LOVE! Rohirrim Style
Chapter 09
How many bottles of what on the where?
Imrahil looked up from the contracts he was trying to complete before lunch to see his clerk come in yet again. Without taking his face from his left fist, he held out his right hand and waited for the man to leave. He looked at the seal, recognizing it to be one of the clothiers his daughter was using. With a sigh, he sat up and lifted the large and ever growing pile on his desk and shoved it to the bottom.
...~~~...
It was vaguely reminiscent of when Théoden called the Muster of Rohan up for the war.
Perhaps not. There were not so many; the other Marshal's and their captains and high-ranking éoreds and it was a much happier occasion. Banners were flying, the hearty smells of cooking meat and stews and fresh caffe.
"…noswillthistime…"
"Sire?" Gamling could hear Éomer muttering.
"I said Éowyn is not here, so there should be no swill this time."
"Ah."
Éomer glanced at the supply wagons and hustle at the base of the mountain. "The tone is much different than the last time we were here."
Gamling nodded.
"Of course, you have happy memories of this place. Your daughter was conceived here."
Gamling smiled, obviously lost in pleasant reminiscence.
"Perhaps the magic of the mountain will come again for the two of you and this time Aefre will conceive a horse-lordlet. Of course, another shield maiden would be welcome."
Gamling's head bobbed, staring at the dark recess to the entrance of the Dwimorberg.
The next thing he knew, Éomer's fingers were snapping in front of his face. "Gamling!"
"Sire?"
"A copper for your thoughts?"
Gamling shrugged. "I am looking forward to some quality time-"
*Uninterrupted swingfromtherafters monkeysex!*
"-with Aefre."
Éomer smiled. "Missing your little one?"
"Aye."
"You said she was fine when you left her with your mother."
"Aye." This time Aefre answered. "However she is used to our comings and goings, but we are always back within a few hours at most." She smiled. "I hope she slept well last night."
Gamling reached out and grasped her hand. "She is fine. My mother and my family will spoil her rotten." They continued riding that way, slowly making their way towards Dunharrow.
They went up the winding path, nodding to those they knew. As they neared the top, they heard shouting, bellowing-
"Ah, Beornia is here."
"GET BACK HERE, YOU LAZY GOOD FOR NOTHING LOUT! I TOLD YOU TO PACK THIS SADDLEBAG PROPERLY AND YOU HAVE SLUNG THINGS IN AS HAPHAZARDLY AS IF YOU WERE A DUNLINDING! GET YOUR MISERABLE ARSE OVER HERE OR I SHALL PACK YOU IN IT AS WELL! BÉMA'S BALLS! YOU ARE AS WORTHLESS AS WORMTONGUE'S WORMPRICK!"
Both men grimaced. Aefre cringed. "That is not Beornia!"
"Apparently, she has company."
"Ah! I thought I recognized the dulcet musical sounds of Elfhelm's wife." Gamling smiled. He leaned over to his wife. "Have I told you lately, how much I love you?"
At that moment, Elfhelm came from around a tent, took one look at who his wife – who in all honesty, was a stunning woman – was yelling at and made a beeline towards the king.
"Éomer, King! 'Tis good to see you!" He took a hold of Firefoot's bridle as the king dismounted. "Looking forward to your day of doom?" He leaned forward. "You can still get out of it, you know. We will let tell that you were lost in the caverns of the Dwimorberg, ne'er to be seen again."
Éomer's feet hit the ground and he took Firefoot's lead. "I believe I shall be fine."
"Are you sure?" Elfhelm's wife's voice hit a particularly screeching high pitch, causing all to shudder. "There are three rings in marriage. The betrothal ring, the wedding ring and then the suffering."
"Who is she yelling at?" Aefre asked. "I feel sorry for the poor lad."
"Fyren's eldest, Fugol."
"Oh. Never mind." Fyren had been a loathsome Rider, not liked or particularly mourned much when he died at Pelennor Fields. Sadly, he left a barn full of wild children that the King agonized over in making sure they were taken care of. The majority - seven little orphaned Rohirrim - had stayed behind in Edoras with Gamling's sister, Beornia and her two sons. The household was noisy, but healthy and happier than it had ever been and for all her bluster, it was obvious she adored her young charges. Two had gone to foster with Erkenbrand; he had twin sons of an age, but the two eldest boys had gone to Elfhelm, in hopes to keep either of them from following in their father's footsteps.
"At least his younger brother learns from Fugol's mistakes. Would that Fugal would learn from them." Another string of foul language rose on the air.
"Elfhelm!" Gamling was aghast. "Does she kiss you with that mouth?"
It didn't take long for Elfhelm to reply. "That mouth is quite talented. Especially at night in the dark." He turned to Aefre who was smiling rather saucily. "I live for the night."
"Oh, that was more information than I ever needed to hear." Éomer had his fingers in ears, as if to clean them. He adroitly changed the subject. "Has Erkenbrand arrived?"
"No, but a rider from his holdings informed me he was bringing their brothers. Perhaps if I promise to allow them time together, it will sweeten Fugol a little bit."
There was a crash of something large dropped. Or slung.
"Then again, maybe not." Elfhelm dipped his head. "That boy has no respect for women." There was now more cursing by more than one voice. "I better go break them up, before Lýðrest beans him into next harvest." He turned to enter the fray, but added over his shoulder. "Not that I would mind, mind you."
Servants took the horses and Éomer made his way through the encampment, nodding and greeting everyone. At some point, Aefre wandered off, to find Beornia and see who the group was still waiting on. Éomer stepped into his tent; the rugs laid thickly, a large pile in the middle, along with a mattress, pillows, and furs. Braziers were lit, giving the space a very cozy feeling. No one would believe it was still cool out.
"It is too much. We cannot take this through the Dwimorberg."
"We do not intend to, Éomer. Small tents will be taken, along with some ground cover, but they will have to fit comfortably on the packhorses. Enjoy it while you can."
Éomer was still taking it all in; the time and effort that went into the ensuring of his comfort; the grandness of it. With a derisive snort, he exited the tent and back into the cool breeze. He found a fire, with a fresh pot of caffe and poured himself a mug. He waited for Gamling to fill his before he headed to the entrance of the Dwimorberg.
"There is already whispering about it."
"There are no ghosts."
Gamling took a sip, savoring the bitter heat of the drink. "Aye, I know that. But they are still whispering."
"Make sure there are plenty of torches made up and that each rider has one or two. Not every one has to be lit when we go through it." He thought for a moment. "It will not hurt if the more antsy ones have had a little bit of hard ale." He looked at Gamling hard. "How well does Aefre hold her ale?"
"Aefre out-belches me."
Éomer stared. "Why do my Marshals insist on telling me things I do not need to know?"
"Because you ask."
...~~~...
True to Aefre's prediction, it took three days for everyone to arrive. Panniers and saddlebags were packed, repacked, redistributed. Women, especially the daughters, were wringing their hands at the imagined wrinkles and damage to their clothing. One captain was overheard telling his seventeen summers old daughter that if he caught her so much as making eyes at a guard from Dol Amroth, she was going straight home. He did not elaborate on how she was going to get back home, but by Béma, she was going home!
Fugol and his brothers were sent to back to Elfhelm's under his steward's charge. He let Fugol see him hand over the keys to the stockade to ensure proper behavior. Erkenbrand's twin sons were sent as well, with quiet orders to keep the two younger boys out of trouble and out of Fugol's way if things turned ugly.
By early dawn's light, the fourth morning, the packhorses were lined up. The Riders were spaced between supply animals and the women. Breakfast had been partaken of and after saying their farewells, they began to mount up. Éomer heard a soft groan.
"Lady Aefre? Are you feeling a-right?"
Aefre stretched her back and listened to her spine crack. "My back is a might sore, but nothing that will not be stretched out."
Éomer was immediately concerned. "Did you not sleep well? Were your furs not to your liking?" He caught the sly shared grin between his Marshal and his wife. A slow, dawning smirk spread over his face. "A-haaa." He shook his finger. "Never mind."
The caravan began to line up and torches were handed out. As Éomer made his way to the front, he heard grumbling from some of the younger girls.
"Are you Rohirrim?" he asked one solemnly. She appeared to be thirteen summers.
"Yes sir." The girl bowed her head, cowered and embarrassed that her king singled her out. No doubt her glaring da would be hissing in her ear when Éomer passed.
He angled Firefoot closer and whispered, "I am scared too and I am leading this party." He nodded towards the front. "Would you like to ride with me a ways?"
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really." The girl reined her horse from the line-up and followed the king to the head of the line. "What is your name?"
"Cyrtenes, daughter of Cáflic, but my brothers call me Níetan."
"Your brothers call you 'Little Beast'?" Éomer clicked his tongue in disapproval. "How many do you have?"
"Five. I was the last." She sighed as only a young teenaged girl could. "They tell me I will not amount to anything."
"And yet, who is riding in front with the king?"
Her grin lit the sky.
"Éomer King!" Elfhelm hollered good – naturedly as the two moved ahead, "my messenger tells me the paths are crunchy with the dead!"
Cyrtenes looked over her shoulder. "Crunchy with your fear, maybe!"
The 'oohs' could be heard echoing throughout the line and the King knuckle – saluted her. "Good one!"
As the sun rose behind them, they entered the pass, a servant at the mouth of the cave with a lit torch, lighting every other torch in the line. The carvings and warnings at the entrance remained, and Éomer paused not only in fear – for these were the Paths of the Dead – but also to bolster his composure. The way was narrow and he turned to Cyrtenes. "Stay behind me and watch the ceiling. You are to tell those behind you to duck when necessary." He nodded to the servant. "Take a lit torch, little one." He ducked his head and entered the hollow.
The morning light did not go far into the cavern and Cyrtenes was glad not only for the nearness of Rohan's King, but also that he let her hold the torch. They wound their way slowly, deeper into the recess.
Messengers who used the enclosed pass told Éomer that they learned not to look down or to the side, simply straight ahead. He remembered that advice too late, when a bony arm suddenly jutted from the wall. He skittered to the side, only to hear Firefoot's hooves…
…crunch.
Béma, look at the skulls… He heard Cyrtenes gasp.
"Cyrtenes, I want you to focus on the ceiling and no lower than the back of my saddle."
"Yes, sir."
There was no sound, save for the occasional 'duck your head, rider' and the crunching of bone beneath the horses hooves. One would have thought the remains of the dead would have been pulverized by now, but the sound echoed grotesquely throughout the cavern. After a time, a different sound made its way to the front of the line.
"Cyrtenes, what is the din behind us?"
The girl yelled to the back, the question repeating itself over and over until the answer came back in similar fashion. "They are singing."
Éomer smiled. Singing. The Rohirrim always sang; in battle, in happiness, in sadness. Of course they would sing during unsettling and fitful times. "Tell them to sing louder, so we may join them."
Within minutes, Éomer and Cyrtenes were singing along with gusto, their voices echoing ahead.
…96 bottles of mead on the wall, 96 bottles of mead
take one down, pass it around
how many bottles of mead on the wall?
...~~~...
Deep in the mountain, behind the rubble, the ruins, a solitary ghost sat on a rock. For some reason, he had not paid attention to the call of the King of the Dead, lo, those many moons ago. He had been long enamored of the colorful geo-stones deep in the mountain and missed it. He missed the going to war and being released with his brethren. There was no chance the King of Gondor would return to release just him. So now he sat, way high, watching the singing Rohirrim ride through the ruins. He propped his bony chin on his hand.
"I hate the living."
tbc