A/N: Hey again everybody. Thanks for all the nice reviews! I'm glad that you seemed to like the last chapter, especially the part with Faramir's letter. That was fun to write. I have to tell you though, the last few months, as a writer, have been tough. I took a course through one of the RWA chapters lead by a pub'd author who I will refer to as the Destroyer. I found her teaching style to be rather harsh and very very critical and it really rocked my self confidence. At the start, I wrote about 9000 words of this chapter in two weeks. That's alot for me considering I only write about three hours a day, maybe. L8Bleumer, who posts here, on Faerie and LOTRFF was extremely helpful in getting my head and confidence straightened out again. I highly reccomend her stuff! If you like my story, you might like hers called Journey of a Butterfly about a Rohirrim woman and a half elf. It's very good. It's romantic suspense-ish.
One of my reviewers, I don't know who off the top of my head, said that this story doesn't seem to have enough plot, or maybe too many filler chapters. The review and critique are appreciated. As to the plot, though, if anything, this story has too much plot. I see now how stories mushroom out and get too big. Also, as many of you may know, I've never written anything before. Ever. So I do like to try different things, if only as a challenge to myself, because, really, I have no idea what I'm doing. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Not every writer is good at every aspect of writing and I'll never know how to improve what I suck at and strengthen what i'm good at if I don't practice and experiment. Writing is not so much an art as a craft. Something you have to do over and over and over and over again to the point of insanity sometimes. And I know now that it can drive you to the point where you think you are nuts. I understand why guys like Hemingway drank heavily and snorted coke.
I always like to recommend books too. In the last couple of months, I've been reading Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter Series. Holy shit! It's awesome!
As always, please leave a review at the bottom. It's the only reward I get for dragging myself up off the ground, picking up the remaining shreds of my self confidence and continuing to pursue a dream.
Part II: Love & Marriage
Late October, Somewhere in Ithilien
The first fingers of dawn spread out from behind the mountains of Ephel Duath, cheerfully gilding those depressing dark peaks in pretty pinks and violets and lending the forest beneath a quality of unreality. In that weird, harsh metallic light, like the crude paintings of an unskilled artist, the only discernible dimensions were height and width. Its depth was not really physical, but more of a thing that could be sensed, like the ancientness of this place.
"Did ye ever think you'd see something like that coming from over there?" Eoin wondered with a shake of his head. His voice was low and raspy with exhaustion, with gratitude. Rhetorical in nature, his question was followed by a meditative silence disturbed only by the wakeful chirping of birds and other rustling, scurrying sounds of the woods.
Below where they sat, atop a small rise, were shadowed hillsides covered in trees and shallow u-shaped hollows filled with pale golden mist rising up like fairy dust. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, Minas Tirith was much easier to see now, just beginning to glow with that same dimensionless light, its great white walls and many levels sticking out sharp and brilliant as the facets of a crystal.
Somebody next to her, probably Aric, sighed. "Bed."
Eoin patted his gurgling paunch with a hand. "You take to your bed, man. Myself I need sustenance. I can sleep when I'm dead. Which I will be if we don't get down there pretty soon."
There was general agreement on that when Eothain said, "Nah, lads, you got it all wrong." He beetled his brows, pointing at Minas Tirith with his chin. "Who needs sleep or food when there's hundreds of kegs of beer down there just waiting to be tapped!"
To no one's surprise, beer was a Rohirric man's top priority.
Beer, beds, and food aside, Loti would, at this moment, do anything to get off this horse. Although, when it came to it, she wasn't exactly sure if she could get her abused rear end out of the saddle without help; a humiliating prospect. Maybe, she could just tumble out along the way…
Unused to riding for long periods of time as she was, the lower portions of her anatomy still ached, even after nearly a week in the saddle. The trek north, unlike the springtime trip south, had been uneventful, but the forest of Ithilien had been strangely eerie, as though some unseen autumnal spirit of the woods kept pace with them. No longer cloaked in its green glory, it wore a new wardrobe of gold and red and brown. Bare limbs of trees and bushes rattled together in the breeze and dried leaves, a foot thick in some spots, made sounds like the crumpling of paper under the horses' hooves.
Her belief that something was out there was not assuaged when, one night Wolf and Eoin took turns telling her stories of mythical tree herders roaming unchecked in the northern portions of Rohan and entire forests that moved as if by magic in the night.
The weather, for the most part, had cooperated, being a sort of cloudy dull gray for the last few days. That was until yesterday when a cold rain fell, drenching them, and a northern wind boomed through tree tops, whipping cloaks and chilling even the heaviest of bearded cheeks. With no such facial adornments, Loti had sat dripping but uncomplaining as they plodded slowly through the mud of the road, until Eomer, catching a glimpse of her, took her up in the saddle before him, wrapping them both in his green woolen cloak that, if not precisely water proof, still held in their heat even when wet. Since the mud and chilly rain had slowed them considerably, Eomer pushed the men—consisting of not only Eoin and Aric and Eothain, but, also, Wolf, Theofrid, the twins, Bram and Gram, and Eomer's sleepy eyed pet project, Mel—on through the night.
Now, with the earthy smells of moldy leaves and moist bark behind them, the hospitality of Gondor lay no more than a few miles away. Mud splattered and damp, the Men of the Mark weren't the only ones glad to see some kind of civilization. Loti, herself, was looking forward to a hot meal and, with luck, a hot bath.
She let her gaze settle on Eomer, who sat in profile against the western sky, relaxed in the saddle, squinting against the rising sun. The day was unusually warm for autumn; a warm southern wind stirred the unbraided portions of his sun bright blonde head just as it blew through the grass about the horses' knees. Quiet for the last few days, he'd worn a look of distance, of inward thought as he did now, not speaking any more than necessary. She saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh as he stared up towards the city. Oblivious to all but his own thoughts, now, he seemed tired, among other things.
"Well? Are we gonna sit here gawking at the place or we gonna go down there?" Eoin wanted to know.
"Hmm?" Eomer blinked, then said more confidently, "Mmhmm." A change, like the switching of night into day, slowly came over him and his strong white teeth showed suddenly in the wilderness of his week's worth of untrimmed beard.
Two large gold coins appeared in Eomer's hand and he rubbed them together with a metallic rasping sound. Eight pairs of greed eyes regarded him, waiting. If there was one thing the Rohirrim loved—well…if there was one thing they loved as much as drinking, telling stories, horses, horse racing, or fighting, it was gambling.
He issued the challenge. "First man to cross the river wins an extra week's wages."
"Your money's running away from you," she told Eomer a moment later, raucous curses and the thundering of hooves drifting back up the hill.
"Mmm." He shrugged, smiling without much humor. "Wouldn't be right to win my own bet, would it?" Apparently, in no hurry to be off himself, his body language was increasingly uncomfortable. After a brief pause, where he almost seemed to forget she was there, he sniffed and turned to her, eyes the same pale blue as the sky above. "Still doing alright?"
"Other than I'm still wet and cold and my backside it numb, I'm perfectly fine." No red blooded man of the Riddermark would ever complain about being saddle sore, but Loti was neither a man nor much of a horsewoman.
She expected him to come back with some crude joke or indecent proposition. He didn't—unusual, indeed. "E? Are you doing alright?" Straight and stiff as a fence post, he didn't sit the saddle with his normal graceful ease. He was awfully distracted and tense, like a rope tied up in knots. "Nervous?"
He inhaled deeply through his nose and it was only then she realized he had been holding his breath. "Let's just get this over with," he said and gave his mount a nudge.
A little while later, their group reassembled, they began the final few miles of their journey, hooting with laughter and telling insensitive jokes about the comparative size of thumbs to other appendages until they passed a large grassy hump, set low but prominent in the near distance, ringed in a tribute of spears. An old proverb formed in Loti's mind without conscious thought. Remember man, thou art made from the dust of the earth, and unto dust thou shalt return. The day was by no means cold—the sun was full up by now, warm and welcome as a blanket on her back and the day promised to be as fine as any—but she shivered nonetheless. Pulling the collar of her leather coat tighter, Loti looked hastily away and rode on.
In time, they reached the city's temporary main gate, a grossly unattractive, cross timbered monstrosity. Loti was yawning and stretching in the saddle—and hoping these people knew how to make a good cup of coffee—when the crotchety tones of a voice overhead demanded, "Who goes there? Friend or Foe?"
All eyes swiveled up to a square window at the top of the south gate house where a head had popped up like a gopher out of a hole. The remarkable gopher like resemblance of the face was enhanced by the man's vigorous chewing and the twitching, crumb strewn mustache. Evidently, they'd interrupted the man's breakfast.
Wolf, the highest ranking officer present, had the honor of speaking for Eomer.
"Friends of your King!" he bellowed upward. "Foes certainly wouldn't come knocking at the front gate," he added, under his breath.
"Friends of the King?" the gopher repeated, swallowed, and, smacking his lips, squinted down at them in a mildly condescending fashion, "And what kind of friends is it that arrive unannounced and bearing no banner? There's all kinds of queer folk about nowadays wanting to get in here. How do I know you're not one of them?"
Wolf's lips rose, baring his teeth in a dog-like snarl. He had little patience for insubordination, no matter whose army they served in. "Don't you know Riders of the Riddermark when you see them, man?"
Meanwhile, the pointed bolt of a cross bow was easing out of the window and a second head appeared, this one much younger and wearing an over sized helm that kept slipping down over his eyes. Sunlight reflecting off of both polished helmets was eye searing.
The angle of the cross bow inclined, coming to bear on Wolf. Loti noticed, as Wolf plainly did, the boy's unsteady trigger finger.
"Careful with that, boy," he warned, "You don't want it to go off by accident!"
"If it goes off, it won't be by accident," gopher face said nastily, showing two prominent front teeth and leaning further out the window in an attempt to seem more menacing.
Wolf was turning an unhealthy reddish purple in the face, like an eggplant. Livid with indignation at this effrontery, he rose up straight in the saddle, salt and pepper beard bristling.
Aric, looking, as usual, as if he'd just crawled out of a rubbage heap, rolled his eyes skyward. "Here we go," he mumbled.
"Impertinent son of a pig swiving whore!" Wolf barked, "You insult your king's honor and my own! Do you have any idea who you're talking to here?"
Loti kept both eyes trained on the boy's twitchy trigger finger. If it should move the and cross bow go off… This little confrontation had international incident written all over it!
"No. And I don't give a fig about the honor of fat, barbarian dog."
"Fat barbarian dog!" He made some sort of belligerent rumbling noise in the back of his throat. One couldn't help wondering if Wolf was more upset about the fat, the barbarian or the dog part of the insult. His sharply pointed eye teeth flashed again. "Well if we're not who we say we are, then who are we?"
"I don't know and I don't care neither. If you're such good friends with His Majesty the King, then tell me what the password is, or be gone with you!"
"Password? I've got your password right here you—" A certain hand gesture followed.
Eomer rocked back and forth in the saddle, irritated, Loti noted, but unwilling to insult Wolf by interrupting.
This verbal war of wills probably would've gone on for some time had another voice from above not interrupted with, "Carfor, what's the trouble here?" and a third more competent looking head manifested itself between the other two.
Wolf pointed a thick jointed finger at the third. "You, man! Have this weasel faced limp prick open this gate!"
The gopher turned to the third, complaining. "Limp prick, do you hear him?"
Squeezing between gopher face and shaky trigger finger, the third man, who must have been their superior officer, leaned a hand on the window sill to get a closer look at Wolf and his rough companions below. His eyes rested on each of them in turn, as though assessing their intentions, until his stare landed on Eomer. He briefly looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach, mouthed a silent curse, pulled his head back inside and clouted both his inferiors in the ear.
"You are a limp prick, Carfor. Don't you know that's the King of Rohan down there? A moment, my lords," he poked his head out the widow again, "and we'll have you inside."
"I thank you, sir!" Wolf called as the guards disappeared from the window, the insolent Carfor spluttering excuses and ineffectual apologies. Business taken care of, he nodded decisively at Eomer, feeling wholly justified by the reverberant sounds of heads being bitten off inside the gatehouse.
"Well done, Wolf," Eoin complimented. "You were very persistent."
Wolf no longer looked as if he were going to have an apoplectic fit. "Ah, well, you know what they say. Persistence is a virtue."
Just then a shout came from the other side of the wall, clear and loud as the ringing of a bell. "Open the gate! Open the gate for the King of Rohan!"
The order was taken up in turn, borne high on the wind, rising like the circles of the city. "Open the gates!" "Open the gates for EomerKing!" "Open the gates!"
Loti lifted her face to the sky, trying to see the highest part of the city, the citadel at the top, nearly a thousand feet above, but the glare of the sun on white rock was too harsh and the cut back of the city too great. Gazing up, marveling in wonderment at the labor and dedication it took to build such a place, the city itself made her feel small and insubstantial and yet, simultaneously, because it was made of the mountain, she strangely felt part of something bigger than herself—more important—as if this place could withstand all but the ravages of time. It felt right to be here somehow. Right in a way which she'd never know before, or could explain easily. Like coming home to a place you hadn't seen for years.
There was a crash and a subsequent shudder jarred the thick timbered structure as the bolt was lifted, and the great gate slowly, very slowly, swung in. Its heavily burdened iron hinges creaked and groaned with a sound like a frightened cow stuck in a bog.
Eomer glanced at Loti sheepishly, his face tinged slightly pink, like a little boy who'd just wet himself accidentally. In return, she gave in him the faintest of reassuring smiles. He went forward then, to take his place at the head of their party, mastering himself, sitting tall in the saddle, proud as Morgoth, fierce as Bema and Loti entered the ancient city, conceived and by the men of Nuemenor, in the shadow of a Rohirric king.
XXX
In spite of its egomaniacal design and precarious situation—carved out of the side of a mountain—Minas Tirith was not unlike most cities Loti decided as they rounded the first of many levels, passing through that level's single small gate.
There were taverns and brothels—especially on the lower levels were the bulk of the less desirable trades were located—smelling strongly of hops from their beer making, and tanneries, giving off the horrible eye watering reek of their art. The infamous Lampwright's Street was a veritable den of iniquity. One window in five was swagged in red, lit from within by lamps and attracting men like moths to those glowing crimson flames. Less frequently seen than taverns were the apothecary's shops', with their strange displays of dried toads and liquid suspended specimens, vaguely monster-like in resemblance. Other buildings sported less strange tenants; a chandler, a dealer of exotic textiles, a tea house. Down one street she heard the rhythmic tang, tang, tang of a blacksmith's hammer and saw the thin plume of smoke from his forge stream up, disintegrating in the breeze. Down another street was a sign in the shape of a boot; the cobbler shop.
The Rohirrim talked to each other, rowdy and boisterous, pointing out some oddity or thing of interest or making fun of someone in their own barbarous tongue while the echoing clip-clop of the horse's hooves gradually mixed with the other city sounds. The further they went, the more the city seemed to stretch, its inhabitants waking with the day. People began popping up like toadstools, as if the announcement of Eomer's arrival had been a magical conjuration of some kind.
A bakery door swung open with a thud and the yeasty damp fragrance of fresh baked bread wafted out. Loti's stomach gurgled softly in time to several other digestive rumblings nearby, reminding her that none of them had eaten yet this morning.
"A good morning too you, my lord!" the baker called out jovially before jamming his armload of crusty baguettes into a wicker basket outside his door. Evidently recognizing Eomer as some man of importance—if not knowing him purely by sight—the baker took two of these and handed them to Eomer with a gracious bow and went back inside, doorbells tinkling.
Giving them a dispassionate look, Eomer thrust the bread unceremoniously at Wolf. He couldn't eat a thing, he said. Anxiety always gave him cramp.
Inquisitive crowds began to form, all earnestly trying to be the first of their acquaintances to catch a glimpse of EomerKing and he was regarded with esteem equal to that of their own king, it seemed.
"How do you do, my lord?"
"Welcome back!"
"Good morning, sir!"
"A pleasant day to you, my lord!"
Each of these pleasantries was customarily followed by a brief sort of salute, a slight bow or the cordial doffing of worn slouch hats.
Barrowmen, busy hustling the fruits and vegetables from their carts, stopped expounding of the freshness of their items long enough to shout their own greetings of hello and good will.
A slattern of indeterminate age but of distinctly large girth shoved a pair of broad shoulders through an apartment window over head, a braided rug in her hand, ready for shaking. Her stony countenance cracked as she grinned, exposing an indeterminate amount of teeth, but she waved a hand expansively in greeting, calling a pair of dark eyed children to the window who waggled their arms obediently at the scary looking men.
Women were especially taken with Eomer and Loti could understand why. Tall and handsomely exotic by Gondorian standards, he had the supreme air of a man who knew himself to be a warrior. From their stalls, flower girls offered him bouquets of hothouse roses or posies of wildflowers. Young maids waved shyly from balconies, tittering like nervous birds behind their hands. One woman, possessed of significantly less restraint, shoved her baby into Eomer's face to be kissed. Another, even more bold, proposed marriage, indelicately demonstrating exactly what marriage to her might entail. Fair skinned even under the sun weathered color of his tan, his ears blazed pink. A nobleman by birth, Eomer was raised to have nice manners and bore these attentions with grace and politeness, no matter how crude their advances might be.
It was the looks the whores gave him that Loti didn't care for. Standing oh-so-provocatively outside their respective establishments baring long expanses of thigh and heaving swells of creamy bosom, they eyed him with greedy appreciation, as if he were a stud bull, capable of supporting the economic needs of the brothel—and the carnal needs of its women—for an entire year or more! Fortunately, Eomer seemed too preoccupied with other matters to accommodate such needs at the moment, thank the gods.
The horses, good war beasts they were, continued the long climb, oblivious to the increasing street traffic and noisy children who pulled on their tails or darted like fish around the multiple churning legs.
Loti lagged behind once, about half way up the fourth level, reining Thrys in outside a dressmaker's shop. The shop's assistant was busily arranging the pleats of a lovely white gown over a headless dress form. A swelling of self consciousness made Loti glance down briefly. Filthy from a week on the road, rumpled from sleeping on the ground, wearing britches and riding astride, her heart ached with the knowledge that she was no lady. The dress was a silly thing to want—the way the Rohirrim lived it would stay clean for all of two minutes—but once, just once, she'd like to be a lady. Just once she'd like to be special, seen for more than just outer beauty. Just once she'd like to make Eomer proud.
From behind the large window, the girl, feeling Loti's eyes on her, smiled brightly and twinkled her fingers in a wave. Loti, caught staring, blushed and spurred up, finding the reflection of her head perched above the neckline of the dress where the dummy's head should have been, rather disconcerting.
She'd been aware for some time that the city was under construction, or rather, reconstruction as the siege of Minas Tirith hadn't been kind to the old place. Thus, all the rebuilding had giving birth to a sort of Gondorian renaissance focusing on art and architecture and beauty of the old kingdoms.
The bulk of treadle wheel cranes loomed up everywhere, dark in contrast to the white façade of the city itself, blocks of stone and baskets of tools raised and lowered by nothing more than sheer manpower. Loti watched one of these cranes working farther up the street. Like pet rats, two men walked briskly inside the wheels, lifting a block of white stone with almost no effort whatsoever.
Often times, the men working these wheels high above the streets noticed the horsemen before anyone else, waving and hallooing as they worked. Occasionally workmen stopped what they were doing to step out into the street and shake hands or tell amusing anecdotes about fighting alongside Eomer during the War. Eomer was no braggart and swore all these stories were over exaggerations.
About the third or fourth time this happened, bored, hungry and sighing with weariness, Loti quickly lost interest. It felt like half the day had been spent meandering through excited crowds and the picturesque neighborhoods and winds of the lower city. Tossing back her head, she moaned in silent martyrdom. The angle of the sun said no more than two hours had passed.
Moving again—praise be to the Valar—Thrys suffered no such fatigue, high stepping merrily along behind the other horses, up a slight incline of stairs, past several stiff backed sentries bedecked in black and silver and beneath the arch of the final gatehouse. When she emerged out of the shadows and onto the main street of the sixth level, to Loti, it felt like entering an entirely new world, one she'd never dreamed to be part of.
No besieged tenements, many story apartments or single bedroom houses accommodating multiple families here. This was where the wealthiest and most influential citizens, the elite of Gondorian society resided, hiding behind the ornate gilded gates and elaborate gardens of their townhouses. Here, the long lost culture of Nuemenor continued to flourish, three thousand years after its destruction. Here, in Minas Tirith, the legacy of those men survived through traditions, politics, learning and, as she was sure to find out, Gondor's Court.
In an aristocratically superior way, everyone, from boot boy to baron, looked suitably bored as if unimpressed by their own importance, their faces pinched into a reserved dourness like puckered up like assholes. Eomer often wore that same expression himself and Loti began to wonder if it wasn't some sort of inheritable trait like hair color or height, or if it was just a look one acquired by association, like lice or a bad fever.
Loti enjoyed seeing the diversity of people as it made her feel less out of place. Gradually, her attention began to drift from whatever conversation the men were having—something called golf, invented by some crusty, old dwarf—losing herself, instead, in the world of these foreign but interesting people.
"Talagan, get that out of your mouth this instant!" chivied a nanny, leading her recalcitrant charges on their morning constitutional, "And if I catch you trying to put that up your sister's nose again…"
"…So pleased I am to meet your acquaintance, sirs…"
"…Look at that face, why don't you! What a charmer! Why I've never seen a baby so…"
Several other ragged ends of conversation were drowned out by an argument. "Would you just look at this! Such rotten fair! Not even fit for pigs!" A woman, heavy of bosom, leaned over the lower leaf of a split door, waggling what looked to be a shriveled up cucumber at a man. She was presumably the egregiously offended household cook and he, the unfortunate grocer. "I can't serve this to the mistress and her guests! It's unconscionable! Look here!" The cook grasped the cucumber with both hands and bent. It flexed quite unnaturally. "An old man's prick is more firm!"
"How would you know, madam?" The grocer inclined his nose. "With a face like yours I'm surprised any man would bed you." The cook reached behind her and began pelting the man with potatoes and rotten fruit.
Heads down, two young men, brushed her leg, swooping around the horses like a couple of low flying bats, the generous cut of their black scholar's robes flapping in the breeze.
Loti's roving eye caught sight of two women, fashionably begowned and just the other side of middle age, murmuring back and forth, heads close together, at the railing of a garden balcony.
While too far away to hear their actual voices, Loti was still a competent lip reader.
"Have you had one yet?" said one to the other, nodding at the procession of Rohirric virility.
"Had one? A Horse Lord, you mean? No. Have you?"
She shook her head in regret. "No, not yet. But I hear they're excellent lovers. Cocks like the trucks of oliphants. Or so Branneth says."
"I can believe it," said the other with a gaze of appreciative awe, "Just look at that tall one, in the lead. I wouldn't mind if he wanted to stable his horse in my barn. Too bad that he—"
Just as this piece of juicy gossip about to be imparted, a tall bit of shrubbery blocked her view and the pair disappeared as she rode by.
Damn! What was she about to say? Too bad that Eomer—What!
She didn't have much time to think any more about it as Thrys shouldered his way between the twins, deciding that Eoin's leg would make an excellent mid morning snack.
"Ah! Ye wicked beast!" Eoin thwapped his reins over the horse's huffing nostrils. "Do that again and I'll have your balls for a new purse!"
A few minutes later, having come to a stop in front of the House of Healing—a beautiful colonnaded stone structure done in the Anarionian style—Eomer saw Mel deposited into the capable hands of a Matron without much fuss. Poor Mel. The boy was desperate for news of his mother. She hoped it might be good news.
They hadn't gone very far up the street when they were delayed yet again, this time by a shout.
"Theo!"
In front of her, a yard's width of brown horse rump bunched as Theofrid halted the beast abruptly in the street. He whirled around in his saddle as if recognizing the voice.
It came again.
"Theofrid! Wait!"
Curious, now they all turned to see the source of the disturbance. Up the street ran a woman, skirts in one hand, baby in the other braced against her hip, petticoats churning in a lacey froth about her knees. She weaved with remarkable ease through the street's foot traffic despite the awkward burden of the baby. Breathless and slightly flushed from the uphill run, her voice was still strong, crying out the name once more. "Theo!"
Frowning, the man being beckoned, craned his neck to see. "Ariel?" he called back, but with a hint of doubt, as though he questioned his own eyes and ears. His knuckles were white where he gripped the reins which caused his horse to dance and back, bobbing his head up and down like a water ouzel.
"Theo! Please! Stop!"
Then a face altering joy lit her eyes when, finally, she caught sight of him atop his horse, taller than any other man. Like a spark to dry tinder, Loti saw the echo of her elation blaze up in Theofrid's own face, a fire instantly ignited by the fuel of hope.
"Ariel!" he bellowed, now sounding frantic. Theo didn't ask permission, nor did Loti think he cared what the others thought or what the consequences might be for breaking rank. Throwing his leg over the horse's neck, he slid from the saddle, and hit the ground running, charging towards her like a bull after the color red. He dodged a few idlers in the street and, arms spread wide from his sides, he cannoned into her with the exultant cry of a man whose long denied prayers have just been answered. Sweeping up both mother and baby, his momentum sent them spinning round in circles, her skirts whirling out as she was embraced, crushed to his chest in a bear-like hug. One arm locked about his bull-thick neck, she clung to Theofrid as ferociously as she did to her own child, his face buried in the mass of her thick brown curls, both of them either laughing or sobbing.
Loti needn't ask to know this was Theofrid's erstwhile lover.
Several assorted persons stopped to gawk or make scandalized faces, but the reunited pair didn't seem to notice the disturbance they had just caused.
"Ariel…" Theofrid said softly, after setting her back on solid ground. His hands gripped possessively on her slim waist as if afraid she might slip away from him, vanishing like a ghost in the dawn. "How…?" he began, frowning.
"One of the maids said she'd seen you in the street," she replied, still breathless from the run.
This Ariel person was tallish, for a woman, though still dwarfed by Theofrid's unnatural size. In spite of a light sprinkling or freckles over rosy cheeks and the bridge of her nose, she had the flawless skin and fine features of a lady and her equally fine clothes enhanced this impression. Her eyes and hair were the color of toffee drops, a kind of light brown with flecks and glints of gold in the sunlight.
She also had the carefree manner of young motherhood, deftly hoiking the baby onto her other hip, and, with her free hand, caressing Theofrid's cheek, stroking him with the intimacy of two people who had shared more than mere friendship. Loti felt like an intruder, watching as he seemed to droop a bit at the knees, melting under her touch.
Then, the features of that delicate face hardened and her hand drew back. The sound of the slap caused those in the street who weren't already ogling the couple take notice.
"You never wrote to me, you big lout!" she said hotly.
Next to Loti, someone snickered. Someone else punched that someone in the arm, uttering words of reproach.
Shocked, Theo put a hand to his face, checked his fingers for signs of blood.
"Didn't—" He stuttered, the emerald green of his eyes glazed with confusion. "I wrote to you. A hundred times at least! You never got any of my letters?"
Reliable gossip had it that there was no love lost between Theofrid and Ariel's father, a wealthy and important nobleman of Gondor. Theo, an eminently honorable man by Rohirric standards, had proposed marriage—a proposal he knew Ariel would accept had she any choice in the matter—but Theofrid, son of Ealdwine, was a peasant, possessed of no property, no money and little social standing. Hardly an ideal mate for a lord's only daughter who, in her father's opinion, should have gone to her marriage pure as the sheets on her wedding bed. No matter the inducement, the girl's father had refused, denouncing Theofird as a rapist and proclaiming Eomer—who was only acting as emissary on Theo's behalf—as an accomplice in the act. This accusation hadn't gone over well, causing further negotiations to devolve into shouting matches and once, almost coming to blows. In the meanwhile, though, Ariel had conveniently been spirited away to some distant relative's house because of the scandal. Devastated, Theo had neither seen nor heard anything of her since, though he had searched, coming time and time again to Minas Tirith, pounding on doors, requesting audiences with her father, pleading with officials. Without exception, on each occasion he was turned away, put off, not knowing whether mother and baby were alive or dead. Had heard nothing at all until one day some months later a brief note from the girl's kindly maid arrived, crumpled and spotted the stains of travel, informing him of the birth and the name of his son.
And then the spell was broken. Wolf coughed discretely, interrupting. Theofrid's head snapped around, the veil of the moment's emotion suddenly torn from his eyes. No longer infused with the flush of excitement, his face was paling rapidly. He stared up at them, as if unsure what to say or do next. Not without sympathy for his situation, Wolf aided Theo, making a very slight jerking motion of the head, indicating he should remount.
Having had eyes only for Theofrid, his young woman was also just noticing their audience. The blood that had drained out of Theo's face now flooded her own.
"My Lady," Eomer acknowledged with a formal bob of the head. Ariel, graceful despite her flusterment, dropped a quick curtsey in return.
A soldier to the core, Theo put aside his own wants, straightened up to his full height, squared his shoulders and told her stiffly, "I have to go. I'll find you. Later. I promise." Hesitancy seemed to be about him, though, even as he said it.
Eoin must have sensed what the trouble was and spoke up. "Go on, man. We're in not so much of a rush so as you can't say hello to your son."
Ariel thrust the squirming baby forward on her hip then, inviting. "Here honey," she coaxed, bending her head to the baby's ear as he gurgled and smacked his lips in a nom, nom, nom fashion, "Go to your Da."
The words had a marked effect on Theo. The big man swallowed, wary, looking as if he were about to pick up one of Hifur the half elf/dwarf's bombs. Cautiously and with extreme gentleness for a man of his size, he gathered the wriggling bundle into his arms, hefting him like a sack of flour.
Baby Theoden was fat and drooling and pudding faced, so far bearing little resemblance to his father. Contentedly gumming the blunted remains of an orange segment, he was liberally coated with a sticky sheen of pulp and juice from nose to chin. One noodle-y arm reached out, and, with great interest in this strange looking new man, he promptly inserted two gooey fingers up his father's nose.
Gingerly, he laid the boy back in his mother's arms before kissing both affectionately on the forehead. It was obvious even to a blind man that he wished to stay with them; Loti could see it in the way he gazed at her, physically feel the pull of his desire. But then he returned, swinging purposefully into the saddle and, nickering to his horse, wheeled the beast around, leaving his young family in the street, staring after him.
Several of the others clicked their tongues also, urging their mounts uphill with the same cold blooded, featureless expressions Theofrid had just showed.
"Bu—" Loti started to say, but then gave it up. Reluctantly, Ariel was already headed back in the direction she'd come from, hands full of a whimpering, kicking baby upset over the loss of his new toy and Loti was tired. Too tired to make any big fuss over it. She exhaled quietly through her nose, slump shouldered and feeling equally as droopy, like a flower after a rain storm.
The final leg of the journey was short and the eight of them were obliged to pause briefly, spending several minutes in a tunnel under that great eastern facing spur of rock which divided the city in half—and bore more than a passing resemblance to a wedge of cheese—making small talk and discussing the precociousness of Baby Theoden before being announced. The proud father sat hunched over the neck of his horse, the tunnel ceiling having a rather low clearance, the unexpected meeting with Ariel coloring his face even in the gloomy space.
The tunnel itself was dim and damp and smelled faintly of must and horse piss—very unpleasant.
Loti lifted her hands to her hair, combing her fingers through any tangles and double checking to make certain the horn comb was still securely fitted. Rain draggled and unwashed, still, she didn't want to look a beggar in front of Eomer's sister, although it was doubtful anyone would notice her anyway amid all the hubbub.
A sloping ramp angled down from above, leading to whatever was on the seventh and highest level of the city. She could see the armored silver shoes of a knight or some such perched on the lip of the ramp wall. A streak of light sliced through the ramp opening, casting Eomer, similarly hunched over Firefoot, in a yellow ray of sunbeams. Everything he thought showed in the lines and bones of that handsome face. Before, while watching his man reunite with his erstwhile lover and son, he'd looked happy and amused. Now he wore the stretched, slightly pained expression of a man waiting his turn at the gallows. He was nervous and nervousness had a tendency to curdle his stomach. If she'd been closer, she could have at least offered him a friendly smile or reassuring pat on the hand.
For months now Loti, herself, had wondered about this mysterious sister of his who both vexed and charmed her older brother. Would she be like him—grim, serious, thin-lipped, and stiff? Or would she be his opposite, full of fun and easy to be with? She'd heard the stories about Eowyn, certainly. Would she have changed much since the end of the war? Was Eomer worried about how much she had changed since he'd last seen her, nearly a year ago?
She wouldn't have to wait much longer for the answers to her questions. An imperious deep voice proclaimed, "Your Grace—His Majesty, Eomer, King of the Riddermark!"
As a rule, horses weren't permitted on the citadel level, but no man had the gall to unseat the Horse Lord himself, and they all followed him up the slope into the possibilities of a new day.
Really, she hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the embassage that awaited. Eothain had described the citadel as "a bunch of big white stone buildings and a white stone tower three hundred feet tall. There's a bit of green lawn and a fountain and this ugly dead tree. They should just cut it down! But you know them Gondorians. Everything's got to have special meaning to them. I'm surprised they don't dip the king's shit in gold and call it an 'heirloom of his House.'"
Not given to over exaggeration, Eothain had been right. That tree was an eyesore…
As far as the assembled people went, they were much more of an impressive sight. There were two dozen or so steel backed, unblinking guards adorned in some outrageous avian headgear, a gaggle of politicos off to one side who stopped quacking when Eomer appeared, and several other men with indistinguishable occupations stooping in low bows, cloaks and robe flapping in the breeze around their knees. In front of all this, though, stood a man and a woman, he full of nobility and importance, she distractedly pleating the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.
Having dismounted, Eomer tried rearranging his expression into one of gravity, regalness and sufficient indifference befitting his position as a king and commander. Regality was never a problem for Eomer. Gravity and indifference, though, not so much, and after a couple twitches of the mouth, he broke into a smile as bright as the dawn.
"Hello, Wynnie," he murmured in a huskily tender voice which Loti had never heard him use before. Unable to control herself any longer, his sister let out an unladylike squeal of delight and ran to him, hurling herself into his arms. A little shocked by her enthusiasm, he staggered back a pace, holding on as she clung doggedly to his neck. Since the day she had met Eomer, Loti, half hidden behind the others, didn't think she'd ever seen him look so happy.
The thing about first impressions is that they're generally correct. If Loti could've picked one word to describe the woman in front of her, that word really would have been Shield Maiden. Gleenings from the stories told about Eowyn made Loti half expected the woman to be manly or unattractive, dressed in mail and plate with a broadsword strapped to her hip.
Actually…As she dwelt on her expectations, Loti realized she hadn't had expectations to begin with, at least as far as her appearance went, anyway; the Riders of Rohan spoke only of her bravery, never of her looks.
Almost a feminine replica of her brother, Eowyn was one of the tallest women Loti had ever seen, taller even than some of the men present; the top of her head came to just under her brother's chin. She was six feet tall if she was an inch and slender—a bit on the hippy side, perhaps?—but with the same high cheekbones and strong set to her jaw that was the eternal legacy of the House of Eorl.
The only real physical difference between brother and sister was the color of their eyes. While Eomer's were a light crystal blue, the color of spring water and summer skies, Eowyn's were a soft silverish gray tinged with white, like dove's wings.
Born to be a gentile noblewoman, men and politics and the countryside of Rohan had been Eowyn's greatest influences. Therefore, she carried herself with the erect grace of a woman who has known herself to be both a beauty and a warrior, although, not necessarily in that order. As Eomer was his father's son, Eowyn was her mother's daughter; steady and stalwart as an old oak, balanced with a feminine toughness that only supremely confident men could appreciate. Or tolerate.
"We were worried you weren't going to make it."
While Eowyn mauled her brother, the dark Gondorian man—obviously from his familiarity this had to be Faramir, Eowyn's betrothed—had come up next to them, unnoticed. Disentangling himself from his sister's embraces, Eomer abandoned her all together. He hooked an elbow around the man's neck, laughing, and pulled him close. Instantly, he and Faramir were locked in one of those rib cracking brotherly hugs complete with stinging back slaps, violent shakes and forceful shoves. They laughed, making rude comments to each other under their breath and, in a gesture that showed just how close the two men were, Faramir cupped his hands around Eomer's face.
"It's good to see you again, Eomer," he laughed, using the common tongue. The lines bracketing his eyes deepened as he smiled.
Loti decided then and there that if ever there was such a thing as a fairy tale knight, Faramir, the Steward of Gondor was it. A Gondorian all the way back to the days of the founding, she found him to be handsome and quite dashing with an easy reserve and a genuine smile which made him immediately likeable. Broad shouldered and tall—not quite as tall as Eomer, though—his gold trimmed, brown velvet tunic complimented his tanned skin and dark hair, while down playing a pair of shrewd gray eyes, the color of weathered steel.
He was one of those rare men whose wealth and power and station would never change him.
"Yes. Did you really have to wait until the last possible moment to show up?" asked Eowyn inserting herself back into the conversation. Eomer shrugged carelessly, turning to give his sister a proper hug and a kiss on the cheek. With a pinched nose, she made a sound of vile disgust, as one does when encountering something truly smelly, and pushed him away. She took a step back, eyeing his mud caked boots, the travel dust on his armor, his unwashed cheeks and the thick wooly scruff sprouting on his face. She pulled a bit of dried leaf out of his hair. "You look awful."
"I missed you, too, Wynnie," he said, matching her dry tone. "We rode all night in the rain and the mud and the cold with no food to get here in time. And when I do get here, you jump all over me about not being here soon enough. Can't I get any sisterly sympathy from you at all?" he teased.
A few strands of her thick yellow gold hair had come loose from the braided coil at the base of her neck and the ends lifted freely in the breeze. She smoothed them behind one ear.
"Mmhmm," she intoned and Loti quickly converted a giggle into a cough. "I hope that's only mud. Don't even think about wearing those boots in my house. And you better not be covered in lice, either, or the servants will have to souse you in vinegar outside before you come in."
"No, I'm not, so I won't need pickling. And it's my house. So I'll wear my boots where ever I want."
The corner of her mouth tucked back and she crossed her arms, looking as impenetrable as a brick wall. "Mmhmm. Well. We'll see about that."
Then that gray gaze slid sideways, landing on someone else. "Oh! Well! Hello there, Eothain."
A natural born flirt, Eothain leaned forward rakishly, resting a forearm on the saddle pommel, bright blue eyes twinkling. Or were they leering? "Hello, Wynnie! You're looking fine, as always!"
Her cheeks flushed with more than just wind and sun. "Faramir," she said excitedly, touching his arm, "this is Eothain. Remember me telling you about him?"
"You told him about Eothain? Why would you do a thing like that?" her brother demanded.
"Because he's my friend, too!" she snapped back. "Aren't you, Eothain?"
Eothain and Eomer locked gazes for a split second, like dogs do just before they attack. One of Eomer's eyes slanted in an icy blue warning. The best adjective to describe that look was dirty.
Of course, it was ignored. "My sword has always been at your service, my lady," Eothain professed gallantly, then winked at her.
"See?" Eowyn taunted her elder brother, holding out a hand in demonstration and elbowing him sharply in the ribs, "A true knight of the Mark."
"A knight, huh?" Eomer growled, "Is it a true knight that sneaks off and uses that sword behind his lord's back, then?"
Eoin and Wolf exchanged a worried eyeball and there was a slight shifting of the men around Loti, the surreptitious settling of hands on weapons, as though at any moment a fight might break out.
She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"I'd lay my sword at your feet if you'd like, Rooster," quipped Eothain, "but I didn't take you for the kind that liked to handle another man's sword."
Eomer said nothing in response but his face went red as a tomato under all that facial hair.
Loti saw Faramir stir. The consummate diplomat, he evidently sought to enter this dangerous Rohirric triangle of hostility if only as an instrument of peace. Hopefully, he would emerge with all his body parts intact…
One arm crossed under the other, he stroked his chin in a pensive manner, his beard well groomed in comparison to the Rohirrim's shaggy faces. "Ah, yes, I remember now…Eothain." Graciously smiling, he pointed a finger at the big blonde Rider. "The, ah, one with the big sword. I've heard a lot about you." Cordial, still, Faramir made no move to extend a welcoming hand.
Loti always thought the dislike Eothain held for the Steward was something of a joke or merely the protective instinct of a man who regarded his best friend's sister as his own. Clearly, it was not. He held a genuine, lip curling distain for the Gondorian and his eyes snapped like the white pennants atop the Citadel walls, enmity mixing with mockery.
Straightening up and squaring broad shoulders, he lovingly stroked the leather wrapped hilt of his long sword. "Have ya, then? Well, let's hope Your Grace can achieve the same standards that her ladyship is accustomed to."
The size and shape of Faramir's eyes changed imperceptibly, but the smiling lips and carefree manner did not. "Oh, not to worry, sir. Considering the possible alternatives, I think she won't find herself lacking."
"Oh, stop it already," Eowyn scolded in a way that meant she was used having her orders obeyed. "Men are supposed to be superior, huh? Ha! The next thing I know the three of you will be comparing swords to see whose it the longest."
Suddenly, her head popped out from behind the unneeded protection of her brother's back like a coo coo out of a clock.
"Eomer, who is this? Another one of your rescued strays?"
A split second's worth of panic flashed in Eomer's eyes. "She's nobody," he said brusquely, but it was too late to stop her. The phalanx of Rohirrim parted like an unfashionable hairstyle and Eowyn of Rohan came to stand by Loti's knee.
Thyrs recognized his former mistress, energetically wiggling his rubbery lips in an apparent desire to eat the velvet of her gown. She batted the oblong head away like the practiced horsewoman she was.
"Tell me you name, my dear." She smiled up at Loti with all the charm her brother normally lacked.
Loti felt her mouth go dry at being so addressed while a bit of nervous fear put knots in her stomach. What did one say to a princess? The sister of a king? Not knowing what else to do, she looked to Eomer, glowering under furrowed brows—no sign of help there…
Caught between the lowering gaze of her employer and iron intransigence of his sister, Loti decided honesty was the best policy. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her eyes to Eowyn and said in the surest voice she could manage, "I'm not supposed to talk to you."
"Nonesense!" she cried, indignantly, "Of course you can. What does my idiot brother think? That I'll be a bad influence on you?"
"Wynnie!" Eomer barked.
"What?" Eowyn asked with the same exact fierceness in her voice.
"She's the one who tried to kill me!"
The gray eyes turned stony as her head half turned towards him. "Doing women everywhere a favor, no doubt!" she hurled back. "Pity she didn't get it right."
Loti slumped in the saddle trying to hide herself. Every eye present was on her, some with interest, some with suspicion, most with a wary apprehension as if afraid she might suddenly get the urge to slit their throats without cause. Damn! And here she thought she'd go unnoticed!
It wasn't as if Eomer was purposely being mean, but he was obviously irritated, and understandably losing both his temper and his patience. He ground his teeth together, visibly biting off any retorts.
The soothing contralto voice of Eowyn returned to a more calm level. "So this is your lovely secretary. Loti, am I right? My you're such a pretty thing! Much prettier than Eomer described. You'll have half a dozen suitors before the night's over," she added in a whisper behind her hand. "Eomer? Where is she staying?"
"In the barracks. With the others."
Eowyn whirled to face her brother. "In the barracks? You can't let a woman stay in the barracks!"
"Why not?" Eomer retorted. "You did."
"Yes, well…" At a loss for words, she tired sounding superior. "I'm different. She'll just have to stay with us then."
Loti swallowed hard. Her? Live with the Siblings of Stubbornness! "Oh, no, I don't think that's—" she tried to put in but, to no one's surprise, her protest was quickly shunned.
"Nonesense! Of course you will! Won't she, Eomer?"
Eomer had moved on from teeth grinding and was now doing some heavy duty lip pursing. Either he wasn't too pleased about this turn in events or he didn't like having his orders over turned, but wisely forbore to continue arguing. "Fine. At least she'll be close when I need her," he grumbled.
"You're not actually going to make her work while she's here, are you? You can't expect a guest in my house to work like a common servant!"
Besides their physical similarities, the siblings had matching personalities. Both were bossy, willful, uncompromising, and had the annoying tendency to talk about you as if you weren't standing right there. Well, what did Loti expect from the children of an important Rohirric lord and what was essentially a Rohirric princess?
"It's my house," he snarled, "and she is a servant. My servant. What else is she supposed to do?"
Eowyn responded immediately and commandingly. "Be rewarded for serving you well! I know what you're like. The poor girl probably hasn't had any peace. Been working her day and night for months now, I'll wager."
"She's got you there, Cock," Eothain interrupted.
Eomer pointed a threatening finger. "You," he menaced, "Stay out of this."
Eowyn continued. "You can use my secretary if you need one. He's perfectly capable of dealing with the likes of you. It's all settled, then?" This was said less as a question and more of an assumption of fact.
Loti actually thought she heard Eomer moan. In the end, though, rather than answer, he flipped a disgusted hand at her.
"Is that a yes?" she asked.
"Yes, that's a yes," he replied grudgingly.
Bouncing on her toes, Eowyn clapped her hands together and rushed her clench-faced brother, pulling his head down so she could kiss his cheek. Eomer huffed through his nose in that way of his, the hard lines and muscles that kept his features so serious relaxing into a boyish half smile, making him look ten years younger.
"Thank you, E!"
"Yah, yah, I know, I'm your favorite brother."
Grabbing her fiancé's hand, she dragged him over, forcing him to submit to her enthusiasm also. Obediently, Faramir, partially obscured from Loti's view when the horses parted, emerged from his hiding place, smiling indulgently at Eowyn who hauled him along like a dingy in the wake of a barge.
The smile faltered slightly, however, when his eye met Loti's. He lagged back a pace, his hand slipping from Eowyn's, pupils grown huge and black in his sherry colored eyes, cheeks and lips bloodless as a corpse's. Literally, the man looked as if he had simultaneously been smacked in the back of the head with a club and seen the resurrection of Sauron. It was such an odd, unexpected reaction, and it happened so quickly that if Loti hadn't been looking right at him she might have missed it, or mistaken his hesitancy all together as just a quirk of his personality. She hadn't though, and neither had Eowyn.
"What's wrong?" she asked him, standing near Thrys's withers, smooth blonde brows drawn down in puzzlement. "Faramir?"
"Ahm, nothing," he said, the lines of his forehead knitted in a mildly confused sort of way. "It's just—" He broke off, and gave a quick laugh, his full lipped mouth curving into a warm, sweet smile. "Never mind…" His eyes softened around the edges then, and he said quite softly, "It's very, very nice to meet you, Loti."
It was in that moment she knew something else about Faramir. He may not be an inherently sly man, but she had the very real impression that he could when he needed to be.
"It's very nice to meet you, your…er—Grace."
"Please, call me Faramir." Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles, disregarding their filthy state. The Steward had hands like Eomer, well calloused and long fingered, muscled, strong, yet oddly gentle for a big man. "Shall I help you to dismount?"
Loti was fairly certain she should say no, but nodded with alacrity. One didn't give a damn about etiquette and propriety when one's ass hurt!
Once on the ground, Loti's muscles stretched back into their regular shapes, her joints and vertebrae popped and blood migrated eagerly back into her tender rear.
When she steady on her feet, Eowyn laced her arm through Loti's and the three of them wandered back to the spot where Eomer was still standing. The other woman's touch was friendly, almost sisterly.
Up close, Eowyn's gown, brown velvet slashed in orange down the bodice, complimented the color of her skin and picked out the brassier tones in her hair. This high up the mountainside, the breeze was quite strong and it carried the scent of her toilet water, rich and feminine, like vanilla and cream and amber.
"I like your clothes," she was saying in a low voice. "Eomer always gets upset when I wear britches. He thinks it's vulgar. I swear his mind is dirtier than a privy pit. I've never seen him try to ride in a full skirt and three petticoats, though!" Loti found that image amusing.
Eomer acknowledged her continuing presence with a nod.
"So," he said, seeming to loosen up significantly now that he'd satisfied his sister's demands, "I see Daddy Long Legs is home." He gestured to the black flag perched atop the Tower of Ecthilion three hundred feet above, the silver tree and stars emblazoned on it twitching in the wind. "I always have to wait on his sorry ass, don't I? Where the hell is he?"
Faramir scoffed—an ungentlemanly noise, to be sure—briefly letting go of the stately facade. "What else would you expect from him? He can't show up on time for anything. All those years he spent with living with the Elves. They do things in their own time, you know."
"Pfft." This time it was Eowyn who made the sound. "It's all that pipe weed he smokes. I was talking to Arwen—"
As if the speaking had been a summons, the doors of one of the enormous white stone buildings crashed open and a tall, dark, disheveled looking man stumbled down the steps and shot off towards them, running on freakishly long legs, as thin as spindles. A gust of wind seized his formal draperies, making them flap and beat around him like wings. Loti thought he looked like a stork making an unsuccessful attempt to get off the ground.
Chuckling, Eomer held his hands out from his sides. "Hey, old man!" he yelled. "You're late!"
Jogging the last few steps, the newest arrival panted open mouthed in front of them. "Hairy—horse—fucker," he gasped, laying a teasing eye on Eomer. "What? Do you have a head made of iron plate? I—told you—before," he drew in one deep, lung filling breath before exhaling gustily, "You can't sail north up a south flowing river with a head wind. You have to row. And it takes damn near forever."
"You couldn't have hurried up any? I thought for sure we were all gonna die."
"Since you're not dead, I'd say I showed up right on time!" A playful jab of the fist took Eomer in his well armored belly. "Hello, Eowyn," he smiled, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "Sorry, I'm late. And, ah… who, er… um…" Awkward, his head turned back to Eomer, one dark brow elevated.
"Loti," Eomer said, hooking a thumb in her direction.
The other's eyebrow rose higher, gaze furtively darting from Eomer to Loti and back.
My gods! Did he think that she was-?
"My secretary."
"Oh!" He brightened. "Loti! Call me Aragorn…Ahm…" Shuffling forward, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek too. "Oh, you've got the, um…" He brushed one finger above his lip and Loti felt blood rush into her face. "My wife's an elf. She'll be excited to meet you."
Much of a height with Eomer—was Eomer perhaps just a smidge taller?—the ash gray eyed King of Gondor was possessed of a long boned grace that challenged his evident gawkiness. Looking somewhat greasy and unkempt, his lanky brown hair fell loose to his shoulders and the frame of his face was heavily streaked with gray, like a night dark window rimed in frost. Even what he was pleased to call a beard bore white hairs among the dark. Also like Eomer, he had the broad boned face of a northerner, a strong chin and, interestingly enough, all of his teeth, but most of his other features, brows, high forehead, coloring and general body structure were more like Faramir's, traits passed down, undiluted, from their Nuemenorian ancestors. It was hard to tell Aragorn's age, though. He had the appearance of a man in his middle years, but the webbing around his eyes and the grooves punctuating his mouth told the story of someone whose lifestyle and experiences had made him old before his time. Loti often saw this in Eomer, as well.
All in all, despite his odd proportions, Aragorn seemed like a nice man, and that was really what mattered.
"Yes, well, I'm sure Arwen will be delighted to meet Loti, but right now, I think food and some rest are in order, hmm?" Eowyn turned a sympathetic eye to Loti as she discreetly tried to stifle a yawn. Making that her final decision, the former Shield Maiden of Rohan started issuing orders as if she were about to take on the title of Captain General instead of Princess.
"Wolf, take your men to the barracks and see that the captain there feeds you and gets you all a proper bed. Go on, now, there's nothing more for you to do here." She made shooing motions with her long, elegant hands. "Caladar, come get these horses and take them down to the house. That's a good lad. Faramir, be a dear and take hold of Loti. Don't let her fall. The poor thing is practically dead on her feet." Eowyn disentangled herself and wrapped Loti's arm securely around her prospective husband's. "Now— Aragorn! Where are you going?"
Aragorn was making a hasty get away, moving across the lawn at a high rate of speed. He lifted one long arm, waving in a salute.
"He's late," Eomer said, pointing with a thumb, "For a, ah…meeting."
Eowyn sighed, not buying this excuse at all. "Mmhmm. Well, off we go. Come along, E."
Swept up in the subsequent activity of greeting diplomats and dignitaries, and carried along by Eowyn's whirlwind personality, Loti barely remembered returning to the sixth level or the walk that led to what would be her home while she visited in Minas Tirith. Dazed and overwhelmed, she felt as if she had been dropped into some dream world, one where her vision went blurry round the edges and people spoke in odd, distorted voices.
At last, they came to a stop in front of a black wrought iron gate ornamented with a very life like rendition of a rearing gilt stallion. Like a pair of matching statues, two gigantic young Riders stood sentry on either side of the gate, their blonde hair peeking out from underneath artistically wrought conical helms. Dressed in the traditional Rohirric fashion, their boiled leather armor was unnaturally clean and well oiled—especially in comparison to Eomer—and their weapons and chain mail shirts were so shiny, they caught sparks when the light was just right. Great green cloaks hung down their backs doing little to alleviate the impression that they were of barbaric decent and completely out of place here. They were twins, Loti saw as they swung the doors open, and like Bram and Gram, completely identical.
The doors swung shut with a clang an instant later and Loti found herself inside a circular paved courtyard, complete with a small, but well maintained formal garden. The spicy autumn scents of fall flowers filled her nose while the courtyard's centerpiece, a raised marble fountain, burbled happily to itself, the sound both soothing and welcoming.
"This was my brother's house," Faramir explained in a murmur as they were preceded down a path between the main house and another building by Eomer and Eowyn. "Eomer thought it might be a good idea to have a place to stay when he does business here. And, it's one of the few places with its own stable." He indicated the other building. It matched the house; white stone with a slate roof.
The downside to building a city out of a mountain, he explained further, was that space was at a premium. So in order to best take advantage of the limited space and the spectacular views, most homes were constructed in the "side on" fashion, meaning the main entrances were located on the sides of the houses rather than facing the street, leaving the front façade free for balconies, terraces and patio gardens.
At the door, Eowyn turned around, arms crossed, blocking the way like a glacier in a mountain pass. Eomer nearly bumped into her, looking cross, but he still sense enough not to force her out of the way. He glared and she glared back, gaze dropping to his feet and returning to his face. At this point, it became a standoff as each dared the other to try something on. Finally, after a few more moments, Eomer mumbled a curse under his breath and bent, pulling off one boot and then the other, clods of dried mud and other things scattering across the clean stoop. One long, bare toe poked out from the tip of his thick wool sock. He wiggled it, embarrassed. Eowyn's mouth tucked back, feigning disapproval, but this was only a mask; amusement and something akin to dismay lurked in the corners there. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it flat against his cheek, tenderness for him softening those cold gray eyes.
Then that same hand delved into the pocket of her gown, producing an item that flared like emerald fire in the light of the sun. Loti knew what it was; a large band of gold mounted with a green gemstone, the stylized image a horse head carved into it, and the words Blessed are the merciful inscribed on the inside of the band. His signet ring.
Taking his left hand, Eowyn slid the ring carefully over the swollen joint of his slightly crooked fourth finger.
"Welcome home. Come along inside, then," she said and stepped aside.