Interior of Belfalas, West of Nan Requian

The central region of Belfalas has one small mountain range that barely achieves the rank of mountain, but the valley on its southern slopes is arid and solitary. Our party would journey two or three days at a time without encountering fellow humans, and we made camp nearly on the very east-west road itself. From my knowledge of our country's history, I knew that this now desolate place was once rich, but then terribly over-farmed and eroded; The greed of man had centuries-old impact here.

It is not a haunted place, nor did we know of any irregular dangers here, but the men were very quiet. Voices seemed to reverberate supernaturally against the northern slopes, and occasionally the shale road proved treacherous for the horses, particularly when wet. There are the regular dangers too – highwaymen and wild dogs, the rare catamount. We had no sign of these, however, in the first few days in the region.

I notice that the Rohirrim – who have not ventured this far into the interior of the mountain – begin to take their cues from my father's men. At least one Amrothion tended to ride at the head of our party with Calahdra, or Éomer when she scouted ahead. Though they are young, my father made care that his representatives had some experience with such expeditions, or at least lived in the north or northeast stretches of the country.

Azrubên is their senior, and also Captain Arnubên's nephew. He is fair and quiet and stern, but good at dice, and this pleases the Rohirrim.

The twins are Beren and Belden, also fair, but not quite so quiet as Azrubên. Though they are young and barely soldiers, they were born nearly in Southern Ithilien and have a good sense of the northern reaches of Lebennin and Belfalas, and the water-crossings and ferries therein.

And then there is Fingon, who is fair and also mute, but exceptionally talented with a bow. He frequently challenged Calahdra and the Rohirrim when they are not spoiled by a day's ride. The man is a longtime comrade of Azrubên, who himself knows many of the hand signs Fingon uses to communicate.

Though no fault of his own, Fingon makes poor company. The twins are significantly younger than I in spirit, too, and they prefer the company of the younger Rohirrim – Eldric in particular. But Azrubên takes a shining to me, perhaps because of his uncle's station, and we ride together often. I try to speak in Westron, so as not to alienate the Rohirrim (though they seldom show me the same courtesy – by the end of each day, they are too tired to keep up with a language that is foreign to them). But occasionally I find that Adûnaic, or the bastardized Sindarin that was common with the city folk and palace staff, carried the same comfort as an old robe.

And so the days began to shape themselves in a similar fashion, each after the other. Mounted by dawn, Froth and I would canter alongside Azrubên, or Éomer, or Calahdra, until midday, at which point we would spend thirty minutes or so watering the horses, eating progressively tougher pieces of journey bread, and checking our mounts for ticks and sores. We would ride again until an hour or two before sunset, at which point a dry ditch would be identified in which we could make camp. Calahdra would torture me with lessons in how to avoid impaling myself with my own weapon while Éomer and the men caught game and made some sort of stew, and by sunset I would be fast asleep in my own bedroll. We had been waylaid by no more hurricanes, fortunately, and so there was an unspoken ease in our travels and faith we would arrive in Nan Requain by late September, and in Ithilien only a few weeks later if a boat headed north up the Anduin was readily found. I was unfathomably grateful for this – it was true that by the third week, the scintillating promise of adventure had lost most of its luster.

Mostly I missed the luxuries of privacy and leisure time, which I enjoyed best in combination. Though I had packed three books in oil cloth, I had not removed them from my saddle bags – and it seemed evident to me now that I would not be retrieving them until we were settled somewhere more permanent than a berm or roadside inn. I also missed the comfort of a privy, which was particularly acute when our unleavened grew a thin coat of imperceptible mold, and myself and most of my companions were stricken with a 48-hour case of the runs. The shame of washing my own leggings out in a mountain stream within eyeshot of my betrothed was as mortifying as being the one to call the fourth halt in as many hours for a quick dismount and dash into the tumbleweeds.

If Éomer minded that his promised princess had become a mess of bodily fluids in those few days, he'd shown no sign of it. If anything, his quiet doting grew steadily with each mishap or blunder. When Froth - as tired of me as I was of him – tossed me unceremoniously, Éomer hushed his giggling men within moments and reseated me upon the fiery but sanctimonious Firefleet, content to walk alongside. He made no mention of the incident except to confirm that I was not hurt, and spent the remainder of the day redirecting my attention to stories of his own tribulations in horse-rearing.

It became evident to me, after a time, that I was never not minded or doted on. Éomer was always within earshot, even when his bedroll felt miles away from mine. And if it was not Éomer at my side, or sharing the same saddle, or within a horse of me, it was Calahdra – his eternal deputy.

Though I was a reluctant and damnable student, she maintained the difficulty of our sparring matches each night - although, I could not rightly say that I had learned anything of sparring – only of parrying. Calahdra caught notice of this, however, and by our fourth week, had had enough of it.

We made camp slightly early one evening, and by the time I had disavowed Froth of his packs and sent the menace off to graze with his compatriots, I was unnerved to find Calahdra in only a breast band and leggings. I had never seen her like this – she was tough and irreverent, but always thoroughly clad in the clothes and emblems befitting her station. I realized now that that was her armor. In this state, however, I saw her better – there were black laurel and oak leaves tattooed beneath her left breast, and a thorough scattering of twisting scars across her entire abdomen. She was slighter than she appeared, too – her ribs and hip bones shown prominently against her otherwise unblemished skin. Not quite the athletic, feline elf warrioress I was expecting.

Though the Rohirrim seemed unphased by their captain's impropriety, the Amrothions were wide-eyed and pale, and quickly offered themselves up to hunt hares. Éomer obliged and sat himself on a nearby log with a look on his face that could only be described as smug.

"You must learn where to land a blow, Lothíriel," Calahdra said smoothly, and held out a wide leaf in her hand, which contained a small globule of crushed elderberries. She cast this onto the ground, and then arranged herself in a defensive crouch.

I crouched as well and drew my weapon, which was a fairly route habit at this point. Calahdra bobbed her head once in invitation, as was our custom.

I neared her cautiously before wind-milling my arm overhead and bringing the blade down. To my surprise, Calahdra remained frozen until the last second. I nearly froze myself, frightened that she intended that I draw blood, but in the final moment she whipped an arm across her chest and seized my hand, holding the blade in place so that the tip narrowly grazed her exposed collarbone.

Her stormy eyes met mine. "Bone," she said flatly, and indeed brought the blade down so that it pierced the skin. Blood pooled forth, and I groaned, but she did not release my hand. I felt the grind of her clavicle beneath for just a moment, and then she let go of my hand. I yanked the blade away, and Calahdra stepped backwards.

I glanced sideways at Éomer, who was quietly witling a small piece of basswood. He did meet my eyes, but only smiled encouragingly, seemingly refusing to acknowledge what I assumed was wild terror in my own eyes.

Calahdra now stood with her back turned to me and let her hair down from the short queue that held it. It tumbled over her shoulders, obscuring her posture somewhat, but I knew that this was an invitation to attack.

I did, and brought my blade overhead again, this time intending to pierce her gut. I had to launch myself upwards a little – she was a good hand taller than I – and in doing so, I found I had sullied the timing of my arm swing. Calahdra snaked one arm around herself and behind my back, pinning me to her body though I remained airborne. She had seized my armed hand once more, and the knife was balanced against her rib. "Bone again," she told me, but then she shifted the knife down a half inch and pulled my hand inwards. Here, the flesh gave partly. Calahdra then turned my hand, so the blade was angled parallel to the intercostal space. I sensed her intent – if I applied a fraction more pressure, the cartilage would give way to the innards within.

She must have sensed my dawning realization – that if I could push past my own distaste of gore and violence and thought just a bit more clinically about the fallibility of the human body, I could manipulate my weapon mindfully – and perhaps effectively. Calahdra released me and made for the elderberry mash on the ground, and then dabbed a fingerful into the red mark between her ribs. "Good,"

I looked again to Éomer. He was smiling again, but this was a different smile. It was dark and sardonic – a soldier's smile.

By the end of the week, Calahdra was pockmarked in a strange mangle of patterns – scratches and scabs showed my failures, and blue-purple stains showed my successes. I memorized the vision of her marred, golden skin, and tried to divorce any feelings of remorse over the pain I must have caused her. If indeed I caused her pain, she never showed it. Her nicks healed so quickly, I often drew blood in the same places twice and Calahdra had to remind me. She did so so eagerly that I began to think that she enjoyed it all, in a vaguely masochistic way.

Soon, however, we came to the headwaters of the Belceleth, which flowed gently into the slightly stronger Dírceleth. Upon the junction of the two streams resided my Aunt Thaliel's formidable fief, and the thought of another warm bed and edible bread ignited excitement in myself as well as the soldiers.

Passage to the manageable side of the river's bank required a water-crossing, which removed most traces of my advancements on Calahdra. It also removed the last traces of Froth's tenable patience for my novice horsemastery, and I was ceremoniously thrown mid-stream. It was fortunate that I was a far more accomplished swimmer than equestrian, for I was able to carry myself to the far bank before any of the riders, but in my distraction, I found that I resurfaced to panic and mayhem.

Éomer and all the others were gesturing wildly to me from 75 yards away, though their voices were carried away by the din of the water coursing over rock and through a cascade downstream. It did not escape me, however, that many hands were scrabbling at waterlogged weapons, and I gathered from the frantic movements of their eyes that there was some trouble in the dry gulley behind me.

Fortunately, I had made landfall besides a sizeable boulder, and was able to creep round it and perch splayed leg in the water like a frog. Poking my head around, I saw the source of concern – a small troupe of dubious-looking men were striding forward, clubs and short-bows in hand. It took no time at all for me to realize that these were the bandits I had been repeatedly warned against, but had not yet encountered, and indeed they appeared menacing.

I would have had more faith in survival had my companions not been either astride their swimming steeds or paddling alongside them – this was not a fair fight at all, and I realized that the bandits had likely staked out this crossing for that very reason. I myself had no chance of overtaking the villains given that there were eight of them and one of me, even though my knife was still strapped to my thigh and I was so freshly practiced. And so I did what felt prudent – I hid between a copse of cattails and the boulder, and did the best I could to contain the squeaking noises emitting from my mouth.

By now, my remaining party had ceased their hollering at me – the bandits were close enough that they would have figured what that was about. One of the Rohirrim had Froth's bridle in hand and was urging him forward, along with all the other riders. Now it was a mad race to the shore before the highwaymen could ready their short bows, though this seemed a losing prospect. I was desperate to call out to Éomer, and especially to Firefleet – the horses of Rohan that typically seemed so extraordinary and infallible now appeared molasses-slow in the water.

When the men and horses were within 25 yards of the rocky shore, half of the highwaymen drew their knobby bows. Calahdra did a strange thing then – though perhaps I should have expected strange things from her. She pulled herself quite lithely over Ellerocco's saddle and stood upon it, marking herself as the clearest target. She then outstretched her hands overhead and lifted her eyes to the sky, and – with a simultaneously crackle of energy wafting through the air – crouched and brought her hands down into the water. I could not see the bolts of lightning course through the river ahead of her, but I could feel them; had they not been quite carefully aimed, I imagined that a snakelike tendril could have veered off towards myself and had the same effect that the original bolt now had on one of the bowmen – he fell in a messy scramble, and his colleagues looked on in amplified horror. Their own hair stood upright from the ambient electricity.

This only bought the horses and riders so much time; the bandits had set themselves on a deadly course now and could not be deterred. I could see that Calahdra was spent, and was urging her own horse along with the same desperation as the others. Only 15 yards lay between the two parties now, and the bandits drew their bows again.

Now it was my turn. Like some ancient siren, I lifted myself from the water, hoisted myself over the boulder behind which I had hid, and shrieked savagely. The attackers wheeled round and spotted me, and one bowman let loose his arrow clumsily – it skittered against the granite ten yards from me.

Éomer was screaming again, and the reality of what I had wrought upon myself dawned as slowly as the horses' progress in the current. Two of the clubmen strode forward, devious intent clear in their eyes.

My ploy had, however, given the horses enough time to emerge into shallower water, and they could now make enough purchase under-hoof to propel themselves and their riders forward. The Rohirrim mounted gracefully and surged upon the remaining bandits, who in turn loosed their arrows and raised their clubs.

I did not have time to see this battle, however. My attackers were upon me, and I was clambering backwards on hands and feet to escape. The rock underneath me was slick with algae, though, and I struggled to get upright. The highwaymen's leers did nothing to assist my composure.

A quick whistle distracted the three of us, followed by an explosion of gore as an arrow tip emerged through one of the men's eyeballs. We all screamed, and I was finally inspired to upright myself no matter the cost to the tender skin of my palms. I drew my sword, and the whine of the steel drew the remaining man's attention back to me.

"Pretty fire poker," he mocked, and then ran one hand over his eyes to clear his face of brain matter and blood.

I crouched but did not feel certain – my hind foot was in the cattails and sinking into the peaty soot in which it grew. 'Please Calahdra, find another miracle within yourself,' I was pleading.

The man struck out with his club like a cobra, and I leaned back to evade. This maneuver succeeded, but I sunk another three inches into muck. The man laughed, and my panicked brain decided that though indeed the laugh was evil, it was not so different from my father's laugh. What did I do, I thought, all those times that father had whipped me? I had disassociated myself from the present reality, pretending that I was far beyond his reach and influence.

I disassociated then, and imagined that I was not stuck at all, but in fact on the higher ground. I lunged, and though it was clumsy, I succeeded in mustering enough strength that my knife bit into the man's forearm. He yelped and drew back, and I seized the advantage to stumble out of the quagmire and towards him onto solid granite. I was off balance and he knew it, and so his club came up and rammed me squarely in the jaw – but at the same time, my own knife came up and rammed him – directly in the left pectoral, just below his heart.

Blood sputtered from the man's lips immediately, and his eyes showed white. As soon as I withdrew my blade, he crumpled, and I knew I had succeeded in killing him.

'Calahdra will be so proud,' was all I could manage to think in that moment, and no thought that a third attacker would round on me crossed my mind.

So the slash below my left shoulder came as an utter shock, and I drew back in dismay and near-annoyance. The man before me almost looked as surprised as I that I had not reacted in abject horror– the gash was deep and squirting blood, but I could not find the strength to scream or faint.

A second projectile impaled this attacker – this time, it was Fingon's arrow, and he rode to me astride his bay mare. He could not speak, but his question was clear. 'How badly was I hurt?'

I sat down upon the granite, too weary to answer. A second pair of hoofbeats emerged behind Fingon, and then a third. Éomer, then Calahdra.

"Fuck," Éomer said dejectedly, and I repeated the word unwittingly. He dismounted and bent to me. He had already pulled his belt in the dismount and was pulling it viciously tight around my left bicep before I could protest or thank him.

"No, Éomer, closer to the gash. And pull her tunic off – we need good access,"

This was Calahdra of course, and her hands were on me soon after.

"Lothíriel, stay awake," this was Éomer, and I was until that point unaware that I had closed my eyes. Had I? I could not tell, but the world was twilight either way.

"I killed him,"

"I know, min heorte, and I am so glad of it. But be still. Let us stitch you up,"

Calahdra was not speaking, but I could sense her frenetic energy. The tourniquet was tied anew, and then a splash of hot liquid was poured over my arm. My body was nearly as numb as my mind, because the liquor did not burn until what felt like minutes later.

"Hold it up, Éomer," she was saying firmly in Rohirric, "You mustn't let her lose so much blood,"

Did she still not know that I could understand her? It didn't matter now.

"Faster, Cal," Éomer's voice sounded desperate, and it was in such contrast to his confident, steady nature that I felt shame in causing it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I thought I heard myself chanting, but no one responded. For a time, I could only hear the wet ripping noise of Calahdra's needle through flesh, and the methodical drip of blood on granite. And then the twilight went black.

I woke up in a saddle, which was a disappointment. I would have thought that either death or a sickbed would have not been astride a horse. But then I registered that I was settled between a warm, firm pair of arms belonging to Éomer – a place I had desperately longed to be since our short rendezvous in the inn several weeks ago. The moment felt so precious to me that at first, I did not want to rouse myself - until I recalled the severity of my wound, and Éomer's likely anxiety over my wellbeing.

"Blessed Gods," he mumbled while I shifted, and then clucked sadly to me when I grazed my left arm against his and hissed at the pain it brought me. "I am sorry, Loth'. It is an angry wound, but well-dressed and stitched,"

I blinked up at him, and to the night sky above.

"Why are we still riding? How late is it?"

"Near midnight," he said, still morose. I was pleased to see that at least his face was well. "We wanted to make progress, in case the fiends had – friends,"

I bobbed my head once, and this was jarring. I sensed that a great deal of brandy or whiskey had been poured down my throat in my unconsciousness, and now I could only think of water.

Éomer kindly drew forth his waterskin when I smacked my lips, and I nearly emptied it. This action gave me time to think. I recalled at least three dead bandits – who from our side?

Éomer preempted me. "Only dead horses. Three. A pity. We will be slowed,"

"How?"

"Two took arrows, and another fell on the riverbank – fractured both front legs,"

I blanched.

"And only I took seriously hurt?"

Éomer smiled down at me. "Aye. Only you were foolish enough to draw the bastards to you, when you might have stayed safely hid,"

This deflated me. It had felt brave at the time, to contribute a distraction when I knew I had no real battle skills to speak of.

But Éomer squeezed me lightly between his arms and broke my reverie. "You were brave, freolic. And strong,"

I did not speak, and Éomer was quiet too – perhaps he thought I was resting. I was not disturbed within his arms, though I could hear quiet conversations and the exhausted huffs of horses on either side of us. But I could not sleep, no. Not having seen such bloodshed and violence in my homeland for the first time. Was this how it had been at the docks, the night of my betrothal? The memory of the arrow tip emerging through the first man's face, and the sputum that had issued from his mouth – open in shock and ruin… I feared it would haunt me forever.

Éomer called a halt an hour later when we emerged in a stand of birch trees, and the men quickly set up our camp – but no fire, and a double watch. When Éomer helped me dismount, he kept me well hidden behind Firefleet until he rolled two sets of bedding out besides a tree, and only when I was seated and wrapped in my cloak did he untack the horse and lash him to a fallen log with the others. Indeed, the herd's numbers were lacking – I saw Froth, and Ellerocco, but not the two grey geldings that I thought looked so regal, nor the bay stallion that Azrubên rode.

I did notice, however, one prisoner strapped to a tree across camp from the horses. Calahdra stood guard over him, as imposing as she had been when she cast her lightening spell. "A problem for the morning," Éomer growled when he settled down beside me.

I blinked at him, suddenly realizing his close proximity. "You will hold me tonight?"

The question sounded so utterly childish that I might have blushed had I not meant it so sincerely. I could not imagine sleeping without him tonight, no matter the repercussions on my honor. That one of our assailants lived and was only 20 yards from us heightened all of the sensations of panic and shock that had been growing within me as I had relived the attack in the last hour.

The question appeared to be a non sequitur to Éomer, who only blinked back. "Of course, Lothíriel. I would not dare leave you alone,"

And then he drew his unlaced leather jerkin away from his chest, and his white tunic overhead unceremoniously. "It will be cold without a fire, but we do not wish to draw attention to ourselves," he explained matter-of-factly, and then gestured to my furs. I laid down, careful to arrange myself on my left side so that my bandaged arm and smarting jaw took none of my weight, and he followed – we were facing each other, and he drew me as close as he could while still being able to look at me.

I could scarcely make out his features in the dark, but I could sense from the slope of his dark brows that he was disturbed. I drew my right hand up to stroke his cheek.

"What?"

"I cannot bear that I let you be hurt today,"

I shook my head, desperate to not let him blame himself for that which he could not control. And yet, the tears came unbidden and unceasing from my eyes at once.

"No Éomer, please," I was trying to say, but the sobs broke the words apart, and I knew I was only deepening the gulf within him.

But he was gallant and kind, and gently pulled me into his arms and against his bare chest so that my crying was stifled, and I was fully enveloped by the protection of his body. For a time, I let all of the pain roll out of me without shame, and I found that it had deep roots – roots even so far as Elphir's death, which I had thought had been buried deep within until the news of his reappearance had strafed away that scab. And there was my mother and Erchirion too, ghosts that had haunted me for far too long – had they seen my malfortune today, and thought I might at last be joining them?

"Dol Amroth was founded by suicide," my mother had once told me despairingly, as she often did whilst surrendered to the depths of her depression. "It is only right that tragedy would follow our family wherever we go,"

"No more," I whisper into the black space between my body and Éomer's, and I feel him nod above me.

"I will never let such a thing happen to you again," he whispers back.

I want to believe my betrothed so badly - he is a prince, after all. Why should he not be able to break curses?

And then came words Calahdra had told me one night recently, while we had sparred. Her statement had compelled me to believe that her fervor to see me know how to defend myself grew most intensely from within herself, and not from her King. "A friend told me once," she said, having pinned me to the ground and whilst I was feeling particularly defeated, "that the women of Rohan once learned that they died by the sword as often as men. Why should women not learn to wield it?"

Min heorte – my heart (Rohirric)

Freolic – beauty (Rohirric)

A special thank you to PrettyRecklessLaura, a steadfast commenter and fan of Stones Set Alight and In the Years Beyond thus far. I appreciate you!