Chapter 9

Of Horse Lords and Ladies

Felaróf I named you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life's end.

-The Legend of Eorl the Young

Author unknown

By the time Lothíriel was deemed no longer necessary by the seamstress Alwyn, she was tired enough to want to return to her bed. It did not help that her heart was heavy with her guilt of what she had said to Éomer and the looming thought of her upcoming marriage. Often, when she was still in Dol Amroth, she thought about the prospect of having a husband that had nothing in common with her—words were never exchanged, and she was doomed to go on living this way, in a loveless marriage.

She shuddered at the idea and longed to see the sun, hoping the weather would warm the iciness within her.

She turned the corner, wishing to get back to Great Hall, only to almost collide with a tall, blonde man.

"Good day, my lady Lothíriel," he greeted her, bowing low.

Lothíriel jumped and would have let out a scream if she had not been trained so well in poise. There was something uncanny about a man this large who was still able to sneak up on her.

He straightened, and she saw that he was wearing an emblem of Eorl the Young on his chest, indicative of his status as a soldier of some sort. He was smiling politely, and it was only then that Lothíriel realized that she had been so shocked that she had forgotten to return his greeting.

Luckily, he, too, was well trained in manners. "Forgive me. My name is Éothain, Captain of the Mark. I am a good friend to my lord Éomer, and he has instructed me to give you a tour of Edoras. He is caught up in a meeting with his council members or doubtless, he would have given you the tour himself."

He spoke the Common Tongue well, with a hint of the guttural accent that most Rohirrim had. He smiled at her, and Lothíriel could imagine a roguish, boyish grin in its place. Éothain was undoubtedly handsome, much like his lord, with a straight nose and hair that was almost red. Here was a man that had barely grown out of adolescence, but had to take on responsibilities of a man.

Remembering her manners this time, Lothíriel thanked the man, adding that she was delighted to finally see more of Edoras. "Please, lead on."

"Aye." Éothain smiled and spun on his heels, indicated that Lothíriel should follow.

She soon found that the man was of a cheerful disposition and was a good companion to put her own gloomy thoughts at bay. He seemed to be of the same age as Éomer and was a fireball of energy, walking with a spring in his step and flourishing his speech with many gestures.

"Do you know the history of Meduseld?" he asked as they walked. Well, Éothain walked but she had to nearly jog to keep up. He was almost as tall as Éomer and seemed to take such great strides that one of his steps equaled two of her own.

Her breathing becoming labored, Lothíriel remembered that she had read some legends during her studies in the past six months, but was sure there was more to tell. "I read that it was built by Brego, son of Eorl the Young," she replied.

"Aye," Éothain smiled. "The Éothéod were a wandering people until they settled in Rohan. But Edoras was not their first capital."

"That would be Aldburg, located in the Folde," Lothíriel said, remembering from her readings.

The man smiled wider. "You seem to know our history well, my lady."

Lothíriel shook her head. "I have done some scattered reading here and there, but I only roughly know the histories of Rohan. Unfortunately, Gondorian education is rather lopsided when it comes to the histories of the peoples of Middle-Earth."

The two continued to walk, with Éothain telling her the stories of the kings pictured on the tapestries around Meduseld. Luckily, they had slowed to enjoy the pictures.

"To truly learn about our history, you must be in the open air," he said after the two of them made a round through the Great Hall.

Lothíriel nodded, following the man. As soon as they stepped into the sunlight, Lothíriel thought she saw a change in Éothain. While he had been happy within, he seemed to grow even taller in the open air—truly, a man used to the outdoors. She smiled at the beauty of the afternoon sun and took several deep breaths of the fresh, Rohirrim air.

Moving to the edge of the steps, she looked out over all of Edoras, for Meduseld was built upon a hill and had a view of the entire surrounding village. The Misty Mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks still snowy despite the spring heat. To the north, she could see the green shadow of Fangorn, stretched across the plains of the Westfold; once she might have feared the forests, but stories had come back from the War of the Ring about the alliance with the Ents, specifically of Treebeard, friend to the Halflings Merry and Pippin.

Lothíriel thought that any creature who was friends with the good-natured Halflings she had met at King Elessar's coronation could never be wicked, and therefore, the Ents must be good. Despite the heaviness on her heart, her mood lifted, for the day was beautiful.

In the distance, she could hear sparrows and thrushes singing. Down below, Edoras was bustling with energy, as the village market was at the heart of the city, just a few paces away from the steps of Meduseld. Lothíriel longed to explore the city, to walk amongst it as a villager instead of as a royal.

Now this is the way to build a city, she thought. To have the king right next to his people, so that he can look out his window and see how they are doing.

She thought back to Dol Amroth, to the walled towers of her home, so distant from rest of the people. It was no wonder there was such rigidity in the caste systems of Gondor; those in ruling positions could never empathize with the peasants simply because they never saw them. If there was famine, if there was plague, the aristocracy was safely stowed away from the dangers of the world in their stone-made havens.

Certainly, King Elessar had tried to make a point of changing that by walking through Minas Tirith almost daily. But with his throne situated at the seventh pinnacle of the city, it took a great effort to see the rest of the city. Here, in Edoras, being among the people was inevitable. To ever step out of Meduseld, one must be confronted, nay, bombarded by the city and its culture.

The scent of frying meats, of fresh-picked flowers, of aged cheeses, of ripened fruit, wafted up to her with the wind, and Lothíriel breathed in the smell of Edoras. This was the smell of living, of happiness, of peace.

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

Lothíriel turned to find Éothain next to her, also looking down to the rest of Edoras.

"Yes," she agreed. "Can we go down? The smells are making me hungry." She had begun to notice her stomach rumbling, for the dress fitting had caused her to miss the noon meal.

The man laughed. "Aye. But we may need a few more guards in order to do that. We would not wish for the crowds to overwhelm you."

In the midst of her enthusiasm, Lothíriel had forgotten about safety concerns. Even a crowd that is well meaning can cause unintentional injuries—she would have to be careful, for already, many below had stopped to look up at her.

"Let us first see the stables," Éothain suggested. "I will ask the door warden if he can muster a few men for us, and we can wait for them there."

Lothíriel nodded in agreement, quite liking this young captain of the Mark. He showed her the way to the stables of Meduseld and waved her to go forward while he spoke to one of the burly men guarding the main entrance.

She found her way easily enough from Éothain's directions and the smell of horses. The stables were almost directly behind Meduseld and were nearly just as large as the hall of men. The guard recognized her and quickly let her in, bowing low while he opened the stable doors. Immediately, Lothíriel noticed the difference between the lodgings of the Rohirrim horses and those of Gondorian ones.

The stables were divided into small suites of five or four, though each horse received its own spacious stall. This way, the opening of the stable doors did not disturb the horses should they be sleeping. There was room within each stall for the horse to comfortable move a few paces this way and that, and the smell was somewhat better than she remembered – the Rohirrim did take good care of their steeds.

She briefly wondered where her mare was, but was interrupted when she heard a loud neigh. In one of the stalls closest to the doors, she spotted a tall, white stallion that, intrigued by her entrance had trotted over and stuck its nose over to study her.

She walked over, feeling a bit strange at the uncannily smart eyes that were now trained on her movements. Immediately, the horse began to snuffle her arms and chest, creating a not altogether unpleasant tickling sensation. Laughing, she backed away, holding out her hand to push the stallion's nose from her face.

"Sorry. I have no treats on me," she said, turning out her pockets at her hips. "See? Nothing."

The horse blew out its breath as if to say, Then what good are you, really?

"How about tomorrow? I'll bring you a carrot," Lothíriel found herself saying.

The stallion moved its head to the side as if considering. After a moment, it seemed to be unimpressed and turned its tail, stalking off to the back of the stall.

"Oh, come now," she said. "What if I add a lump of sugar?"

It stopped in its tracks and seemed to be considering again. Then, seeming satisfied, it turned back, leaned over the stall and began to munch on her hair. Lothíriel stepped back at this, giving the horse a soft swat on the nose. "Now stop that," she said, throwing her hair back over her shoulder. "I have to get married in two days, and it won't do to have my hair done by a horse."

The horse huffed again.

"Well, you would not be any fun either if you had to get married to someone you barely know." The stallion cocked its head again, interested. "Oh, haven't you heard? I'm marrying Éomer, king of Rohan."

The horse nickered softly at the name, and Lothíriel shook her head. "Oh, look at me. I'm becoming more Rohirrim by the minute. For the Valars' sake, I am talking to a horse!"

The stallion took this opportunity to sneeze on her.

"Ugh!" she cried, drying her face on the sleeve of her dress. "So much for that treat I promised you!" But the horse was neighing already, as if laughing at her.

"I see my lady has become acquainted with Firefoot." Lothíriel looked toward the door of the stable, where Éothain's voice was coming. Seeing the state that she was in, he could not help but choke back a laugh. "Did you insult him?"

Lothíriel muttered that she had said something about talking to a horse as she tried to mat down her hair, as Firefoot had again started chewing on it.

"Firefoot is very proud," the man said. "He descends from a long line of mearas from Felaróf himself."

"Felaróf?" she questioned.

Éothain leaned over and patted the horse gently on the neck. Firefoot seemed comfortable around Éothain's presence and sniffed his head, still eyeing Lothíriel.

"He was the horse of Eorl the Young and why we have the mearas," the man answered. "Léod, father of Eorl, was a horse tamer and tried to capture a wild white horse when it was but a foal. When he attempted to mount it, the horse threw him and he died. As legend goes, Eorl then hunted down this white horse, but instead of killing it, he said to it, 'Come hither, Mansbane and get a new name!'

"The horse came and Eorl said to it, 'Felaróf I name you,' and demanded from it a weregild for the death of his father. The horse would have to surrender its freedom to him until the end of its life. Eorl then mounted him and rode him without saddle or bridle, as is the way with many mearas, though not all. It is said that when a mearas chooses a master, they are bound for life, and the horse allows no other man to ride him." At this, he smiled at Firefoot. "As is the way with Firefoot."

"What is a… weregild?" Lothíriel asked, rolling the unfamiliar word around in her mouth.

Éothain considered for a moment. "There is no single word for it in the Common Tongue," he answered. "The best way to explain it, perhaps, is a blood debt or blood value." When the woman still looked confused, he explained further. "In times of old, when one man killed another, either by murder or by accident, the family of the dead man demanded a weregild in payment for the death. To avoid a feud, the other man could give the family jewels or gold that was in agreement with the man's value."

Lothíriel furrowed her brow at this explanation. "Were men so disposable as to be treated as property or livestock?"

The man shrugged at this comment. "Those were ancient times, my lady," he said. "Our laws have since changed."

"Not in regards to women."

The words slipped out almost unconsciously. Lothíriel hesitated for a moment, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. But before either she or Éothain could address her comment, Firefoot began to nibble on Lothíriel's hair again.

She pulled back, trying to free it from the horse's big teeth. "Of all the hair you've seen, mine must look the least like straw, so why do you insist on chewing it?" she fumed, pulling harder.

The horse stubbornly continued to chew, forcing her to stand close it in order not to rip out half the hair on her scalp.

Éothain did laugh now, and whispered something to the horse in his own tongue. Lothíriel did not catch it, but Firefoot immediately stopped chewing and backed away into his stall.

"What did you say to him?" she cried, astonished.

"I told him that if continues to chew on his master's bride's hair, Éomer would ban him from oats and apples for a month," the man replied.

Lothíriel's jaw dropped. "This is King Éomer's horse?"

Éothain seemed surprised that she would not know. "Aye. The two of them are inseparable and as alike in mind as if they were brothers."

The woman pursed her lips, thinking of the chances that Firefoot, of all horses, had greeted her when she stepped into the stables. Even though the beast was more stubborn that a dwarf and had the temper of one too, she was starting to like him.

Him! Lothíriel scoffed at her thought. Yet strangely, she realized, she did like him more as a human than as a horse.

Just then, the door to the stables opened, revealing, to Lothíriel's surprise, two women dressed in tunics and trousers. By their bearing, however, she could tell that one was a lady and the other her maid; both were carrying saddles, and the maid was also shouldering a bulging sack. They were laughing at something and speaking in Rohirrim before they realized that they were not alone.

"My lady Lothíriel!" one of the women cried, a look of surprise on her face. She curtsied immediately, and Lothíriel followed suit, though she was unsure of the lady's status and dipped a little too low so as not to offend anyone. Unfortunately, she seemed to have guessed too high, and the lady looked incredibly flattered as they both rose. "It is an honor to meet you. My name is Félewyn, and this is my maid, Eordhe." Her eyes turned to Éothain, and she smiled. "My lord Éothain." She curtsied again, and Éothain bowed. "I see you are giving my lady a tour of Meduseld."

Éothain rose from his bow, and Lothíriel saw an extraordinary change, for the easy-going and confident horselord was replaced by a red-faced boy who spluttered but could let out no words.

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow and looked toward Félewyn again, but the lady seemed oblivious to the change—it was her maid that Eordhe who seemed unable to keep a straight face. Eordhe caught her eye and gave her a knowing smile. Lothíriel immediately understood and jumped to the poor man's rescue.

"Yes," she replied. "My lord Éothain has been quite kind. He is very knowledgeable of the histories of Rohan and has graciously been my guide this morning."

The Rohirrim lady smiled once again at Éothain, and Lothíriel thought the man's head would explode if it turned a darker shade of red. "That is wonderful. I would like to welcome you to Edoras again, though I am sure you have heard those words a hundred times. You should come and ride with us and see more of the city. I was just about to exercise Blóstma, my horse."

Lothíriel remembered then that Éothain had asked the doorwarden to assemble a few men to guide her through the city. "Actually, my lord Éothain has asked a few men to accompany me through the city, but I would love to ride with you another time," she answered. "Though, I am sure if you need help with anything, Éothain can assist you." She spoke the last line in Rohirrim, mostly for the benefit of Eordhe, who winked at her—quite sassy for a maid, Lothíriel thought.

"My lady speaks our language well!" Félewyn exclaimed. "But I have ridden Blóstma a thousand times, I'm sure –"

Eordhe suddenly cut in, speaking rapid Rohirrim to her lady, saying that she thought Blóstma had a limp the last time they left her. The lady look confused, but did not contradict her maid. "Well, if that is the case, then we would be grateful if my lord could take a look at Blóstma's hooves. Perhaps there was stone the groom missed last time."

Éothain jumped at the chance, almost running to Blóstma's stall, with Félewyn close behind, actually worried about her steed. Eordhe stayed just for a moment to give Lothíriel a nod of thanks.

"How long has this—" Lothíriel gestured at the two, whispering in Rohirrim "—been going on?"

Eordhe shrugged. "Seems like forever," she answered, before walking toward them.

For the next few minutes, Lothíriel waited next to Firefoot, brushing the horse's mane with a comb that she found in his stall and listening to the bustle that was occurring a few stalls away. "Well, that is a bothersome ordeal," she whispered the stallion. He snorted in agreement. "And I do not wish to belittle Éothain's problems, but he really should just tell her his feelings."

Firefoot snorted again, this time in mirth.

"Well, yes, there is that small hiccup of him turning into a tomato every time she smiles at him," she agreed. The horse neighed again. "But it did not appear that Félewyn noticed anything amiss." The horse suddenly stepped forward, nudging her backwards, toward the other horse's stall.

Lothíriel crossed her arms. "Oh no! I am not meddling," she said, walking back toward Firefoot. "I have enough of my own problems, thank you very much." But the horse stubbornly pushed her back again.

Before the woman could think of what to do, Félewyn emerged from Blóstma's stall, leading the mare by the reins, looking a little embarrassed. Eordhe was behind her, holding the reins of another horse, and last of all was Éothain, grinning foolishly from ear to ear.

"Is Blóstma alright?" Lothíriel asked.

"Yes," Félewyn answered, smoothing her mare's mane. "She was perfectly alright, though Éothain did find a small stone in her back left hoof." She smiled again, back at the captain, and Lothíriel thought the man would run up and kiss the woman right then. Thankfully, Éothain kept his composure. "Well, it is time we exercised her," Félewyn said, gesturing toward her horse. "It was wonderful meeting you, my lady. And please do join us for a ride some time."

She and Eordhe left the stables, their horses clopping along, their tails swishing.

Looking over at Éothain, Lothíriel thought that he wanted nothing more than to join them. Suddenly, she felt a pushing at her back, and realized that Firefoot had not given up his noble pursuit of getting her to meddle. She blew out a breath of air before realizing just how horse-like that action had been.

"Do you like her?" she ventured, feeling a bit awkward.

The man's head whipped around, a look of panic in his eyes that he immediately tried to hide. "Do you mean Félewyn, my lady?" his mock innocence was so bad that Lothíriel had to hold in her laughter. It was indeed true that the Rohirrim do not lie, for Éothain looked like a boy that had been caught with hand in the biscuit jar.

No, I mean her horse, she thought to herself sarcastically in her best Amrothos voice. "I caught you looking at her," she said, playing along. "She is very beautiful."

Éothain opened his mouth to lie once more, but caught himself when Lothíriel raised her eyebrow in his direction. "Is it really that apparent?"

"Aye," she said, this time realizing she was now picking up a few Rohirrim mannerisms. "Indeed, I find it a wonder that she does not know. Why do you not tell her?"

At the thought, Éothain looked terrified. "Please, I beg you!" he urged. "Do not breathe a word of it, my lady."

The desperation in his voice caught her off guard, and Lothíriel stepped back before composing herself. "Of course not," she said. "I would not reveal your secret, Éothain, but why not let her know?"

The man's jaw hardened. "I cannot for she is a great lady, and I am but a captain of the Mark. She would find me too crass and uncouth. She is fit to marry a prince, not a man as myself."

Lothíriel wanted to knock him upside the head so he would see sense. Instead, she tried her best to seem sympathetic. "From the little I know of you, Éothain, you are not at all crass and uncouth." At this, the man looked at his feet, uncomfortable.

"Alas, I am not a match for her, my lady," he said. "Unlike you and my lord Éomer, who seem perfect for one another."

Lothíriel stiffened at this, clenching her teeth.

But she did not have to come up with a reply, for as soon as he spoke those words, another man appeared at the doors of the stables. Lothíriel shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun streaming through and found that the man, too, was wearing the symbol of Eorl the Young upon his chest.

"Famon," Éothain greeted the man. "How goes?"

The man made a hasty bow at his captain and a much deeper one at Lothíriel. "Forgive me, my lord and lady," he said. His Common was good, but it was less fluid and more guttural than Éothain's. "My lord Imrahil requires the lady Lothíriel's presence in the council room immediately."

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review.

Also, as a side note about Lothy: other people's problems so easily solved, don't they? :P