Author's Note: Back again, guys! Thanks SO much for the sweet reviews; I'm so glad y'all all seemed to enjoy the last chapter :)
Unfortunately, our favorite duo are separated for this chapter (and a good bit of the next one), but they'll feature heavily in each other's thoughts, I promise!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The ride from Edoras to the far reaches of the West-mark is a long one, made all the more so by a number of rainstorms and the knowledge of what was awaiting them at the end of their journey. Still, climbing down from Firefoot's back and being welcomed into the village's small hall is a comfort.
"Hail, Eomer King!" The village's steward, Ceorl, greets. "I am glad to see you, my lord."
"If only it were under better circumstances, my friend," Eomer agrees, clasping his arm. "Has there been any change?"
"More and more people are reporting stolen food and missing animals," Ceorl admits. "But there has been no violence of yet. The men are getting restless, and I fear if any of the Dunlendings are caught, they'll make an example of them, child or not."
"After all the death this country has seen, these bastards would murder a starving child?" Eothred growls.
"Their children are hungry too, Eothred Marshal," Ceorl sighs, sounding as if he has made this argument before.
"Peace," Eomer says, knowing Eothred's temper and Ceorl's smooth implacability. "When and where have they agreed to meet?"
"At the turn in the river, a mile outside the village," Ceorl says. "Tomorrow morning, if you are able."
"I would much rather get the damn thing done tonight," Eomer admits, letting his frustration over the long ride and how little he had wanted to leave Edoras at all bleed into his voice.
"I hardly think that's wise, sire, seeing as how you're as irritable as an Orc at the moment," Eothain chimes in. "I, for one, would rather see this thing go smoothly, than have to explain to your irate sister why the new king of Rohan is missing an arm."
And had he not promised to avoid his more...reckless habits? Meeting with a group of dubiously peaceful Dunlendings in the faint twilight light can be called little other besides ill-advised.
"In the morning then," Eomer begrudgingly agrees.
Ceorl's relief is obvious and he sets about finding a few servants to bring food and ale to the meager hall. Eothred begins to badger the man with questions as soon as they're seated-which farms have been raided, if the frequency is escalating, have they been able to speak with any of the Dunlending children-and Eomer listens to the steward's answers as well. It is clear the town is stretched to the breaking point, and he finds himself glad to be able to aid his kinsman, even if it had meant leaving Edoras behind.
Is it just Edoras you were loathe to leave? The damned near incessant voice in his head mutters.
"What's that, then?" Eothain murmurs, interrupting Eomer's thoughts.
"Hm?" He says.
Eothain nods toward the neckline of Eomer's jerkin, where his fingers are absent-mindedly tangled in the delicate silver chain of Lothiriel's necklace. It has become a habit, in the week's ride from Edoras, to distract himself with the pendant during moments of stillness or contemplation. For all that it looks dainty enough to break under the slightest strain, the chain is strong, almost stubborn.
Not unlike its giver, the voice supplies unhelpfully.
"A necklace, Eothain, what does it look like?" He snaps.
"I did not know you cared for such things, sire," Eothain says, the question obvious in his voice. Eothain is as nosy as Eowyn, when his interest is piqued, and Eomer has to suppress a groan at his captain's expression.
"It was a gift," he begrudgingly admits.
Eothain's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. "A gift? What sort of gift? I did not think you were courting anyone-"
Eomer spews the sip of ale he's just taken all over the table, startling Eothred and Ceorl into silence. Damn Eothain's meddling!
Eothain holds his hands up in a placating gesture, clearly reading the growing ire on his king's face. "I meant no offense, Eomer-"
"Then hold your tongue," he spits, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It is not a máþþumgifu. Do you think I would even consider beginning to court someone, with the state the Mark is in?"
His captain frowns. "Is that why you have not begun to court-" He clears his throat abruptly, seemingly thinking better of what he had originally intended to say. "Is that why the councilors' suggestions are so distasteful to you?"
It is, at least in part. What woman of good sense and breeding would willingly bind herself to a country-to a king-on the edge of disaster? If not the Dunlendings, Orcs will come, if not Orcs, then some other calamity. How could he even start to consider a potential wife-a queen-when he still is struggling to feed his people, to heal the wounds left by the War?
The other part is decidedly less kingly, and has been fixated on long, dark hair, full lips, and the gentle flair of hips from underneath a blue gown. Bema, the way she'd looked at him in the stables. The warmth of her fingers caught in his-more calloused than he would have thought, something her time at Edoras has probably caused-the flush in her cheeks when he'd kissed the back of her hand. The memory has caused him more than little trouble in the nights since. Even worse were the dreams that came after. Dreams where he slides his hands into her hair and kisses that smiling, teasing mouth into silence. Dreams where the stable is empty and quiet, where there are no councilors hounding him, no impending clashes with Dunlendings to call him away-
"Sire?" Eothain's voice interrupts him again.
Shaking his head to clear it, Eomer sips his ale again. "I will consider taking a wife when both myself and the country are ready for it, not before."
"Not to mention what Eowyn would do to you, should you choose someone without taking her opinion into account," Eothain chuckles, clearly letting the matter rest.
"She'd skewer him, or get that fancy Gondorian lord of hers to do the job," Eothred chimes in unhelpfully, having finished his discussion with Ceorl.
"Encouraging the death of your king is treason," Eomer grumbles.
"Behead us then," Eothred snorts, "but remember, you'll face Wilfled's wrath if you do."
Eomer laughs, in spite of himself, and Eothain joins him, a fond expression on his face.
"I cannot think of a more frightening prospect than that," Eomer admits, clapping Eothain on the shoulder. ""Let us rest so we can meet the Dunlending situation with fresh eyes in the morning, and have you returned to your wife before the next week is out."
"A good choice, sire," Eothain chirps. "I can only imagine what the outcome would be should she have to come to fetch us."
Lothiriel is well aware that she is blessed that everyone in Edoras is in a strange mood-some foul, some anxious-that no one notices her own admittedly odd behavior. Blushing every time she passes the stables, reaching absently for a necklace that's no longer there...neither thing would be considered typical of her, under ordinary circumstances. Had any of her friends been less distracted, less ill at ease, she has no doubt she would be up to her neck in questions, concerns.
As it is, Master Duilin is not nearly as frazzled as the rest, and so it is his sharp tongue that finally calls her out.
"By the Valar, girl," he grumbles at her as he pours her fifth consecutive failed coltsfoot brew onto the floor, "what's come over you? Your head has become more straw-filled than the king's stable!"
Heat flares in her cheeks-of all the phrases he could have chosen, that particular one conjures too many memories, too many thoughts. She keeps her eyes on the floor, willing her face to remain inscrutable, despite her blush. "I am sorry, Master Duilin, it is only-I have not-well, you see-"
"Valar preserve me," he groans. "Tell me now, girl, and quickly: what fool of a horse lord has captured your fancy?"
Horrified that she's been so easily read, Lothiriel can only shoot to her feet in mortification. "Sir, you go too far!"
Duilin snorts. "Do not give me that clap-trap, girl. I am nigh eighty years old and have seen enough lovestruck mooning in my time to know its signs now."
Gaping at him, she can only open and close her mouth, feeling utterly like a fish gasping for air. "I am not lovestruck!" She cries.
Duilin arches an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced.
Flushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel snatches the nearest mortar and pestle, grinding at whatever herbs linger there at a frantic pace. "There is-there is no one, Duilin, and nothing to remark upon."
He snorts. "This 'no one' must be unsuitable in some way for you to deny his existence. What is it? Too poor, too common? You would not be the first princess to have your heart ensnared by a roguish soldier-"
"He is no rogue," Lothiriel snaps, affronted on Eomer's behalf before she can have the presence of mind to stop herself.
Duilin's smirk grows. "Oh ho! So there is such a man."
"No, I-it is not-he is a friend," she insists. If nothing else, Eomer is certainly that. "He is not my suitor, Duilin, I swear it."
The old man snorts. "Aye, a 'friend', is it? Captain Eothain is your friend, and I doubt thinking of him leaves you addlepated as a girl in the first blush of youth."
"I-" Lothiriel starts, and then stops. She cannot deny that what she feels for Eothain-who has become something of another brother to her, with all his teasing-and what she feels for Eomer are two entirely different kettles of fish. Oh, she's been infatuated before, shared a few stolen kisses with a number of Amrothos's friends in the garden in the upper levels of Dol Amroth's royal apartments, but none of that had made her feel as flustered, as shaken as the kiss Eomer had pressed to the back of her hand. "I...I was told that if a man of Rohan wished to court me, it would be obvious."
Duilin snorts again. "Obvious to him, or obvious to you?"
At that, Lothiriel frowns. "What do you mean, Master Healer?"
"Only that for such an intelligent woman, you can be utterly unaware when the men of Rohan are paying you a compliment," he says.
"I know that my dark looks are intriguing to them-" she starts, but he sticks a single, gnarled finger in her face, silencing her.
"Do you know how to gauge whether you have the affection of someone of the Mark, Lothiriel?" Duilin asks suddenly, fixing her with a piercing look.
Lothiriel ponders this for a moment. "Read through layers of teasing and embarrassment for signs of their admiration?"
Duilin chuckles, mirth making him look years younger. "In some cases, I should note, in this case, I do not mean a singular person. Rather, do you understand what it means to have earned the people of the Mark's respect?"
Lothiriel swirls the drink in her glass, reaching up to twist her necklace only to remember that it's no longer in her possession. Duilin is not one for riddles or puzzles. The man's way of thinking is as straightforward as his speech, meaning she must know the answer to his question. She is certain of Eowyn's affection, of Eothain and Wilfled and Lisswyn's as well. Gamling and his wife, Cwenhild, have been kind to her, and Merthwyn's good-natured teasing had been a balm after Bledgifu's insults. Even a number of Edoras's serving women and craftsmen always greet her during her daily walk from Meduseld to Duilin's shop. But what is the common denominator? What did they all have in common besides showing her, at minimum, courtesy and good-will?
"They...the nickname, the one I don't understand," she says slowly. "Is that it?"
Duilin inclines his head. "I'm glad you've cleared some of the straw from your head, girl. Yes, the Eorlingas have an admirable quality of expressing their respect for a person through a name. Eorl the Young, Theodred the Noble, Eomer Eadig...even Eowyn has earned her name, as Lady of the Shield-Arm."
"And what nickname did they give you?"
His lips quirk up into a wistful smile. "Ah. I was lucky enough to be given two."
Lothiriel considers what she knows of both her teacher and the people of Edoras. They regard him with something between fondness and exasperation, reverence with a touch of resistance. Duilin's temper is legendary, as are his tongue-lashes, but there isn't a person within the city walls that wouldn't trust him with their sick child or injured spouse. His fellow healers grumble and complain about his lingering Gondorian practices, but can hardly find fault with their effectiveness. Once they have both taken a few fortifying sips from their mugs, Duilin begins his tale.
"I was the third son of a minor lord, unlikely to inherit or do much of anything besides be a threat to my brother's children. Too small, too weak for a sword, too smart to not be conscious of it. So when Morwen Queen was married to Thengel King and they returned to Rohan, my father thought it wise to offer me as an apprentice to her healer. Better that I should waste away in the Mark, rather than Minas Tirith's court to know that Duilin was too weak to be a soldier."
Lothiriel frowns, squeezing his hand. "It was your father's loss and Rohan's gain."
"Yes, I've always thought so," Duilin says, a hint of his usual attitude back in his voice. "And the art of healing came to me much more naturally than firing a bow or swinging a sword. My master was kind, the work enjoyable, and Edoras became my home."
"So what was the nickname?"
Smiling, Duilin chuckles. "Thengel King gave me my first one: felaæte tunge."
"Sharp tongue," Lothiriel translates, smiling as well. "I wonder why."
He tuts at her. "My temper was even swifter then than now. It's a miracle neither the king nor queen had me thrown out of Edoras for my cheek."
"They loved you," she says, testing the thought out.
"They were more my family than my own had ever been," Duilin agrees. "There is not such a divide here, as there is at home, between royalty and the rest. I was more of an age with Morwen than my master was, and we became fast friends.I was there for all five of her and Thengel's children's births, every sickness, every broken bone."
"That is why you're so blunt with Eomer, and Eowyn," Lothiriel surmises. "They're like grandchildren to you."
"Yes, as was Theodred," he smiles a little at the memory. "There was more of Morwen in him than the rest of her grandchildren, for all that he looked like Theoden in miniature."
"I wish I could have known him," She murmurs. "Boromir always spoke about him as if he hung the moon."
Duilin gives her a sharp look. "I think he may have, for your cousin."
Lothiriel blinks, startled. It was not common knowledge, the depth of Boromir's affection for the Crown Prince of Rohan-how could it be, when both of them had been expected to carry on their familial lines, to command men, to rule entire countries? She is not sure what the people of Rohan would have made of the bond between them, but it was not a thing discussed in Gondor. But if Duilin had been something of a grandfather to Theodred, it would be no surprise that he had known the truth. Eomer certainly does. The thought of him makes her blush, again, and reminds her to circle back to the original intent of the story. "You said you had two nicknames, Duilin."
"I did," he agrees. "And the second came from Theodred himself. Lȳt ealdefæder."
Little grandfather, Lothiriel thinks. It was no small thing to be named thus by a prince. Sucha a name speaks of deep affection and acceptance, something beyond any sort of monetary value for Duilin. She understands, now, why he has remained in Edoras, even after Thengel's death and Morwen's return to Gondor. But why he seems so certain of the people's regard for her as well still baffles her: glómmung cwén must have some sort of deeper meaning.
"Duilin, what does my nickname mean?" She asks. "No one will tell me, but I feel as though I cannot accept your certainty without knowing the truth."
"You are aware that the Elves refer to the people of Rohan as 'the Men of Twilight'?"
Lothiriel nods. "Yes, as Gondorians are the High, the Men of the West."
Duilin lifts one of the bigger tomes that she's been translating words out of, turning to a page and offering it to her. "Read this. And I think you'll see why I'm so damned confident you have more Rohirric swains than you know."
"...ielde of glómmung. Men...of Twilight?"
"Which would make you…?"
"Lady Twilight," Lothiriel whispers. "They...that is what they think of me?"
"I think the people of Rohan would be more than happy to keep you, girl," Duilin says gently, patting her hand. "As they have kept me."
She contemplates this for a moment, hand pressed to her lips. That she has earned such a title...oh, she scarcely deserves it!
"Has your suitor named you thus?" Duilin asks, interrupting her thoughts with a wry look.
"He is not my suitor," Lothiriel argues. "But yes. As well as another name." Duilin waves his hand as if to say, well, get on with it. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, despite her tutor's smug look. "Byrnihtu cwén."
He chortles, giving her shoulder a brusque pat. "And you say he is not a rogue! What fool of a man would court a princess by calling her prickly, eh?"
"One who isn't courting me at all," she counters. The thought makes her sad, foolishly enough.
"Then he is doubly a fool, to not see the value of what lies before him," Duilin grumbles in a rare moment of sweetness.
"Why, Master Duilin!" Lothiriel cries, pushing her ridiculous sense of disappointment away. "I do believe that's the kindest thing you have ever said about me."
"Yes, yes, I shall not make a habit of it," he says, flapping his hands in her direction. "Start again on the coltsfoot brew, girl, and do try not to waste anymore of my supplies."
The morning dawns bright and with more than a slight bite of cold. The snows will start soon, especially in the more mountainous regions. It adds more urgency than ever to solve this crisis, for the villagers cannot afford anymore missing food, and it is unlikely the Dunlendings could survive the impending weather unaided. As per the instructions agreed upon by Ceorl and the Dunlending representative, they meet at the bend in the river, where a natural bridge had formed long ago and been tended to diligently by the villagers in the intervening years. There will be no weapons, no horses. Only armor and three representatives from both sides.
Ceorl and Eothred, known to the Dunlendings already, are obvious choices, though Eothain scowls magnificently when Eomer places a stalling hand on his shoulder as he steps down from his horse. "Not this time, Eothain."
"What kind of captain would I be, to not follow my king into peril?"
"The kind of captain who's expecting another little one any day now," Eothred says, with a roll of his eyes. "Ceorl and I are more than enough to protect Eomer King, and I for one do not volunteer to be the one to tell Wilfled-or your sister-that you needlessly put yourself in harm's way."
Eothain mutters a curse. "I do not like this."
"None of us do," Ceorl agrees, "but I have seen the state of some of these children with my own eyes, captain, and that I like even less."
Grumbling all the while, Eothain steps back towards the small guard that has accompanied them. In the early morning light, Eomer can just make out three figures across the bridge. There is a thin smattering of trees beyond them, but they're too empty of leaves to offer any sort of camouflage for assassins. They are as prepared as they possibly can be, and Eomer has to simply trust that the Dunlendings' intent behind this is as true as his is.
Bema áhilpeþ mec, Eomer thinks, hand coming to rest absently on the now familiar sea-shell pendant.
Leagues away in Edoras, Lothiriel is having a much more sedate morning. Duilin, claiming patients to attend to, has sent her away from their usual lessons. The great hall is mostly empty, with a few servants bustling to and fro. Lothiriel knows her presence will demand their attention-she is a guest, and a royal one at that-so she clutches her parcel of letters to her chest, determined to find somewhere else to catch up on what her family has written her.
Eowyn has been waylaid by Merthwyn, planning the Yule activities. Wilfled has been weary of late, the last month of her pregnancy weighing heavily upon her. Lisswyn has been harder and harder to find in the past weeks. As to the reasons why, Lothiriel would like to remain blissfully unaware. As such, she finds herself truly alone for one of the first times in what seems like months.
"Are you lost, glómmung cwén?" Comes Cwenhild's familiar voice.
Lothiriel blinks, coming out of her reverie. She can hardly help but smile reflexively at the nickname, now that she knows its true meaning. Lady Twilight indeed, she thinks, brushing a lock of her dark hair over her shoulder. "Just searching for somewhere to read in peace, I'm afraid," she says, nodding down at her letters.
Smiling, the older woman loops her arm through Lothiriel's free one. "I think I know just the place for you, min déore. Free from nosy serving girls and would-be-suitors, to be sure."
Blushing slightly, she allows herself to be led without complaint. Without Eomer and Eothain in the capitol, and Erchirion suspiciously occupied of late, she has noticed a few of the remaining riders paying more attention to her. It's making it rather difficult to stay true to her promise to Eomer; already, three men have offered to accompany her on rides, and she's found sprigs of dried flowers on her pillow the past two nights in a row. It would have been alarming had not one of the serving girls admitted to being paid "handsomely" to put it there for an ardent suitor. Leofa, bless him, has appointed himself her protector though Willfled claims he still directs "cow eyes" in her direction whenever Lothiriel isn't looking.
While flattered-and, if she's being honest, a bit bemused-there is not a man in Edoras that she would truly consider as a suitor.
At least not one here currently, a little voice whispers, and Lothiriel can feel the annoyingly familiar heat of a blush in her cheeks. "I would appreciate it, Cwenhild."
They make their way down one of the outer hallways, decorated in the way much of Edoras is. Tapestries hang from the wooden paneled walls, the columns are intricately carved; it could be any hall in Meduseld. The difference, however, is revealed when Cwenhild pushes the door at the end open with a smile.
"Oh!" Lothiriel gasps.
"This was Morwen Queen's garden," Cwenhild explains. "I believe Master Duilin still collects some of his supplies from here, and Merthwyn has been known to tend it in the warmer months."
The slowly approaching winter weather has robbed the garden of its bloom, but there is no denying the place's beauty. It is neatly tended, despite the lateness of the season, and the smell of rosemary and thyme reminds Lothiriel very much of the kitchens of Dol Amroth in the fall. Homesickness rises in a sudden lump-oh, she loves Edoras, loves its people, loves Eowyn and all the rest-but the sudden longing for her home city's walled gardens and days spent with Naneth clipping flowers in the sunshine hits her with the force of a wave.
"My lady?" Cwenhild asks, taking her silence as displeasure. "It's not much-"
"No, it's perfect," Lothiriel breathes out, trying to keep the tears from her voice. "Are you sure no one will mind if I sit here?"
"Not in the slightest," the older woman assures her. "Keep track of the time, though, it's known to get a wee bit chilly in the afternoons at this time of year."
Promising to do so, Lothiriel settles onto the nearest bench. Her letter stack is thick: two from Naneth, two from Alycia (and Alphros, cries the second letter), and one a piece from Ada, Amrothos, and Faramir. Choosing to read the oldest one from her sister-in-law first, Lothiriel slides the letter open. The familiar, if faint, smell of Aly's perfume greets her-saffron and jasmine, sent to her monthly by her family in far away Umbar-and Lothiriel has to stop to press her nose to the parchment, just for a moment.
Dearest Thiri,
How I miss you! Alphros asks for you constantly-indeed, I think I shall have to help him "compose" a letter to you before long-and though your brothers will not say so, I know they wish you home again as well. The afternoons are quieter without you. Elphir would say more peaceful, but I have caught him often enough turning his head to catch your eye at some of Amrothos's more ridiculous antics, only to realize you are not there commiserate with.
Thank you for inquiring after your niece, who is certainly doing her best to live up to the House of Dol Amroth's penchant for mischief. Nemiriel is already twice as fussy as her brother ever was, and I am more grateful than I can say for dear Naneth's help with her. She has grown so much already, and so quickly, that I can scarcely believe it. Your kind gift of the woollen blanket is much appreciated. I expect she will carry it around for years to come, the way you used to do with your old doll.
Oh, but I do not mean to make you feel guilty for remaining in Rohan. For if Eowyn is as lovely as your letters and dear Faramir's lovestruck professions make her out to be, you are right to help her. But enough of my ramblings! Tell me more of your friend, the captain, and his fiery wife. Or better yet, this handsome king of yours? Yes, Lothiriel, that is precisely described him in your last letter: handsome, though I suspect you did not mean for it to slip out. I have never seen this Eomer King, though Amrothos tells me he is 'very tall, very blonde, and a great warrior'. I suspect there must be much more to him than that, if he has caught your interest-do not deny it, not to me, dearest, who knows you best-
Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel is very glad indeed that she thought to read her letters far away from prying eyes.
To say the Dunlending ambassadors are not what he expected would be an understatement. Before him, swathed furs and dark clothes, stand a crone, a youth, and a woman, all staring at him intently with the dark, slanted eyes of their people.
"Ceorl, Eothred," the youth says, his accent thick but Westron clear, "this is your king?"
"Aye," Eothred answers. "Eomer King is here to listen to what you have to say."
The boy keeps his arm around the crone, who looks to have seen at least seventy winters. White-haired but clear-eyed, she gives Eomer a sharp once over, as if trying to discern who and what he is under his armor. She says something in the harsh, hard language of Dunland, and Eomer grits his teeth when the younger woman gives a sudden bark of laughter.
"Heled says she did not know the straw-heads had a mountain for a king," the younger woman laughs, her Westron less accented than the boy's. "She says it's no wonder our men could never reach Edoras, if you are what the horse lords look like now."
Eomer starts to bristle-just because they had not reached Edoras does not mean that many of his other kinsman had escaped bloody, violent fates-but Eothred's sudden chuckle startles him out of his anger. "As charming as ever, Dera."
"Charm is as useful to me as teats on a bull," the younger woman says, chin jutting up defiantly. "I did not come here for charm."
"Then why have you come?" Eomer asks. "Why have you asked me here, if not for mockery?"
Heled says something, again in Dunlendish, reaching out to touch the younger woman's arm. Dera's defiant posture softens and she nods at the elder before returning her attention to Eomer. "We have heard tales of you even here, in the far reaches of your kingdom, Eomer Eadig. You have been a leader and a warrior long before you were a king. There is honor in that. And so, there must be honor in you, even if you are a straw-head."
Eomer forces his face to remain blank at the insult. "I thank you for the compliment," he says, irony lacing every syllable.
The youth sighs, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. "We Dunlendings value strength and valor-" he graciously ignores Eothred's snort at that, and continues on, "and while some of the tribes seek to place their trust in the King of Gondor, we thought it better to trust in a man we know something of."
Better the enemy you know than the enemy you do not, Eomer thinks, remembering something Theoden had said to him long ago. "I understand," he says. "What would you ask of me, of my people?"
"Food," Dera says. "Winter is nearly upon us and the usual herds of deer...are not here. We have pelts enough for our tribe three times over, but we cannot eat beaver fur or bear-skin."
Eomer can see Eothred's eyebrows rising towards his hairline out of the corner of his eye. "Are you telling me that your people can take down the bears that live in these woods?"
Dera's chin juts up again, this time in pride. "Yes. Even without the majority of our men-folk. But the bears sleep the winter away, and the river will soon freeze over and the beavers will retreat into their dams. We cannot feed ourselves or our children with animals that are not there."
"You realize the Mark is short on food as well?" Ceorl asks. "The War has not been easy on us either-"
"The War," Dera says, eyes flinty, "has brought my people nothing but death. Sweetly whispered promises from that-that demon in a white cloak-"
"Saruman," Eomer says, seeing a tentative thread of connection between Eorlingas and Dunlendings, "was not a friend to either of our people."
Dera and the youth spit at the ground at the White Wizard's name, while the crone makes a gesture that no sane man would ever call polite. "I am glad it was not just our people who fell victim to his tricks," the youth says. "I told my father his promises were poison-"
The crone's sudden grip of the boy's hand cuts him off, and Dera hisses something at him in Dunlendish. But the sentence is already out in the open, the implications behind it hanging in the air.
"And just who," Eothred drawls, "was your father, boy?"
There is a rush of whispering between the three Dunlendings-angry, harsh sounds, that make the hair on the back of Eomer's neck stand on end-but finally, the boy steps forwards, back straight. He cannot be more than four and ten. He has not yet grown into his feet or shoulders, and his face still bare, round with the softness of youth. But his eyes are dark, and old, and in that moment, braver than many a man Eomer has ridden into battle with. "I am Madoc, son of Cadoc. I will pay for my father's sins against your people if it will give the children of my tribe food and peace."
Eothred curses, lowly, and Ceorl claps a hand to his shoulder. Cadoc had been known throughout the Riddermark as a Dunlending of the worst sort. Murderous without provocation, known to steal women from their beds and toss children from moving horses...there had been no worse villain before the War, no man that he and Theodred had hunted with more determination, or with less success.
"He is dead, then?" Ceorl asks, breaking the silence. "You lead the tribe?"
"No," Dera answers, stepping forward, angling her body between them and the boy's. "I do."
"You?" Eothred scoffs.
"Me," she agrees, smile as sharp as a knife. "And if it is Madoc's life you want in payment for food, you are no better than the bastard who gave him life."
Eothred opens his mouth to say something-what, Eomer can only imagine-but he stops him with a hand. Turning his focus back towards the three Dunlendings, he says, "I do not stand with murdering children, no matter who their fathers were. And this War has taken enough from both our peoples."
A year ago, he would not have hesitated to at least capture this child, to ensure he would not rally the tribes around him for vengeance for his father's death, no matter who had killed him. But after Pelennor and Morannon...Eomer is weary of fighting, weary of killing. How many other boys are like him, on both sides of the Isen? Can he ask them all to bear the weight of their fathers' actions? His own father had been a good man, but as a marshall of the Mark, it was likely he had killed tens, if not hundreds, of Dera and Madoc's kinsmen. Undoubtedly Dunlendings would curse his name-Eomund, of Aldburg-if they were to hear it, as much as Eorlingas curse Cardoc, curse Freca from the old legends.
Madoc eyes him. "You would have peace?"
"I would," he agrees, surprising himself.
The crone laughs, suddenly, startling them all. She murmurs something to Dera, who grins, shooting Eomer look that's so utterly reminiscent of Eowyn that he almost takes a step backwards in surprise.
"What did she say?" Ceorl asks.
"She says something must have softened your heart, horse-lord," Dera says, arching an eyebrow. "And I think she is right."
It takes every ounce of Eomer's self control not to reach for the pendant hidden away between his jerkin and the mail beneath it. Eothred notices the twitch of his hand, but wisely says nothing. Ceorl, on the other hand, ignores the action entirely.
"Let us talk terms," he says, sounding every inch the steward he is, "for peace is more likely the quicker we agree on what our peoples can gain from each other."
Pushing thoughts of soft skin and softer smiles from his mind, Eomer forces himself on doing the impossible: creating the first peaceful contract between his people and their oldest enemies.
Author's Note: Much as I love writing romance, there are bigger games a-foot in Middle Earth than Eomer and Lothiriel dancing around each other! This chapter we get our first look at the Dunlendings-who are, as someone correctly pointed out a few chapters back, according to Tolkien a sort-of spin on Celtic tribes to the more Anglo-Saxon based Rohirric society. And I couldn't resist giving Duilin a little bit more backstory; he's going to feature prominently throughout the rest of the story, so I wanted to flesh him out a bit more for y'all as well.
On the romance front: Lothiriel and Eomer aren't nearly as subtle as they think they are. (Or do their friends just know them too well?) They'll reunite next chapter though, friends, so fret not!
Terms:
máþþumgifu: gift of treasures; in this instance, jewelry, but can vary depending on the wealth/status of respective people in a courting couple
felaæte tunge: sharp tongue
lȳt ealdefæder: little grandfather
Bema áhilpeþ mec: Bema help me
min déore: my dear