all those surrounding them once more. He turned to Prince Imrahil, taking in the man's slightly uncertain look. His own was unwavering.
"I suggest we press on," he announced firmly. "The sooner we're out from under the mountain the better."
Imrahil said nothing for a moment, and Eomer could tell that it was not indecision for his advice that gave him pause, but rather on the current position of his daughter. Yet after a moment he nodded, albeit slowly.
"Perhaps he should hand her to one of us, father," Elphir began, frowning. Clearly the eldest of Imrahil's son's disapproved of his sister's seat, though to Eomer it was a damned hypocritical attitude, and a little too late to take it. Given the fact that in less than two weeks time the girl would be his wife, it no business of his to interfere.
An hour ago, the woman in his arms was merely a stranger, barely a face and a name. Yet this crisis had carved out a small piece for her inside the young King, and had made his claim on her a little more real in his mind.
The Rohirrim were notoriously possessive of what they considered theirs.
Eomer gave the older man a chilly stare for his trouble, but left it to Imrahil to shake his head and deny the request.
"Lothíriel is fine where she is," the Prince announced, ignoring his heir's stark disagreement. "Let us continue, and be done with this foul place as soon as possible."
Eomer felt his little burden tense a little at her father's announcement, yet she made no real move to disentangle herself. No doubt her fear of the mountain and her lack of a desire to confront it again was the reason, yet he felt a swell of male pride just the same.
Eomer took up Firefoot's reins again with his right hand but kept his left wrapped securely around her. After a few moments, she actually seemed to snuggle closer—as close as his leather and mail would allow at least—and shifted the arm nearest to him until it was almost wrapped around his waist rather than squished between their bodies. After several minutes of silent travel, his little princess's terrible tremors had all but ceased. Moments later he felt her body loosen entirely, becoming completely lax and pliant against his chest. Eomer grinned a little in response.
Thus it was that the soon-to-be Queen of the Mark first entered her new land cuddled into the arms of her King, sound asleep.