A/N: You've probably caught on but each of these chapters will be fairly long, but I found it hard to split them without ruining the flow of the entire story and it's pacing. Tbh I'm playing pretty hard and fast with the date of their marriage. I think it's a little in contention anyway about whether it was TA3020, 3021, or FA01.
This chapter was meant to be longer and include the start of wedding preparations but uh yeah Dol Amroth lads took over and I felt that we needed to see this part of Lothìriel's psyche before The Wedding Of The Century™.
Also gotta love the Australian dichotomy of being on fire to being flooded within the space of 48 hours. Despite how apocalyptic it's been, it really is beautiful to see flowers in bloom again after finishing their original season.
Chapter 2- Morning Dew
For the briefest moment she had thought she had returned to the sea. It was impossible, she knew she had followed the road northwards. But here she was, watching the sun rise over the Misty Mountains, golden rays catching upon dew clinging upon waist-high expanses of grass, rippling in the gentle breeze.
"Lothì?" She could barely hear Amrothos' question, her feet seeming to move of its own accord. The first of the winter storms were beginning to build in the distance, the cold tendrils of wind chilling her skin and causing goose pimples to rapidly form. Her boots quickly became slick as she parted the waist-high grass with her toes, the damp already beginning to seep into her woollen tunic. But still she walked, feeling her hand wick over the dew-covered stems and her face warmed by the golden light.
"You could be a fae, sister!" Erchirion called from the edge of the road, bright copper hair catching alight in the morning sun. "Come, we must get you to Edoras. I hear there's a particularly nervous betrothed waiting for you." She idly nodded and began to return to the camp, lost in her thoughts.
Lothìriel had prepared herself for a year-long engagement, she'd even prepared herself for an inevitable delay of at least two or so years on account of her comparative youth, though a gap of eight or so years was nothing compared to the decades between her cousin and his wife or centuries of the new King and Queen of Gondor. She thought she would have had time to wander the beaches lazy sunset after lazy sunset and walk through the early markets for one last time. She thought she would be needed to show Elphir's wife, Sidhiel, the accounts and how to manage the palace. However it seemed politics had another idea.
Éomer was right, the people of the Mark needed a Queen and Éomer needed the help considering the toll of the first winter following the war. Charity and gifts of supplies could only last so long before they were overlooked once again, and with a number of skirmishes still occurring at the Mark's border with the Dunelings; Eòmer was stretched thin. She'd expected to finally travel to Rohan after years of correspondence with her beloved, her small trinket box near to bursting with the number of letters tucked inside. Instead the box lay pathetically near-empty with only a few letters and was easily tucked into her riding bag.
So she had been packed off by her father with the promise he would see her again a month before the wedding. As far as she was concerned she hardly needed a great party to follow after her, they would first and foremost slow her down- but more importantly she doubted the Rohirrim would welcome a foreign princess determined to empty Meduseld of its native household for her own. Her father had eventually come to a compromise; a handful of cavalrymen and horses who would remain with her as a sign of goodwill to the Horse Lords, Istuìon who appeared to be surprisingly at peace to be leaving the comfort of the sea, and Rothos and Erchì who would accompany her until the wedding. She decided that she hardly needed a lady's maid with the length of the journey, and she was certain that Eòwyn -who had returned to show her the ropes- would be more than able to provide her with one.
"After all Aunt," Erchìrion said slyly over his soup "What dignified maid would want to take such an arduous trip north with so many brigands about? They would fear for their honour and their lives before they ever gave thought to caring for our sister."
"Of course," Amrothos' mouth pulled into the mischievous smile Lothìriel knew bode danger "Our innocent sister would be much better protected with a small troop of knights."
"Just so!" Imrahil toasted a goblet of wine to his sons and Lothìriel prepared herself for Ivrìniel's inevitable barrage of words.
Irvrìniel was not particularly happy with that decision, and neither was old Saerwen, but with her promises to behave in a dignified manner they let the matter go.
It hardly seemed real to her, the way that the pale limestone cliffs had begun to rise steeply before softening to high plateaus of dried and burned grass. It was almost as if the war had clearly delineated the fields of slaughter, mounds of bodies that could not be returned home were buried upon them in hills of grey, sandy soil. She could almost laugh, had it not left a bitter taste in her mouth, that the bodies would do the soil more good than the fertilisers of the most-determined of Gondorian farmers. There was a reason why Gondor began to starve after the loss of the lands near Ithillien, and the barren, dust-like soil that clung to her riding boots were the proof of it. Nothing grew here, even the grass seemed pale and sickly though it was spread in great swathes across the landscape. The soil here was half sand and salt-kissed, it paid the price for the rocks it stood upon.
But still they rode on, her brothers averting their eyes as they passed battlefield after battlefield. At one point Amrothos had stopped his horse upon the road, staring blankly ahead at what she could only guess was Pelennor. Osgilliath lay beside them, utterly abandoned and falling to ruin.
"Brother?" Erchìrion had drawn up to him and Lothìriel did also, gesturing at their company to stop awhile.
"I can still smell it." She could barely hear her brother, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Of her brothers only Amrothos had inherited their mothers eyes. Or so she was told. Where she and Elphir and Erchìrion possessed the Numenorean grey, he instead had the deep brown of Meldawen. Their warmth had belied the relentless sun of her trader ancestors' Haradìm lands, but now they stared ahead, void and lifeless. "I can hear my men. Father rode with seven hundred men, and I lost my entire company within mere minutes, Erchì. I had never even seen enemy ships accomplish such a feat with such little energy."
"Rothos, do you need a moment?" She reached over from her horse, grasping the deep blue of his cape.
"No. Keep going." He choked out the words, though tears now fell freely upon his face. He nudged his horse forward and began to make his way further down the road. Lothìriel looked over to her elder brother, hand fiddling with his ruddy beard as he always did in thought.
"I'll watch over him. He hasn't awoken at night for a few moons now, though it still haunts him."
Erchirion mentioned to her over the coming days that Amrothos refused to sleep, always staying awake to take shift after shift of watch.
"It's how he's always coped, you see." He murmured, tossing a look over his shoulder at his youngest brother as they rode ever closer to the Rohirric border.
"Doesn't quite make it the best way to cope, dearest Chì."
"No, but I watched him for months on end after mother passed. He sat there by your cradle, refusing to leave until father eventually carried him over his shoulder, asleep and no longer able to watch over you."
"What about you and Phìr?" Lothìriel's hands uneasily wound around her reins, staring at the worn leather of her gloves.
"We were too busy trying to be grown men." Was his reply. His mouth set into a hard line and his eyes filled with a pain renewed.
After that final camp and her brief moment in the meadow, it had taken a full day's ride to finally reach Edoras. With every passing mile her heart began to race faster and faster within her chest, the genuine fear beginning to set in that all this land was to be hers to govern. Yes, she had Éomer , first and foremost she was here for Éomer . But she was to marry a man with far more power and responsibilities than even her father had dealt with. The soles of her boots skimmed the tall grass as they began to inch closer to the large mountain on the horizon as the sun began to sink behind it, her eyes could just make out emerald banners streaming from what seemed like every possible place a flag could be hung upon. This was a greeting unlike anything she had ever imagined- could have ever imagined.
With a steadying smile from both her brothers they began to fall into formation, Istuion quickly handing her the formal cloak she wore upon more official matters.
"You've all grown up, Highness." Istuion smiled fondly, though his mouth seemed to tremble. "I never thought I'd ever have to stop chasing after you and your brothers' troublesome antics."
"No, I appear to be Rohan's problem now." She quipped, clapping his shoulder. He laughed at her imitation of a soldier's comfort. "Thank you, Istuion. You always looked out for me." Something in her heart felt as if it were being wrenched from her very chest, unable to quite believe that even Istuion who had put up with her since she could remember, was treating her as such.
She never thought she'd be treated above her brothers, deferred to above her brothers. It didn't feel right. In her mind her brothers were still those looming figures who had scooped her up after scraping a knee, pleading with Istuion to not tell their father. Promising to let her hit them if they promise not to tell father that she had gotten hurt.
"Don't ever change yourself for others, it doesn't suit you." He pressed a kiss to her knuckles before looking towards her brothers. "Are we ready to present her?"
"She'll be fine, if she survived near drowning as a babe because she was too stupid to stay near me-"
"Erchìrion that was entirely your fault!" Amrothos huffed at the memory. Lothìriel, though having been told the story dozens of times, still could not recall that incident of nearly drowning by the docks.
"Roth!" Lothìriel exclaimed, unsure of where her sudden outburst of annoyance came from. Her nerves began to feel as if they'd been set alight before suddenly being doused with icy waters, her hands were trembling upon the reigns as she tried to adjust herself.
She was not expecting a crowd like this, the people lined up upon either side of the road leading to the Golden Hall. Craning her neck against the glare of the sun she could just see the glint of armour above the precipice, and figures mounted upon horses. Part of her wanted to kick herself for her stupidity, but part of her hoped that her riding dress could pass as respectful enough wear for the noblemen.
In Éomer 's succinct replies to her queries about Rohan's nobility, she found herself laden with certainly something of a more relaxed court etiquette. But something in his words made it seem far more complex than even that of Gondor's royal court. The Rohirrim barely wrote anything down, passing down tales from one generation to another. Her people would have considered it barbaric to not even record a single sentence. But here memories were long, and every child born to The Mark could recite the founding of their nation and their lineage well before they were old enough to be breeched.
And here she was, usurper and outsider, laying claim to a man that she was sure many before her tried.
Higher and higher they climbed, pulling at her reins as needed whenever they turned sharp hair-pin turns. Slowly, she noticed, the garb of the people lining the streets turned from homespun to much finer weaves and lavishly decorated. Her eyes were drawn to the hypnotising intertwining of knots and lines to form the intricate pattern banding each and every garment as distinctly Rohirric. She shifted a little in her saddle, feeling her cheeks heat up in the embarrassment of her state. How could anyone think her worthy? For once she briefly sympathised with her father's love of ostentation, the very visible display of his status and power.
"Easy, sister." Amrothos mumbled, riding beside her now as Erchirion flanked her left. "We're here. All that matters is that he wants you."
"It was always going to come to this." Lothìriel admitted quietly, her mouth dry as she began to spot familiar faces lining the front of The Hall. "I just never expected to be Queen."
"Better you than any of the others. Know your worth, Lothì." Erchirion smiled before nodding and pulling his warhorse ahead in a trot.
They were here now, her hands almost numb as they gripped her reins. This was her reality, passing by as if she were a passive observer in her cage. She could hardly bring herself to raise her head from staring at the ground.
"Hail Éomer King! Hail sons and daughters of The Mark!" Erchirion exclaimed.
"And Hail to you, Erchirion son of Imrahìl!" Éomer called back.
Lothìriel found herself slowly looking up, something at the back of her mind sounded like her father. He had to told her to keep her head of curls high, to never let them see the illusion fall while she sat on that sandstone throne. Do not let them ever think they have the right to see that young girl she really was, do not ever let them think that ceremonial crown of Dol Amroth weighed more than a feather.
"Hail Éomer King!" There were very few times in her life where she had seen Amrothos be so serious. His face as he greeted her betrothed before dismounting was perhaps the most. "Hail Éowyn Wraithsbane, our cousin in marriage!" She noticed Éowyn's arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly. Lothìriel counted back in her mind before mild panic began to set in.
Oh no.
The baby was due within a matter of weeks.
"We bring forth Lothìriel, daughter of Imrahìl, Sovereign Princess of Dol Amroth during the War of the Ring." Amrothos held out his hand, assisting her in dismounting. She took it, feeling his hands unusually cold and trembling.
"Roth?" He shook his head, nodding in the direction of the awaiting nobles. Éowyn stepped forward now, still tall and stately and towering over her- even more so now, glowing and radiant as she carried her child within her. She was resplendent in her customary white, though the band of Ithillien now graced her brow. Cousin Faramìr stood by her betrothed, and beside him an elf and dwarf she recognised from her brothers' tales of battle.
"Hail Lothìriel, my sister in marriage." Éowyn embraced her as best as she could, laughing as her stomach impeded her. "I present you to my brother, your betrothed."
Lothìriel snuck a glance at Éomer , who seemed barely able to stand the length of the ceremony. His eyes were trained directly on her, though the restlessness of his hand at his hilt betrayed his agitation. She tried to bite back her smile, but failed, as he drew up to her now, bowing before her.
"Princess,"
"Your Majesty," She curtsied deeply in return. She tried to take in his appearance as quickly as she could, memorising the shape of his brow and the shape of his smile. "I am honoured that you welcome me to your Halls."
She watched him now as he turned to one of his Marshalls as they handed him a horn of mead, admiring the neatness of his beard and the way he had braided his hair back from his face. Lothìriel took the offered horn, placing her hands over his as he gently tipped the mead into her mouth. It was sweet and warm, savouring the brief moment of quiet before she pulled away.
"I know how well you love your home, I can only hope that you find it here." Éomer was looking at her in that intense way she had found both terrifying and beautiful, a reverence she could never understand. She met his eyes for the barest second before he once again raised his façade before his subjects.
'I have. With you.' She thought to herself as her brothers began to greet the surrounding nobles, listing her dowry and the numerous gifts her father brought as a sign of goodwill. Her eyes scanned the crowd, noting the polite acceptance of the gifts. Amrothos also added that her father withheld the need for Dol Amroth ladies-in-waiting, trusting the judgement of the Wraithsbane and Éomer King, though Istuion was to join her as an assistant within the household. Amrothos then introduced by name the small handful of Swan Knights that had accompanied them along their journey.
"And of course, the finest knight in the realm;" Eòmer raised a brow at this statement, unable to spy any particularly noteworthy Swan Knights among the party lined before him. Amrothos proceeded to scoop up a rather furry-looking item from a wicker basket, holding him outstretched in his arms. "Sir Ràvo Whiskers, Royal Mousecatcher of the Swan Knight Cavalry."
"Oh no," Lothìriel began to fear the response of the nearby nobles. Ràvo gave a perfunctory meow, fluffy tail swishing as her brother held him aloft beneath his front legs. It appeared that he had even been given a new doublet to wear for the occasion; the blue of his previous Dol Amroth station replaced with the deep green of the House of Eorl.
"The Realm of the Horse Lords cannot receive a new Queen to tend to its people without an equally as tenacious servant to tend to the stables. He has served Dol Amroth's cavalry stables with distinction, and although we are certainly heartbroken to see his departure, he has trained his many sons well in his craft." Éomer 's mouth twitched for the briefest second before scooping the cat from her brother's outstretched arms. Ràvo seemed comically small against the fore of his arm, pressed against his decorated breastplate and beginning to purr once again.
"I must thank you, your highness, for this… magnanimous gift. I am sure the hordes rodents are readying their defences." Her betrothed could not have given a more deadpan tone and she was sure she was going to be horrendously undignified by laughing before all of Edoras.
"Just think of Irvriniel." Erchì hissed, lips pursing together as he too attempted to hold back his laughter. Though it seemed Faramìr had failed in that regard, hastily coughing and looking sternly at a random stable boy who in turn shrugged. Éowyn wisely rolled her eyes at his antics.
"Well, My Lady," He untwined an arm from the bundle of fur purring in his arms, she took it, squeezing just a little. "I understand you must be tired from your journey."
"Were I awake I'd have quipped about how your presence refreshes me, but I do not think anyone here actually thinks that sort of thing is romantic." She whispered just loud enough for both of them to hear. "Lead on, My Lord." She spoke louder now, doing her best to look as gracious as she could rather than as exhausted as she felt. Together they stepped over the threshold of the Hall's antechamber, the rest of their party following behind.
She was greeted with immense pillars of intricately carved wood, tapestries and banners along every inch of wall, and a large central hearth that gave welcome warmth against the bitterly cold winds. In a way she supposed she preferred this to Gondor, where everything seemed so distant and devoid of life. As ancient as her drowned ancestors. These halls seemed to breathe, creaking faintly whenever a particularly harsh gust of wind hit the sides of the great building.
"Love, business calls and I'll see you in the morning." Éomer placed a kiss to her forehead, lingering perhaps too long for polite society. "Éowyn and Marshall Elfhelm of the East-Mark shall attend to you."
"My apologies, I am Erkenbrand, Marshall of the West-Mark" A tall man by Éomer 's right bowed deeply, doffing his helmet to reveal a mass of ruddy hair. "There has been an unforeseen development. I hope to see this matter closed so that you two may resume your courtship."
"I understand. Please, do not allow my arrival to get in your way. My party and I are more than ready to retire for the rest of today."
She was shepherded into a side-corridor by Éowyn, the latter stating that it was probably for the best if she retire tonight and face the new day and new country with a fresh mind. Her brothers followed Faramìr and greeted the elf and dwarf with familiar cheer before entering the spacious dining halls.
"I truly am happy to see you once again!" Éowyn's hug was fiercer now, her hands coming to the side of Lothìriel's face as she neatened about the fallen strands of hair. "You must be tired,"
"Yes," She freely admitted, her body feeling as if she were being dragged beneath unescapably powerful waves, "I don't even think I can bear to eat."
"Whatever you wish, Éomer shall see you when he is finished and I'm sure you'll appreciate getting my brother to yourself." She added with a wink as they eventually reached a series of grand doors.
The room was incredibly spacious, heavy emerald curtains were drawn over expansive glass windows. The tapestries here seemed more intimate than that of the tapestries depicting lore within the main hall, their weave for comfort and beauty rather than majesty. Various pieces of padded furniture were scattered about the room and free for her to rearrange as she pleased.
"We were informed that you wished to have space for your books," Elfhelm drew her attention to a series of empty bookshelves. Lothìriel nodded, barely able to take anything in and just wishing to sleep it all off. Éowyn and Elfhelm pointed out several more key objects, a washroom for her private use, a formal sitting room for the receiving of guests, and a nursery.
"And this, your highness, is your chamber that you share with your betrothed." Elfhelm pushed open a heavy set of carved doors, decorated with the emblem she had become familiar with.
She stopped in her footsteps, unsure if she heard correctly. "I beg your fucking pardon?" This was the last thing she had expected. Least of all in a royal courtship.
"It's not too late to back out!" Eòwyn rubbed her stomach a little, trying to ease the kicking, "I was just told that you wished to participate in the traditions of the Mark."
"You mistake me, I was unaware that this sort of ritual was considered…"
"Proper?" Eòwyn hazarded a guess at what she was trying to put into words. "I must admit you seem a lot less enthused than my Lord Husband suggested you would be. I believe his words were somewhere along the line that you would revel in this sort of impropriety by Gondorian standards."
"Please don't take offence," Lothìriel threw over her shoulder to Elfhelm. "I am well aware of these courtship traditions for those who are not nobility, but I was unaware that this was also followed by The Crown."
"We must admit, it has not been followed as such in a while. Of course your predecessor married Theoden King while First Marshall, and Thengel King before him married Morwen Steelsheen while in exile." Éowyn shot Marshall Elfhelm a look that suggested he wasn't being particularly helpful
"Lothìriel, we are a horsing nation, yes?"
"Yes…" Éowyn gave a small grimace in response.
"You see, it is considered of utmost importance that a bride and more importantly a future queen is fertile." She began gently and Lothìriel nodded at the logic, though different it was of course practical. "Traditionally the wedding was held once the bride was confirmed to be with child."
"I'm sorry?!" She felt herself choke on the spittle in her throat, wheezing for the cool winter air that was still managing to seep through the shuttered windows.
"My lady, we do not expect you to be with child, though I am sure it would be welcome if you should choose to be." Elfhelm stared at his shoes, though his tone was certainly reassuring. "I'm sure his majesty has explained that we do things very differently here."
"Y-yes, he has. Thank you both, truly." Lothìriel smoothed down her skirts, taking a determined look about the room that was to be hers and her betrothed's. "I think I should like to retire. I will hopefully be awake at a reasonable time tomorrow."
"There is no rush, highness." Elfhelm raised his head, looking at her in earnest. "We would not begrudge you your rest."
"I hate idleness, Marshall." Lothìriel smiled ruefully. "I shall see you both in the morning."
They both bowed and wished her a peaceful rest. Somehow she found the energy to stoke up the fire a little more and remove her many layers of riding gear. Her body sore from the ride and her mind tired from the excitement, she quickly fell into a deep sleep.
The waves crashed around her body, dressed in that old chemise as she had always done, her arms struggled to dive deeper and deeper into the dark depths of the sea. Her brothers' harried voices screamed for her from the shore. Her eyes strained against the deep shadows of the rock beds, looking for the tell-tale signs of where small sharks may be feeding upon the shells of pearl-bearing oysters. Her mind quietly echoed with the memory of tales Elphìr told of the pearl divers, young maids who wished to eschew husbands and hunt for the bounties of the sea. They would dive at dawn every morning beyond the safe haven of the docks, their hair unbound and floating upon the surface as they swam back up, clutching woven baskets filled with briny shells. They would spend the day shucking the oysters open and searching for pearls, sorting them into baskets and the meat given to the pie-makers for their baked goods. They sang of mermaids and lost loves, and somewhere a child with her hair danced about in rhythm to the pounding of their fists against wood.
The dream shifted yet again to a young woman atop a cliff, the waters climbing higher and higher, turning evermore grey and dark and all-consuming as with abject horror she saw a wave that could have engulfed the very heavens themselves. Her grey eyes coursed with anger and fury before closing them for the longest, the stillest of moments. She opened them once again, calmness now flowing through her as she welcomed her doom. The woman removed her husband's ring, the vestiges of his power from her brow and the golden collar about her neck. She put out of her mind the name he had given her- tainted her with. She now bore her true name before the Valar. Her heavy ceremonial cloak fell to the sodden ground, and as she stepped forth to greet the wall of foaming waves she stepped out of the slippers upon her feet. The woman called to the Valar and they responded in whispers through the sleek mass of raven hair, whipping them about her tear-stained cheek. She was forbidden to speak here, only the King may utter prayers here, but she was the True Queen and so she gave her first and last prayer as the last Queen of Numenor. They promised to cleanse her of his stench, to heal the burns upon her soul, to set her free so that she may exist in peace. Tar-Mìriel took a final gulp of frigid air, feeling it burn through her lungs as the pleas and screams of her people below rang in the air. It was closer now. Droplets fell against her ever colder and colder skin.
Her lungs filled with salt and she was floating. Weightless. Darkness. She knew nothing but comfort and the sight of her father's smile.
Lothìriel awoke to the sound of wind battering against the wooden shutters of the room, the embers barely burning. Her nose once filled with the scent of pines and the sea now smelled the warmth of hewn wood and perfumed furs, filling her with calm. Her eyes followed her hand, noting the larger one wrapped around it, finding the form of her betrothed sitting upon the floor. Éomer was leaned against the edge of his fur-covered bed an arm outstretched and holding her hand while the other lay limp against his side. He appeared to have stripped off his armour, leaving a simple shirt and his breeches beneath. His boots had been neatly placed beside the arm chair alongside what looked like his garments for the next day.
He looked so… peaceful seemed like the most overused phrase in her mind. Soft was perhaps a better word. Soft, non-threatening, a kitten rather than the lion he was reputed to be upon the battlefield. Lothìriel mused that her betrothed would most likely resent her choice of descriptors for his current state. But he would definitely be sore in the morning should he continue to sit at such an awkward angle, despite his inevitable protests contrary.
"Melleth nin?" Lothìriel shuffled under the heavy furs, tucking an errant strand of golden hair behind his ear. Éomer blearily opened an eye, his free hand rubbing at them as he tried to look at her. "What on Arda is this?"
"I wasn't sure if… I didn't want to presume." He answered, doing his best to stifle a yawn. "I apologise, I hadn't realised they would immediately-"
"Ask for an heir? Come on, it isn't going to make itself." Lothìriel teased, trying to heave him up upon the bed. She swore Éomer nearly slid to the floor at her jest, his hand briefly releasing her own before grasping once again. "I jest, I promise."
"It better be a jest love, I don't think I can handle all this." He murmured, peeling away the heavy furs and settling in beside her. "The cat's already taken my cape." Lothìriel glanced over by the fireplace and his winter cape was indeed occupied by Ràvo Whiskers.
"He's just overly fond of you." Lothìriel replied as she lifted his arm and tucked herself beside him. She rested her head upon the warmth of his chest. Closing her eyes she could feel constant beat of his heart and the slow rise of breath. It was already beginning to lull her back to heady sleep.
"Are you sure? I understand if you do not wish to participate in these customs."
"No, I've lived long enough without you. And you make a delightful bed warmer." She added, glancing up through her lashes. And somehow, despite the heavy beating of her heart, she eventually fell back asleep.
A/N: I imagine Amrothos and Erchirion were bribing the hell out of Ràvo to keep his presence a surprise from Lothìriel. His seven kittens are all grown up with kittens of their own and he's decided that a change in scenery (and a promotion) would be what he needs at this stage of his career. He was informed by Amrothos that the pay would be better in Rohan. With his considerable experience as Head Mousecatcher, he's got an incredibly competitive CV by Rohirric standards.
