Chapter 48
Edoras, May the 10th, FO 4
It was not yet dawn when Lothíriel entered the Council Chamber and took her seat at the head of the table. Hands folded in her lap, she waited. Every now and then her eyes fell on the empty chair beside her and each time, she tore them away in bitterness. The first rays of light had just started spilling over the plains, when a distant click-clacking announced the impending arrival of her advisors. Wídca was the first to come in, his steps faltering and his eyes widening in surprise upon finding her in the room.
She wore the same gown she had worn for Éomer's coronation. The golden crown of the Queens of Rohan rested on her head. She was making a statement and he knew it.
"My Queen, I rejoice to see you have chosen to join us today".
Behind him, someone drew a hissing breath. Others exchanged a worried glance.
Lothíriel didn't bother to stand and listened to the advisors' condolences with a stony face. "Let's move to the order of the day, shall we?", she suggested with some impatience once the circus had finished its merry round.
The eyes of everyone darted towards Wídca, who she could accuse of being many things, but an idiot was definitely not one of them. "I believe your Highness already knows why we are here", he stated, a hint of accusation in his tone for he knew someone in the Council had betrayed him and obviously detested not knowing who it was.
She waved a hand dismissively. "I'd still like to hear it".
Wídca cleared his voice and stood. "Your Highness, while you may perceive this as a personal attack, I assure you we only have Rohan's welfare in mind - as our duty demands. Even though the marriage between you and the King started off as an arranged one, we all know you were bound by the deepest love and understand the grief of your gentle heart. You will always have our loyalty, my Queen, but first and foremost we must care for Rohan and her people".
Lothíriel did then what she had not expected to do: she laughed – heartily and loud. "Lord Wídca, I believe you're the kind of man who could sell sand in the desert. Let's say I want to believe your concern is genuine. I am out of my apartments now and sitting among you. Do I look fit to rule Rohan?".
"Forgive me, my Queen, but I believe you don't and we cannot in good conscience postpone the adoption of temporary countermeasures".
A sense of uneasiness spread around the table. Many of the advisors had been willing to stab her in the back, perhaps truly believed it was for the good of the country. But now that she stood in front of them, the situation had changed drastically.
"I will cut the chase and make things easier for you, Lord Wídca. You want to call for a vote of no confidence but, as I'm sure you know, you can only remove a Queen regent if the vote is unanimous. Lord Haleth, how will you vote?".
"Against, my Queen".
"Hence your motion will be denied. Do you still want to proceed, or can we stop the farce and close the session? I'd like to be back in my apartments before my son awakes".
A flash brightened Wídca's eyes.
So full of ambition. So blind.
"It saddens me that your Highness would belittle our concern and call a session of this council of good men a farce. I pray that one day, you will understand that we are truly only acting out of love for our country. I acknowledge Lord Haleth's vote and call for a leaders' vote. This will require us to wait until Marshall Elfhelm has returned from the East, which, as we all know, will take several months. During that time and as provided by the law, the Queen will be required to rule in conjunction with the Council. I beg you to believe that my next words will forever burden my heart, your Highness. Prince Elfwine is the King's only heir and we must protect him at all cost. For three weeks now you have kept him segregated inside the Royal Apartments and we cannot stand idle any longer. It is in the power of the Council to appoint a ward to take over the custody of the young Prince until the vote. How many are in favour?".
Three hands rose. Three more followed albeit hesitantly. Four remained down.
Haleth – of course. Two of the younger members of the Council. And Léored, on whose face was the tiniest cruel smile. Lothíriel could see the moment Wídca connected the dots. The moment he realized she didn't just know about the vote of no confidence, but also about everything else. The moment he ascertained he had been outsmarted – not just now, but for the past six years.
"All you have done and said today was permitted by the powers conferred to you as Councillor, Lord Wídca. And yes, you have a right to take my son from me. Would you like to send your men to my apartments? I won't oppose it".
"I'd like to make sure the Prince is well. That is all I care about", he declared proudly.
"Proceed then. My guards will let them in".
Lord Wídca opened the door and instructed his men, his expression betraying nothing as she left him with no choice but playing her game. When the men returned empty handed, he turned to look at her, full of concern. "Where is the Prince?".
"Travelling to Ithilien to spend the summer with his aunt".
"Who is escorting him?".
"People I trust".
"The Council had a right to know!".
"I'm telling you now".
Silence descended on the room.
Lord Wídca's hard stare remained fixed on her, but she didn't give him the pleasure of returning it. Instead, her eyes roamed the room, lingering on each man but for a heartbeat before moving to the next. "As requested by the Council, there will be a leaders' vote. Until then, I agree to rule in conjunction with my trusted advisors", she agreed calmly.
"I don't think we will need a vote. Lord Wídca, our concerns were obviously baseless, and I cannot in good conscience deprive the Queen of my full support. Forgive me, your Highness, for having doubted you", spoke Balor.
Moments earlier, the greying lord had voted against her. Now, he was ready to grovel at her feet. Pathetic. All the other advisors who had raised their hands also nodded in agreement and, eventually, Lord Wídca had no choice but joining them. "I had Rohan's interest at heart", he repeated, "but I now see that I was wrong, your Highness".
"I don't doubt it", she spoke drily, "Is the Council's decision to call off the leaders' vote and return the Queen her full powers?".
"Yes", a chorus responded.
"I have the utmost trust in my Council. Even so, I'd like this decision to be officialised". She rang a tiny bell and Balláf entered the room. He placed a parchment in front of Léored, who signed it without even reading it. Haleth did the same, Balor too and, after that, it was as if no one dared reading the content of the paper, lest they might be accused of not trusting their Queen. Lord Widca's jaw was clenched tight as he added his signature last and returned the paper to Balláf, who promptly brought it to her.
She took her time to look at it. Finally, she stood. "I appreciate the Council's concern. I am glad it was recognized that the grief for the terrible losses we have suffered has not impaired my ability to look after my country and my son".
As she spoke, Eofor and the rest of the Queen's guard entered the room.
"My first decision as Queen regent of Rohan is to dissolve this Council with immediate effect. Furthermore, as ruling Rohan will require my entire attention, I am afraid I will no longer be able to entertain your consorts and daughters at court. It is with deep regret that I must dismiss them from their role as ladies in waiting. You all have my gratitude for your loyalty and hard work within the Council".
"Your Highness, you cannot! I beg you to reconsider!".
Lothíriel's eyes narrowed on the councillor who had spoken. "And why would I do that? Your families – every last one of them, were in Grima's pockets. When he arrested my husband and accused him of treason, you did nothing. When he threw me in a cell, you did nothing. Your King is killed and within weeks you are scheming to remove me from the throne. And yet none of this comes even close to the worse of all: you planned to take my son from me, to use him against me! Be thankful I'm letting you go with your lives!", she thundered.
Half of the men scurried to their feet and retreated without even daring to look at her in the eyes. Haleth and Léored left with great calm, as did Dernwine and Elfere, who had the guts to show their unhappiness. Lord Wídca was last to exit the room, his words conciliatory, his cold eyes telling a whole different story.
After they had all departed, Lothíriel headed for her study, where Amrothos had been patiently waiting. "Are you sure it was the right thing to do?".
"You think I should have thrown them into a cell?".
"They deserve it".
"Of course, they do. But I cannot prove they were colluded with Grima and, as outrageous as it was, everything they did today really was in their powers. I could still have them arrested, naturally. But what would that make me in the eyes of their families and of those who are loyal to them?".
"A mad Queen".
"Yes. Should I take them prisoners, within a week I'd have a full scale rebellion to deal with. And I don't have the numbers to win it, Amrothos. It is true that those men are traitors, but some less so than others. They were willing to vote me out, but they won't condone the use of violence to take the throne - not unless it's their survival to be on the line. Today, I made clear it is not and, hopefully, that will break the front".
"You think Wídca will try?".
"He alone, he cannot do it. But he'll try something, of that you can be certain. I sent a messenger to Rhûn and ordered Elfhelm to ride back as swiftly as possible, but only once the situation in the East has been secured - we have lost too much in this campaign to leave before we have full confidence the enemy has been defeated. I have also sent word to Erkenbrand and to our outposts on the Northern and Easter borders to send half of their men to men to Edoras".
"How many are we talking about?".
"Two hundred including the city guard".
"You could ask father for help".
"And have Amrothian soldiers defending Edoras against Widca's Rohirrim? No, Amrothos: we must weather this storm on our own".
"You are right. I understand now why you insisted Elfwine should be taken under Éowyn's care: it's a political move".
"Had I sent him to Dol Amroth, Wídca would have found a way to make it reflect poorly on me – he's Rohan's heir, why was he sent to Gondor? But as long as he's with Éowyn, he won't dare saying a word. The blood of the House of Eorl flows in her veins, she's a hero, the slayer of the Witch King of Angmar, people sings songs of her deeds. She's not an enemy he can afford to take on".
"Well, sister, I don't think you need me to say it, but you played it well. We have long weeks – possibly months, ahead of us. I know you carry a heavy burden on your shoulders but please, Lothíriel, you must care for yourself".
She shrugged. "I will eat my meals and be sure to rest at night".
"That is all I ask".
The knock at the door was, as usual, spectacularly punctual. While one of her attendants let her guest in, Aldwyn cast an impatient look at the laden table and mused that the day she decided to get rid of the man, she would simply invite him for dinner, give her cook the day off and serve him a meal she had prepared herself.
Wouldn't that be funny.
A moment before her guest entered the room, she let a smile brighten her face. "Háca, welcome".
"Lady Aldwyn. I cannot properly express how honoured I am to be invited here for dinner".
"Don't mention it. I have a cook of exceptional talent and seeing how we have already tried out all the possible dining options Edoras has to offer, I thought it was time to invite you into my and Háca's home. We are, after all, family".
Her father-in-law bowed his head, visibly touched by her words.
As course after course was served, she talked very little. It was only when a large platter full of sweets was placed between them, that she snapped out of her own brooding thoughts and offered an apology, "I haven't been much of a host tonight, I'm afraid".
"Don't mention it", he was quick to reassure her, "You have a lot on your mind, I'm sure".
"It's funny, isn't it? Just when you think you have touched rock bottom and can't possibly sink any deeper, life makes it a point to show you how wrong you are".
"Have you received bad news from the front? Is it about Háca?".
"No, no. I'm sure he's all right. Forget what I just said. I'm tired and bitter, that is all".
"A lovely young lady such as you has no business being bitter, if you don't mind me saying so".
"Explain it to those who are the cause of it".
"I'll do it gladly, if you share their names with me".
She snorted and chugged down two glasses of wine in a row. "Fancy a talk with Rohan's advisors? Or, shall I say, former advisors?".
Háca's eyes grew as big as saucers. "Has something happened at court?".
"The Council is no more. Its members reveal themselves for they have always been – traitors, and the Queen did what needed to be done: she eradicated a cancer that for too long had been allowed to spread".
"That is good news, isn't it?".
"It is, if you believe this is the last we've heard of them. But I don't", she sighed, the next words slipping out of her mouth, "and the Queen doesn't either".
Háca promptly refilled her glass and scooted with his chair a little closer. "No one would be fool enough to attempt a coup. I'm sure all will be well, Lady Aldwyn. What will happen to the advisors?".
"That is entirely up to them. The Queen allowed them to walk free. But should they betray her once more, she won't be so forgiving. And while I'd like nothing better than sharing your optimism", she confessed, her hand reaching for his, "I am convinced Lord Wídca won't go down without a fight - and an ugly one at that".
He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "Then the Queen should better arrest him and have him stand trial for his crimes".
"There are two things Wídca has in abundance: wealth and men. Things in the East are shaky, our army will likely have to spend several more weeks – if not the entire summer, in Rhûn. Wídca has that time to either make his move, or yield".
"I don't know him personally. Though of course, having lived in Wolford most of my life, I have seen him many a times. He is an ambitious, ruthless man. Everyone knows that. But he also always provided for those in need and, thanks to his firm lead, Wolford was well defended against Dunlendish incursions during the war. I'm not too surprised his thirst for power has brought him to do unwise things and clash with the Queen. But I do not believe he'd go as far as rebelling".
"I pray that you are right, for it would be the greatest disgrace to see Rohirrim fight against Rohirrim. I take comfort knowing in the event Wídca will choose to fight, he will inevitably lose. Edoras will be ready for him – more so than he expects".
"Ah, come now. Attacking the capital? He may have plenty of men in his service - as you rightfully said, but not nearly enough to attempt that!".
"Perhaps. Perhaps not".
"Forgive me but if the Queen thinks this is what he might be planning, then she shouldn't have let him leave Edoras. Heck, she shouldn't have let him leave the Golden Hall!".
"I wholeheartedly agree with you and earlier today, I made sure to voice my concerns. Alas, I was not heeded". She looked down, feeling silly for her discontent, "I was also dismissed from my role as lady in waiting".
Háca straightened in his chair. "Because you voiced your opinion?".
"No. The Queen dismissed us all - which wasn't a surprise, really, for she only agreed to have ladies in waiting to make the court happy. She never liked them – and for good reasons! I just wished she had kept me by her side as… as… I don't know!", she groaned and threw her arms in the air. "I know my council is not as wise and valuable as my grandmother's was, but still I thought it was worth something. Don't mind my discontent, Háca. There's been too much happening lately, and I find it harder and harder every passing day to endure my husband's prolonged absence".
He laughed, his hollowed cheeks stretching to the point she thought the skin would rip and reveal the bones underneath. "You are young and in love, it is only fair for you to feel so! Has he written you?".
"Not since the news of the King's death. It doesn't surprise me, for willingly sharing his grief and pain was never one of his strong suits".
"I suppose I am partially to blame for that".
Aldwyn saw no point denying it. Had Háca not been raised in an orphanage where daily abuse and lack of affection were his only certainties, he'd have been more prone to share with those he loved and loved him back his vulnerabilities, his past.
"When he comes back, will you tell him about me?", Háca's father asked in a tone not befitting his age - shily, like a child daring to ask his parents for a gift he knew they could not afford.
It riled her enormously.
"I haven't made up my mind yet. Probably not", Aldwyn snapped. She had meant to propose a game of cards after dinner – something she had learned a former gambler could never say no to, may there be money involved or not. But right now, she just wanted to get him out of her face as quickly as possible, retreat to her bedroom, put on one of Háca's shirt, pretend it still smelled like him and go to sleep.
Thankfully, her father-in-law took the hint. "Thank you for a lovely dinner, my Lady. I'm sorry I upset you, it was not my intention. I just…".
"Goodnight, Háca", Aldwyn cut him short.
While the staff started cleared the table, she grabbed a bottle of wine and headed upstairs. She pretended she had not seen the two shapes lurking in the shadows, and ignored it when the larger one stepped forward and leaned over the railing, his voice stern, "Aldwyn!".
She slammed her bedroom's door shut and locked it. Then she kicked it because she felt like it, and cursed when she almost managed to break a toe. Two buttons popped from the back of her dress as she struggled out of it. She didn't bother brushing her hair and with nothing on but one of Háca's shirt to serve as a short and rather lewd nightgown, she crawled under the blankets.
From under the bed, Aldwyn pulled the bundles of Háca's letters. Plural, because during the first weeks of the Eastern campaign he had written her so much, that the box she had intended to use to store his letters had quickly filled up and now she simply kept the papers piled around. She dearly hoped Háca hadn't kept hers. If he had, when he brought them back she'd be mortified to see, in comparison, how little she had written him.
Correspondence had never been her thing. Not that she disliked writing him – quite the contrary and, in the first days of his absence, she had actually thought she had managed to pen some fairly decent, sweet, open-hearted missives. That was until she had received his first missive and realized her husband had a talent she had never known about. He poured so much of himself into his letters. Sometimes the content wasn't exactly linear, he jumped from one topic to the next, his mood leaking through his words. She suspected he never wrote them all at once, but rather a bit here and a bit there. And it made her feel so close to him, like she could feel his presence by her side even though there were hundreds of miles separating them. Sometimes he made her laugh. Sometimes he made her cry. Sometimes he made her strip her clothes and jump in bed, trying to sooth the heaviness of his absence on her own.
Insufferable man was good even at that – lustful letters!
She had tried to write him back letters that were as long and as intense as his, but the result had been so poor she hadn't had the guts to send them out. Bema, she had even sought Amrothos' council thinking he might have had similar struggles with Ealith! But no, because it turned out that insufferable man number two had written Ealith dozens of letter during the winter they had been parted, and made it sound like the words had practically written themselves.
In the end, her grandmother had saved her. Or rather, her correspondence with her grandfather from when they were young. She had found it by chance in an old cabinet and only dared reading a couple of letters, not willing to meddle into something that had obviously meant to stay private. Still, it had been enough to come to the conclusion that she had inherited her inability to pen such kind of correspondence from her grandmother, and that there was nothing to feel guilty about because it didn't mean she loved Háca any less!
The death of the King and the unexpected appearance of his father at her doorstep, had changed everything.
Save for a few words, Háca hadn't written her in weeks and she had written him very little too.
Because she missed him. Because even though she understood why he had lied to her, she was still upset with him for doing so. Because she could not tell him how she felt without dropping the news of his father's resurrection. Because she didn't want to worry him with news of what was going on in Edoras.
Recently, her mood was in a perpetual swing between a quiet simmering fury that she knew was going to explode sooner or later, and disgust – at others and at herself.
Aldwyn took a hefty sip of wine and put the bottle back on her nightstand.
Had she been there, her grandmother would have surely scolded her for behaving like a petulant child. But she'd have also had some wise words to wash away the bitterness and disappointment at her own people, her own country. Just, she couldn't figure them out on her own and after everything that had happened in the past days, she was left feeling crushed and empty. Hollow.
Rhûn, May the 11th, FO 4
Elfhelm was uneasy. He had always considered being nominated Third Marshall the pinnacle of his service to Rohan. One he had not been particularly interested in achieving but that he had gladly accepted nonetheless, for it was the greatest honour to be entrusted the King's former stronghold. He had never had ambitions to climb higher in the social ladder and yet there he was, acting as Rohan's spokesperson and feeling the proverbial fish out of water.
The enemy wasn't being very helpful either.
Most of the hostile groups that had survived the disastrous landslide had been taken care of and for almost ten days now their convoy had been roaming the barren lands, searching for an Easterling counterpart to agree to an end of the hostilities. But the enemy was in disarray: two of their leaders had perished in battle and the third one had been removed by his own angry countrymen. The tribes were once again scattered and distrustful of one another.
They could leave it at that and ride back home, but he understood the necessity of sitting at the negotiation table to let their enemy know they had no interest in their lands, so long as they did not invade theirs. Their scouts had spread word across the Easterling settlements and nomadic camps that the rulers of Gondor and Rohan demanded an audience with their leaders and, as it was, little else was left to do but waiting.
He had recently discovered he wasn't very good at it - waiting.
At night, he read over and over the list of the fallen. So many dead. Some too young to have known the love of a woman. Other seasoned warriors who had survived the War of the Ring, only to perish in those cursed, distant lands. He had never considered himself as someone prone to anger, but Bema he was mad. He didn't even know what he wanted the most: take his men home, or kill every last one of the Easterling maggots.
Finally, on the fifth day of waiting, one of King Elessar's men entered their tent, "A party approaches".
Elfhelm put on his armour and draped a dark green cloak over his shoulders. Outside was drizzling. A rain so fine you don't even feel it gliding over your skin, until you realize your clothes are soaked and your bones aching. He stood by King Elessar, who always had an uncanny ability to look regal even while clad in the plainest garments.
As the group of six men accosted their camp, Elfhelm was careful to watch his expression. Even so, a tinge of surprise slipped past his guard when he noticed a woman rode within them. He had spent several weeks in Rhûn, seen hundreds of these people. Yet he realized only now he had never seen one of their women, and couldn't help but glancing at her in curiosity.
She stayed by the rear of the group, a guard by her side. Everything about her was exotic. Her clothes. The paint she wore on her face. The markings on her hands. Her stance though, that was all but foreign: stern and proud, like any shieldmaiden of Rohan.
The man who appeared to be in charge dismounted and, had Elfhelm not been keeping a close eye on him, he'd have missed the way he briefly looked over his shoulder and at the woman. "I am Umrist", he introduced himself, the scant bow he offered a clear signal that he considered himself their equal.
"Well met, Lord Umrist. I am King Elessar and this is Lord Elfhelm, Third Marshall of the Riddermark. Do you come with the power to negotiate on behalf of your people?".
"I am here as spokesperson for the six largest tribes. If the King of Gondor wishes to negotiate with the others, he will have to look for their chieftains himself – assuming he hasn't slaughtered them in battle already".
"I trust you speak at least for the majority of your people?".
"I do".
King Elessar glanced at him. He nodded in return. "That is acceptable to us. Please, sit".
Umrist signalled his men to wait outside while he and the woman entered the tent that had been set for the negotiations. They sat at an improvised table on top of which King Elessar had stretched a map that detailed the lands on either side of the border between Gondor and Rhûn. A pawn in the shape of a crown marked their current location. Three distinct clusters of three horses each flagged the three Rohirric camps. They had chosen their locations carefully: never more than a day's distance from one another, deep enough into the enemy's land to be a clear threat to the cities that lied further East, but also easily accessible for their supply lines and, if needed, reinforcements. In the North, two pawns painted with the tree of Gondor ensured the Easterlings couldn't attempt riding past the Rohirrim to attack them from the back. In a similar fashion, two swans rested on the southern edge of the map.
The morphology of the land which had played to their disadvantage while chasing the Easterlings, played now in their favour. At any moment they could unleash a lightning attack on one of the enemy cities and be gone long before the opponent's forces had had a chance to converge on the exposed target.
King Elessar remained silent long enough for Umrist to study the map and draw his conclusions.
Only then, did Elfhelm speak, calmly and yet so full of hatred, "Despite what you may think, we did not come here with the intention of pillaging your cities and killing civilians. That, we know, is your area of expertise". He instantly knew it wasn't the way one should approach a negotiation, but he was struggling as it was.
"Last time I checked, it was your army to invade a foreign sovereign land, not ours", Umrist barked back, the flow of venom in his voice only faltering when the woman touched his arm.
"Your own army was making ready to attack Gondor – again. Let's not pretend any different, Lord Umrist".
"You may choose to believe it or not, but not all supported the idea of another war".
"Whether that is the truth or a lie, it is inconsequential. The only choice you gave us, was to either wait and see our people slaughtered, or attack first".
King Elessar rose from his seat, his pale gray eyes taking a stern look. "Our conditions are simple and non-negotiable, Lord Umrist. Your warriors and their commanders will abandon any intent to invade our kingdoms. Outposts will be built along the border between Gondor and Rhûn and small patrols of no more than ten men will be allowed into your territories. Their only job will be to observe and report back potential gatherings of warriors". He raised a hand to stop the burst of outrage that was about to erupt from Umrist's mouth, "Your men may also organize similar patrols and roam our lands. Their members shall be considered diplomats and treated accordingly. If harm were to come to any of them, it would be considered an act of war. Marshall Elfhelm, do you agree for Rohan to offer the same?".
"Aye", he muttered. He didn't like it, but he saw the use of making such concession.
King Elessar nodded and returned his cold eyes to Umrist, "We have taken hundreds of prisoners of war in the past weeks. We will release them all and expect you to do the same. Our last condition is perhaps the most demanding. Our countries have long been enemies and we'd like for that to change. We'd be interested in trading, should the opportunity arise, and would have our people free to move across the border. It is our hope that this may dampen the mutual hostility and set the ground for more amicable relations in the years to come".
Umrist clicked his tongue. "And if I refuse?".
"If you refuse, you toss you country into a war you have no hope of winning. We will both suffer losses, but it will be your civilians to endure the greatest sorrow. It is not a threat, Lord Umrist, but a mere fact".
The Easterling slid from his seat and circled slowly around the table. "You have not demanded to relinquish any of our lands".
"Because we don't want them".
"You have not demanded war reparations".
"You can't bring back the dead and we have no interest in starving your people. It would serve nothing but fostering their hatred towards us. Should you agree, our armies will retreat across the border, where a large enough contingent will settle until the first outposts have been built".
Umrist paced around once more, coming to a halt opposite to the woman. They stared at each other for a long moment. Not one word was spoken, not one muscle was moved. But they were speaking, Elfhelm knew that much.
"We agree to your conditions".
Rhûn, May the 17th, FO 4
The ribs on the right side of his chest still hurt like hell but, if he was still alive, then it meant they hadn't pierced his lungs. The rudimental sling holding his left arm was better than nothing. By some miracle, none of his cuts – not even the deep gash in his side nor the multiple ones he had received on his calves, had gotten infected and had by now mostly healed. He was fairly sure some of the bones in his left hand hadn't set right, but it was nothing he couldn't live with.
Éomer counted the small dents in the sling, as if he didn't already know there were exactly thirty-five of them. Twenty-eight he had diligently carved every morning at first light. The first seven he had added after overhearing his captors speaking the word Yulund and having an unusually hefty dinner.
Korul had told him about it. Each Easterling tribe observed different festivities, but there were a few they all celebrated and Yulund was one of them. It fell on April the twentieth, which meant he had been unconscious for three days after falling into the river.
He wasn't sure how he had survived. He remembered he had tried desperately to loosen the straps of his armour before he made contact with the water. By a stroke of luck, in the spot where he felt the river wasn't too shallow nor too deep. Just enough so he wouldn't break something upon impact, while being able at the same time to get his feet on the riverbed and propel himself upwards. Vambraces and pauldrons he had managed to strip somehow and, after that, he had fought for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes. The brute force of the current was nothing like he had experienced before. It tossed him and flipped him and turned him, left and right, up and down, till he didn't even know where the surface was. His legs had scraped the bottom so bad that he had lost his boots, his greaves, and also two toes. His body had slammed against submerged rocks, his head had whipped back and forth until he hung to consciousness by a thin, thin thread.
And then his left hand had grabbed hold of something: a branch, protruding from a tree trunk that had gotten stuck into the riverbed. He had clung to it and looked around, dismay filling his heart at the sight of the lifeless bodies being washed away. He couldn't recognize the landscape, the battleground wasn't visible behind him.
He had lost his sword in the landslide and his boot knife in the river. But he still had his father's dagger, the one Lothíriel had given to him for their first Yule together.
The thought had lent him a little strength, enough to withstand the harrowing pain radiating from his broken hand as it became his only anchor, the other one taking the blade under the water, searching blindly for the straps of his armour, hoping he'd manage to sever them. He had cut himself bloody, it might even be that he had been the one to cause the wound on his side.
But he had succeeded.
The last thing he remembered, was his armour disappearing into the wild waters.
He did not know what had happened afterwards, but he could guess. He had passed out and the current had taken him further downstream. By some miracle he hadn't drowned. Maybe the water there was calmer, maybe he had drifted towards the shore and stayed afloat.
There, someone had found him. An old couple. A decrepit man with hardly a tooth in his mouth and skin like hardened leather. And a woman who would make gall taste like sugar. He had awoken in their tent three days later, his body forced in a fetal position by the short length of rope that connected his wrists to his ankles. On good days, they'd give him a bite of rancid food in the morning and one in the evening. On bad ones, they'd give him nothing but the occasional kick in the guts that was his wakeup call in the morning.
He couldn't understand why they hadn't just killed him.
Then, four days later, the man left at dawn, leaving him alone with his wife. Éomer hadn't even tried to take advantage of his absence: his body was too broken, he had no strength. When the man returned the next day, he spoke with unusual excitement. Shortly afterwards, his ropes were readjusted, his arm put in a sling, his wounds cleaned. The rancid food didn't disappear from his menu, but at least in the days that followed he was fed regularly and given plenty of water.
Recovering from his injuries had taken time. So much time. In the landslide and the following ordeal he had gotten a concussion and, he was fairly sure, some internal bleeding. Somehow his body had managed to pull through, but the healing pace had been painstakingly slow.
Eighteen days later, just when he was starting to feel his strength coming back in full and making plans how to escape, his captors had sold him to a grizzled warrior and his men. Iron shackles had replaced the fibre rope around his wrists, he had been kicked inside a cage on a wagon and for three weeks now they had been travelling south-east, the landscape around them changing from barren plains to hills dotted with bushes and low vegetation.
His new captors did everything in their power to make his days miserable.
Toss a load of horseshit in his face. Stuff his head in water until his lungs burned. Pass him a flask of water then laugh your ass off when he sips on your urine. Have the furious barking of rabid dogs wake him up in the middle of the night, their slobbery jaws only inches from his face. A few punch and kicks here and there.
They had been trying their very hardest to mine his spirit, and yet at the same time it was difficult not to notice they had mostly avoided physical violence. At first, he had feared they had discovered his identity, that they had something planned for him. Maybe they wanted to use him to win the war - after all, he had no idea what had happened after the landslide and could not exclude the tide had turned against Gondor and Rohan.
But it didn't seem likely that they would know his identity. He had lost in the river his armour, his weapons, his clothes. There was nothing that made him stand out, he was but a straw head among thousands of other straw heads.
And so, on they went. Sometimes their journey changed direction. Sometimes it turned backwards. Sometimes they stopped for the night in large camps. Halfway through, another four poor bastards had been thrown in the cell with him - Easterlings, who treated him with disdain because even in a twenty square feet cell there is a hierarchy and he was looked down as a leper by the lepers themselves.
It was a daily struggle to keep his mind in the right place.
Had he stayed with the elderly couple, he'd have by now the strength to overpower them. But he had no chances with this lot and so he was forced to sit and wait, bide his time.
Time that he wasn't sure he had.
What had happened to his men? Éothain, Háca, Elfhelm. Were they still alive? Did they think him dead? The greatest dread he saved for his family: what was Wídca's plan? Had he harmed his wife? His son? If he hadn't, he would sooner or later.
The sense of impotence was like a vice around his throat. It was excruciating but, in a way, it kept him sane too.
That morning, the day had started off like every other but around noon, something changed. His captors were usually cheerful. The pace of their convoy quicker. Wherever they were taking them, they were arrived, Éomer knew. They didn't stop for lunch and sometime in the early afternoon, they approached a narrow valley wedged between hills that unexpectedly opened to reveal a large quarry.
A maze of scaffold and cranes hung from the rock walls, a dozen guards at least watched from vantage points scattered all across. He and his fellow prisoners were ushered out of their cage and herded towards a sort of elevator that connected to a high platform and, from there, into the hill. Éomer's guts sunk a little lower: this place would be nearly impossible to escape. His eyes darted quickly around, gauging whether he should risk it all, but he immediately knew it would be suicide.
Once again coins were exchanged as new captors took over from the old ones. A bulky man approached and pushed away the other prisoners, his attention focused on him. He grabbed his jaw and checked his face, his eyes. He probed the arm in the sling. Then probed it harder and smirked at the absence of reaction. He stripped him naked and checked him like cattle at the market.
Whatever his intent, he appeared satisfied and signalled two of his comrades to take them all away.
The elevator didn't look particularly sturdy. It rattled and shook in its slow ascent and Éomer wondered how many had accidentally fallen to their death while being taken up and down. At the top, the group was split in two. The two shorter men were pushed towards a narrow walkway and from there, on to steep steps that climbed some twenty feet down. He and the other two were taken inside, the sudden darkness rendering them momentarily blind. Deeper and deeper into the rock they went, tripping and falling at every turn, their breath growing raspy.
At the end of the way, the Easterlings were thrown into a cell together, while he was kicked into a different one. He landed on his knees and fell forward, his right arm taking his weight to prevent further damage to the left one. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the torches to see two feet in front of him. He squinted and moved them upwards, climbed up the stranger's legs, past his knees and crotch, over the stretched skin of his chest.
Blond hair, a face he recognized, a whisper. "My Lord King?".
Edoras, May the 17th, FO 4
The sudden quietness and the crowd of bowed heads didn't cause her a moment of hesitation. Lothíriel entered the stables, Eofor and Balláf falling in step behind her, and headed straight for Greótblæst's box. She offered her mare an apple and watched her crunching on the unexpected treat.
Not a minute later, Runhild came barging from the back of the building. The unusual silence must had her worrying the stable boys may be slacking off, because she wore an angry frown on her face – so much so that everybody resumed working instantly. But her snarling expression melted right away when she realized she was the cause of all the awkwardness, "My Lady! I wasn't expecting you today. Would you like me to saddle Greótblæst for you? I think she'd like nothing better, but a nice morning ride!".
Lothíriel finished feeding her horse another apple and shook her head. "No, thank you".
Further down the alley, she stopped in front of another box. She didn't know what her intentions had been coming there, but now that her eyes met those of its occupant, she stepped in without a second thought, Runhild and Balláf's protests a mere background noise.
"Hello Firefoot".
The large gray stallion looked at her, unmoving, his ears pointing forward. When someone attempted following her, he tensed and whipped his tail.
"Easy, boy", Balláf appeased him.
"My Lady, respectfully, I don't think this is a good idea. You know his temper", Runhild tried to reason.
"Is there someone in the horses' enclosure?".
"I sent a couple of stable boys a while ago".
"Kindly tell them to leave".
"My Lady, I must insist that you re-".
"I'm not going to ride him, Runhild!", she snapped angrily, and Firefoot did then something she had not expected: he placed himself between her and the other woman, protectively almost. Lothíriel spoke in a soothing voice, so not to further alarm him, "I'm taking Firefoot for a walk in the enclosure. Balláf, Eofor, you may wait by the fence".
She slid the halter over the stallion's ears and buckled it easily. He didn't attempt to move away, didn't shake his head. They arrived at the enclosure just as the last of the stable boys was ushered out and headed straight in and towards the centre. A little crowd had quickly gathered at the fence but the further they walked, the easier it was to ignore their presence. She strolled aimlessly for some minutes, Firefoot quietly following. When he gave her a little nudge, she stopped and loosened the rope to let him graze on the grass, but he didn't seem interested. She pulled the last of the apples from her pocket, but he ignored that one too.
"I'm not very hungry either these days", she sighed.
Her hand run along the length of his neck, over his shoulder, down to his back and then backwards, until her fingers were once again combing through his silver mane. At sixteen years of age, Firefoot was still a majestic horse – muscular, his movements fluid, his eyes alert. A slight dip in his back was the only sign of aging.
"Do you miss him too?", she asked, her voice hardly a whisper carried swiftly away by the morning breeze.
And just like that, she couldn't hold it in anymore. The sobs spilled out of her mouth, unchecked, unbridled, her entire body shaking, her knees dangerously weak. She thought she would fall, but Firefoot draped his head over her shoulder and let it rest there, like he was urging her to hold onto him. And held she did, one arm looped around his neck, her fingers gripping his mane like it was the only thing to keep her afloat, his bulk shielding her from view.
She hadn't allowed herself to shed a single tear since she had last held Elfwine in her arms, one week earlier. There had been too much to do, too much to plan. The first time she had showed herself in public after her self-imposed isolation, everyone's eyes had glued on her. As if Rohan as a whole was staring at her with bated breath, waiting to see what would happen.
Will she keep strong or will she break? Can she contain the former advisors' ambitions, or will we be plunged into the horrors of a civil war?
Oh, she was broken alright. There were parts of her that will never be mended. Not now, not in a lifetime, not in a hundred of them. She didn't want them mended either. She could do with them being broken, like her father had since her mother had passed away. That didn't mean she wasn't strong though and whenever she felt like doubting it, she'd chant it in her head.
You survived a night in the open with a bear trap clawing onto your leg.
You made it through a fever outbreak.
You killed Trewyn and bought Beyrith enough time to escape the Dunlendings and raise the alarm.
You kept Cedarn from killing Éomer.
You outwitted Grima.
You are strong.
It was what Éomer would tell her. That, and that she was not alone. That she had family and trusted friends around her, that she could rely on them. And yet all she could see was the emptiness - the empty throne in the Golden Hall, the empty spot beside her when she lied in bed, Elfwine's empty and unusually orderly room.
Firefoot snorted and looked at her sideways, like he had meant to snap her out of her misery and was pleased to see he had succeeded.
"You are not half the brute they claim you to be".
This time, his snort sounded outraged.
"It's all right. I won't tell them if you won't say that I cried myself out on you", she chuckled, tiny sobs still escaping her every now and then. "I'm not a pretty crier, you know? Not like those ladies who cry beautiful fat tears from beautiful clear eyes. I don't need a mirror to know how mine look right now: a red, puffy, blotchy mess. We can't leave the enclosure like that. Can you imagine what the people will say? By tomorrow morning rumors will have reached Wídca that I'm having a nervous breakdown and we can't have that, can we?".
She held on Firefoot for a moment longer, then grabbed the rope and walked him around for almost an hour. As they finally headed back, any sense of relief she thought she had gained quickly evaporated at the sight of dozens of eyes observing her every movement, her every expression. She steeled her features and returned to the stables, where she made sure to remove Firefoot's halter and refilled his forage's supplies.
The night before, Amrothos had sent her a note inviting her for lunch. She had meant to decline, but perhaps she should go. "Runhild?", she called standing in the doorstep of the tack room, "would you like me to join me at Haleth's for lunch?".
Her friend's shoulders hunched. "Apologies, my Lady. I'd love to, but we are expecting a consignment of horses from the Eastemnet, and they have just been spotted approaching the city. I'll consider myself lucky if I manage to leave the stables before midnight. Perhaps tomorrow?", she asked hopeful.
"Perhaps". Most likely not, knowing her schedule - she was already behind as it was, having spent most of the morning at the enclosure and going now for a longer than usual lunch break.
When she arrived at Haleth's house Lothíriel found that, unsurprisingly, she wasn't the only guest. Léored was there too, as was Aldwyn. The former advisor sat at the table, the usual polite blankness of his features appearing somewhat brightened lately. As per Aldwyn, she was just being herself, crawling on all fours with Eadhild and Maerwyn on her back and pretending to be a runaway horse.
When it came to competing for the spot of favorite aunt, she really was the epitome of unfair competition.
Amrothos wore a beaming smile as he entered the room and found she had come, but she was quick to douse his enthusiasm, "I'm afraid I can't stay long".
"Then we shall better start eating! I'll call Ealith and Haleth".
Her sister-in-law was nearing the eight month and looked more beautiful than ever. As per Haleth, he was as smitten with his nieces as everybody else, to the point that when they begged him to let them sit with him, he blatantly ignored Amrothos and Ealith's call for manners, placed one girl on each of his legs and hoarded enough food on his plate so they could share.
Lothíriel and Léored remained mostly silent during the meal. Her nieces' mischiefs and Amrothos and Ealith's antics managed to snatch a few rare smiles out of them, but to each there always was a sour aftertaste, a bitter reminder of what they had lost. How had Léored managed to find the strength to keep going after the death of his wife and children, she'd never know. Éomer was gone, Elfwine was away but alive. Had something happened to him, had she not been with child, would she have found the strength to keep living? She wasn't sure, but as long as they lived, she'd fight with all her might.
They hadn't yet finished the excellent stew Haleth's cook had prepared, when Balláf interrupted the meal. He leaned close, so only she could hear him, "Marshall Erkenbrand is here".
Lothíriel dabbed her mouth with a napkin and stood. Out of habit she kept her expression neutral, but everyone in the room knew Balláf wouldn't have intruded in their lunch without a good reason to do so.
"May I use your study, Lord Haleth?".
"Of course, my Lady. Would you like me to…".
"No, thank you. I know the way".
The mood in the room switched abruptly from merry to tense. Even Eadhild and Maerwyn had grown quiet and retreated towards their parents to seek the comfort of their arms.
Lothíriel provided no explanation and let herself in Haleth's study, where Marshall Erkenbrand joined her only moments later. He was a large man, tall and broad, his frame exuding strength despite being of an age in which most warriors had long since hung their sword for good. He kneeled, head bowed low, "Your Highness. Please forgive my sudden arrival, but I bear urgent news".
"Tell me".
"Do you know Mata?".
"The Dunlendish unofficial chieftain? Not personally. I always wanted to visit her settlement, but Éomer King fiercely opposed the idea".
"Four days ago, she barged into my hall at the Hornburg demanding an explanation".
"An explanation for what?".
"The build up of forces on our side of the Isen river".
Lothíriel exhaled and made an effort to keep her hands down. Whenever she was worried, she had a habit of resting them on the barely protruding belly she had hidden behind the creases of a dress that was slightly too big for her size. "So it's started. Have you verified the information?".
"Aye – that's why I didn't ride immediately to Edoras, I wanted to be sure".
"How many men?".
"Four hundred".
Lothíriel's stoicism faltered. "Four hundred?".
"Former advisors Dernwine and Elfere's banners were spotted alongside that of Lord Wídca".
"What of the rest of the Council?".
"I know for a fact three of them are in their respective strongholds and that their men haven't been mustered. That leaves out Balor and Gamulf, of whose whereabout I am not aware".
"I don't think they pose a threat. Balor's stronghold is too small and remote, he doesn't have the numbers to play a significant role anyway. Gamulf's wife and their sons are in Edoras: their youngest has fallen sick, they came hoping our healer could save him. If Gamulf had plans to attack us, he wouldn't have let them come". Lothíriel scanned the shelves in Haleth's study until she found the map she had been looking for. She unrolled it and used heavy tomes to fix its corners, "Where are they?".
Erkenbrand placed a little jar of ink over a bend of the Isen, some forty miles north of Wolford.
"That's an isolated region".
"Very much so. On the other side of the river the terrain is mostly flat, but on our is rugged and unwelcoming. Few ever venture there. I reckon that's why Wídca chose the place. Four hundred men is more than we could have anticipated, your Highness, but it's still a number we can fight. They don't know we have spotted them, we could take them by surprise".
"You said the terrain is difficult".
"It is and I won't lie, it will be a tough fight and we will lose many men. But it's our chance to take the initiative. You have two hundred men. I can empty the Hornburg and give you close to seventy more. Aldburg can probably do the same. The numbers would be almost even".
Three hundred and forty – likely less, against four hundred. That didn't go under almost even in her dictionary, but she knew little of war and trusted Erkenbrand on this. Even so, she found herself reluctant to give the order.
Like that night after Éomer had banished Meregith, she was assaulted by the feeling that something was not quite right.
It was all very rushed. Too rushed. She had known Wídca would try to do something soon, for once the Rohirrim army had returned from the East he'd have no more chance to take anything by force. But wasn't that the point? Four hundred men was a lot, but was is it really?
"How many would it take to capture Edoras?".
"With its current defences? Close to a thousand. Eight hundred well-trained men might do".
"But that means Wídca doesn't have the number to move against us, doesn't it?".
"He may be planning something else. All things considered, I think we can expect our army to return in two, latest three months. In that time, I expect Wídca will try to cause as much unrest as he can. He may order attacks on smaller cities. He may even attack the Dunlendings just so to put us up against another enemy. And when the time comes, he'll pick a ground of his choice and force you to meet him on the battlefield because if you won't, you'll be the Queen who hides behind walls while her subjects are massacred".
Lothíriel sat in Haleth's chair and rubbed her temples. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe it really was like Erkenbrand said. But if that was Wídca's plan, then it would cost him to show his true colours to take power in Rohan. And up until that point, he had been oh so very mindful to keep the façade of the great war hero with a noble heart that oozed love for his country. Even his moves within the Council had been subtle but lawful at the same time.
There was a reason for his cautious behaviour: Wídca couldn't destroy his reputation if he wanted to rule. Holding the throne of Rohan as a tyrant would be nigh impossible. Even if the people rejected her, he'd still have Elfwine and Éowyn to deal with. And the army in the East, the army that had fought by the King's side and witnessed his fall, was not going to bend the knee to someone who had killed their families while they were at war. They would be loyal to the blood of Eorl. And they could easily storm Edoras and re-instate Rohan's rightful ruler – her, if she was still alive and not held prisoner somewhere far. That wasn't an issue though: she had already given clear instructions that should it come to that, she would not be used as a bargaining chip.
No: Wídca wanted to take power, but he needed to do it without irreparably damaging his reputation.
There was something missing, something she was not seeing because he was trying to blind them. "Has Mata said anything else, given any useful detail?".
"No, but you may ask her yourself, if you so wish".
"She's here?".
"She didn't give me much of a choice, said she wanted reassurance that her people weren't in any danger, and that she'd only trust you for that".
"Let her in".
Erkenbrand left the room and returned moments later with a woman in tow. She was short, black haired, simple brown garments and a pair of sharp eyes that would surely be capable of drilling a hole in a block of solid stone. "Lothíriel Queen", she greeted her with a small bow that was as ungainly as it was unexpected.
"Mata, thank you for travelling to Edoras with Marshall Erkenbrand. I am glad we can talk in person".
The Dunlending got straight to the point, the concept of royalty and proper exchange of greetings and pleasantries obviously holding very little meaning to her. "I demand to know why horsemen are assembling at our border!".
Marshall Erkenbrand bristled but before he could intervene, Lothíriel silenced him with a wave of her hand. She didn't mind Mata's direct manners: good mannered men were not necessarily good men, and vice versa. "The horsemen you speak of are not acting on my command, Mata. They are your enemy as much as they are mine".
The woman's frown deepened. "Horsemen fight against each other?".
"Not yet, but it may happen. Mata, in the last six years and for the first time in centuries, our people have coexisted peacefully with one another. It is my wish and that of the majority of my people, that things should remain the way they are".
Mata looked at her hard. Assessing, weighting the words she had just spoken.
"May I ask you a question?", Lothíriel surprised her.
She nodded.
"How did you discover the assembly of men?".
"We saw them", she shrugged, one eyebrow arching slightly as if to say how else were we expected to discover them, if not with our eyes?
On the map, Lothíriel pointed a finger at the woods opposite to Wídca's camp, "Are there settlements in those wood?".
"No".
"They are uninhabited then?".
"Aye, but after winter we hunt and gather berries there. There are many… holes with bears?".
"Dens".
"Yes. Good woods for hunting, for pelts".
"Like those you sell us". Lothíriel cast Erkenbrand a pointed look.
"Will those horsemen attack us, like they did six years ago?".
"I think not, but I cannot exclude it", she admitted honestly.
"That is not enough, Queen".
"I know". Lothíriel glanced at the map and her eyes trained on the body of water that marked the border between Rohan and Dunland. "What's the level of the Isen currently?".
"Unusually high, your Highness", Erkenbrand chimed in. "It snowed heavily on the mountains - well into the spring, and temperatures have been cool".
"Can it be waded on horseback?".
"No, not for another month at least, probably longer if the weather stays volatile".
A good news every once in a while, Lothíriel thought drily. "We shall destroy all the bridges that connect our lands, Mata. In the eventuality the horsemen plan to attack you, this will slow them down and buy us time. But I have no men to spare for this task, your people would have to do it".
Both Mata and Erkenbrand looked at her with twin shocked expressions. Hadn't the circumstances been so dire, she'd have found it amusing. "You want us to destroy bridges?", Mata asked, echoed my Erkenbrand's, "Bridges that took months to build?".
"We can rebuild them. The damage would be fixable and only temporary. But if Wídca invades Dunland, we will throw the last six years away and pave the way to yet another conflict between our countries. How many more will die then? I won't risk lives – ours and theirs, for wood and stone".
"If we destroy bridges, you won't blame us and retaliate?".
"No, Mata. I can have someone write it down and sign it. A month is not a long time, I know that. But until then the situation might change, Wídca may have been defeated or his men moved elsewhere, where they don't pose a threat to your people. It's the best I can offer you today. That, and the gratitude for having sought Marshall Erkenbrand after you spotted the danger. It is a debt I will not forget".
A heavy silence stretched, and then stretched some more. When at last Mata spoke, it was in a solemn tone, "Éomer King was good man. He saved our children and always kept his word. I know not all people in Wolford were happy with his choices. But he did anyway. I don't know right word, but I'm sorry he died. I don't need piece of paper. I will ride back to Dunland today and tell men to destroy bridges. When water level drops, I return to Edoras".
"There's no need for that. You can travel to the Hornburg and…", Erkenbrand tried, but Mata had none of it.
"No. I speak with Lothíriel Queen, not with you".
"It is a fair request", Lothíriel conceded, "Thank you for your kind words and for trusting me like you trusted my husband the King. When this is all over, I hope you will grant me permission to visit your home so that I man renew to you and your people the same oath of peace my husband swore years ago".
"I hope too, Queen", Mata muttered and maybe she was wrong, but it seemed to Lothíriel that for a short moment, her gaze had softened. She instructed Eofor to make sure she was given a fresh horse and requested Amrothos, Ealith, Haleth, Léored and Aldwyn to join her in the study.
"Tell them", she prompted Marshall Erkenbrand once everyone had gathered.
And telling he did. From Mata's arrival at the Hornburg to his scouts confirming what she had seen, from what he feared Wídca's plan was to what he thought they should do. And they all agreed with him: Amrothos and Haleth, who both knew a thing or two about war; Léored, who knew Wídca better than anybody else in the room; Ealith, who was normally cautious and level-headed; Aldwyn, of course.
Their consensus about Erkenbrand's plan should have made her question her reluctance but instead, it only strengthened her conviction that something was afoot.
It was a risk to disregard Erkenbrand's advice: if she was wrong and he was right, people would die. How many times she had seen Éomer tormented by the weight of such decisions, haunted by the consequences when things didn't go according to plan? The burden was on her shoulders now, and the blood would be on her hands.
So it was and so it should be.
Lothíriel drew a deep breath. "As of today, Rohan is in a civil war and exceptional countermeasures must be adopted. I want every messenger available to saddle his horse and spread word of what is happening: Lord Wídca is leading a rebellion to usurp the throne, his men may target civilians in an attempt to cause unrest. The settlements in northern Westfold should be the first to be warned. I'd like to see their inhabitants relocated at the Hornburg until the situation is resolved, but I know of the stubbornness of the Rohirrim. I will not force people to abandon their homes, but those who chose to stay shall make ready to defend themselves. Haleth, inform Gárwine in Aldburg and Elffa in Caerdydd of what is happening, and also instruct them to send out every scout they have to look for signs of foul activity or suspicious movements of any kind. Erkenbrand, return to the Hornburg and do the same. I will expect a messenger from you every other day. Have your men keep an eye on Wídca's encampment, but I want it to be clear he shall not be engaged in battle unless I command it".
"Your Highness, with all due respect, I think you should reconsider your decision".
"No, Erkenbrand. I won't risk the few men I have until I am sure I am not sending them into a trap".
"What makes you think this might be one?", asked Amrothos.
"Something Mata said about the woods on the opposite side of the encampment. Wídca knows the Dunlendings, he's had a good six years to study their habits. I won't believe for one moment he didn't know there would be hunters on the other side of the Isen at this time of the year, that he'd be spotted rather quickly".
"You could be right, your Highness. Even so, we know how many people live in Wolford and in Dernwine and Elfere's strongholds. To gather four hundred men, they must have enlisted every single rider they have - likely a few civilians too! They have no more men. There are none. We can defeat them before they have a chance to do any real damage".
"No".
"My Queen, I truly believe your hunch about this being a trap may be correct. But we can check the terrain around the encampment beforehand, make sure they haven't laid out any s-".
The sound of her fists slamming the polished surface of Haleth's desk caused a collective gasp. "We will not attack and that is my final decision, Marshall Erkenbrand!", she screamed and held his gaze until he lowered his eyes. More calmly now, she squared her shoulders and added, "Time is Wídca's worse enemy. He needs things to happen fast and so, until we know more of his plans, we shall play for it".
"The moment he realizes what game you are playing, he'll try to force your hand", Léored warned.
"I know how to hold him off for a few days at least".
Confused looks were exchanged but instead of addressing them, Lothíriel walked around the table and headed for the door. It was the very early afternoon. A good time. A very good time. "Lady Aldwyn, I'd like a word in private. Would you mind walking with me to the Golden Hall?".
Author's notes: I mentioned before I meant to keep a faster pace in this part of the story, and hopefully it's making up for taking so long to update! I apologize in advance for the next chapter as well, which will take a while due to down under November holidays!
Catspector: thank you!
coecoe11: it rose alright I dare say! Éomer has a long way to go if he wants to be re-united with his wife…
Lisa Jones: thank you! I know I'm being super slow at updating, but I am finishing it, don't worry!
anahvolf: I had wanted to do something with Háca's character since I introduced him at the beginning of the story, but it never really seemed the right time. The moment I thought of him and Aldwyn I was sold. Glad you liked his development!
PitHobbit: you posted your review just as I was finishing the chapter and it really gave me a boost! Hope you liked this one too!