Lea of Mirkwood
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It was a cold and windy autumn day in Edoras when the rider arrived. The year was 3011. Théoden King had grown older, and no longer rode out as readily to battle. Some said his days as a warrior king were over, but he refused to believe it. He sat in the Golden Hall and was beloved by all his people. No longer did he allow the speech of Gondor to be used freely in his halls like his father, but renewed the speech of the Rohirrim. He had but one son, Théodred, then merely 33 years of age. On that day the wind was blowing spectacularly, and small drops of rain fell from the heavens. The rain would not have daunted anyone, if the wind had not made it fall so stingingly sharply. However, the lone rider was undaunted, and the guards at the gates watched as the rider galloped to the gates.
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"My king," said Gríma, bowing before his liege. "There is a noblewoman at the gates, requesting protection. She says she was promised sanctuary in Meduseld if ever she needed it. Shall we allow her in?"
Théoden frowned. It had been long since there had been such a request made of him. But, of course, it could not harm him to honor such a request. He waved his hand with a sigh.
"Let her enter," he said, and sat up straight in his throne. Gríma nodded and stood up, then walked to the great doors. He opened them slightly, just enough for his lithe frame to slip through, and then closed the doors behind him. Théoden heard the slightly muffled sounds of a conversation, and then a thumping sound like a commotion.
"No, I will not give my sword into your keeping, no matter what you may think of me!" snapped a stern, though muffled, voice from outside the doors. The doors creaked as Háma opened them, frowning at the figure who now took quick steps towards the throne of the king. As she walked, she lifted her red cloak from her head and let the hood lay on her shoulders. When she drew nearer, Théoden saw a stern-faced woman, no longer in her first youth, with eyes as grey as stormclouds and just as stubborn looking. The only sign of her age were the fine lines in her face and the look of one who has seen the world and was not impressed. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a knot at the nape of her neck, and looked so tautly done that he couldn't imagine it ever flying free. The hair itself was dark gold, much like polished oak. She stopped before the dais and curtsied. It was only then did he see the bundle on her back and sword at her belt.
"Théoden king," she began. "My name is Éoleth daughter of Éochaid. I am of a distant kin to the house of Eorl. Long ago my father rode with your father, Thengel king, and once saved him from a wild man's spear. In that time, your father pledged that if any of my father's family were to need help or shelter, that you and all that followed you were to give it to them freely. That time has come, and I come to request you keep your father's vow."
She spoke so quickly and matter-of-factly that Théoden could not help but wonder if this had been rehearsed. With one hand he gripped the hilt of his sword Herugrim, a habit born from long days in sieges and nervousness; with the other he pushed the golden circlet on his head back slightly. It was a small quirk, and he only pushed back his crown when flustered.
"Why now do you come here, Lady," he asked. "When you speak of family? What has happened to make you need this sanctuary?"
"My father died a few years past, my lord," replied Éoleth.
"Have you no other family?" asked Théoden. "Your husband, perhaps?"
"I have never married, sir," said Éoleth stiffly. "This is where I have come."
By that, thought Théoden, she means she has nowhere else to go. He sighed, but not noticeably. "Yes, my lady Éoleth of the House of Eorl, you will take up residence here in Edoras."
She curtsied quickly again. "I thank you profoundly, my king."
"Gríma," said Théoden. His advisor slid up to the side of the dais and looked at him. Théoden looked into Gríma's pale eyes and said quietly, "Take the lady Éoleth to a room in the east wing, and see to it that she is given more suitable clothing. If you will look, the edge of her gown is in tatters. That bundle she carries cannot hold enough gowns for a lady."
"I can hear you."
Théoden turned quickly to look at Éoleth. She was standing in the exact same place as she had before, calmly meeting his gaze as if he were her equal. Which he was not.
"You must have excellent hearing, my lady, if you could hear a whisper at ten paces. Perhaps I could give you a place among some of the doorwards, so you could hear of strangers plots."
She had the good grace to blush.
"And, as well, what you did hear was of no consequence. You should be fitted with new clothes. You cannot be blind to the ragged skirt you wear."
Éoleth chose to ignore this. "Shall you tend to my horse, since I am to be treated as a lady here?"
Théoden nodded. "Wise idea. Gríma, once you have finished finding lady Éoleth her own chambers, send one of the stable boys to tend to her horse."
"If you would follow me, my lady," said Gríma, with an unsettling smile as he bowed to Éoleth in her tattered and muddy gown and ragged bundle of possessions. She shot a look of defiance at all present and stood up as straight as a spear, then followed Gríma Wormtongue.
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Soon after Éoleth was placed in her room, and did not leave it for that time, Théoden had nearly forgotten about her. So it was a great surprise when, on the fifth day since she had come, he came into the dining hall to eat breakfast and found her seated in a chair by the fire. He halted abruptly and looked around. No one else was in the room. Éoleth stood when he entered and bowed deeply.
"My lord, I do but beg a little of your time, for I must speak with you," she said firmly, leaving no room for objection. Théoden recovered from his first shock and sat down at the head of the great table.
"If you may speak to me while I eat, then proceed," he said. Éoleth blinked a few times, and then she spoke.
"My lord, I have been here for a fortnight at least, and I am still treated as a guest. Everything is done for me, and all I can do is sit here and wait until my hair grows grey and I turn blind." She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. He glanced at them. Clad in leather boots, instead of the light slippers usually worn by women at Edoras. (With the exception of Éowyn, of course, who he had caught too many times wearing her brother's breeches and riding astride some of the war horses.) Théoden swallowed his mouthful of ham and waved a knife at her.
"You dispute the hospitality of the Golden Hall?" he asked grimly. Éoleth shook her head in dismay.
"Not at all, my king!" she cried quickly. "I only meant-"
Théoden smiled good-naturedly. "I know what you meant, I understand. My sister-daughter is the same way. Never allows anyone to do anything for her. No, she must do it herself."
"Are you speaking about me, uncle?" asked a soft voice. Éoleth turned to see a young girl, barely out of childhood. The girl walked over to her uncle quietly. Éoleth heard her feet falling a bit heavier than should be for such a small girl. When the king looked away from her, Éoleth ducked her head down a little and saw the tip of a boot poking out from under the soft gown. Éoleth rocked back on her heels for a moment and wiggled her own feet in their heavy boots.
"Yes, Éowyn," said Théoden, patting the girl's cheek as she kissed his. "I was telling this lady what a disobedient girl you are."
"Oh," replied Éowyn, pulling out the chair next to Théoden and sitting down. "That's all right then."
Éowyn was merely sixteen years of age. Her hair was long and golden, pulled back only with a strap of leather. Thin and tall, she had barely begun to fill out her dresses. She looked at her uncle's plate with keen grey eyes, and when he was not looking, stole a piece of ham from his plate. Théoden looked up at Éoleth.
"You would like to work, then? Have a bit of a job here?" he asked. Éoleth nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Théoden glanced at Éowyn, and she nodded, as though something had actually been said. Théoden turned back to Éoleth.
"Do you work well with horses, Lady Éoleth?" he asked thoughtfully. Éoleth nodded.
"Yes, my lord. I could not have spent so much of my life in Rohan without working well with horses."
"True," replied Théoden. "Have you any objection to menial work?"
"No, my lord."
"Are you afraid of large horses?"
"Certainly not, no!" exclaimed Éoleth. "My lord," she added as an afterthought. Théoden smiled crookedly.
"You really needn't keep adding 'my lord' to every thing you say to me. One last question."
Éoleth nodded, waiting for him to proceed.
"How old are you?"
Éoleth bristled at that, but answered with the same politeness as she had answered the others, but with her chin up a little higher. "I am eight-and-forty, my lord."
Théoden nodded curtly, and looked like he had made a decision. However, the necessary step of telling her what that decision was immediately was delayed by the arrival of a man, so alike in form and manner to Théoden himself that he could only be Théodred, son of the King.
"Father," he said, walking up behind the king and smiling. Théoden looked up over his shoulder at his son.
"Ah, my son," he said with a broad smile. "I was about to call for you."
Théodred raised one dark brow. "What for, father?"
Théoden gestured towards Éoleth. "This lady lives here now. She desires work to do. I have thought, and I believe she should help in the stables, since she is not afraid of the large horses."
Théodred nodded and bowed low, his leather jerkin creasing deeply at the waist as he did so. "Would you like to see the stables now, my lady?"
Éoleth nodded. "I would like that very much, my lord. Thank you. And thank you, my king." She curtsied to the king and turned expectantly to Théodred. He smiled and gestured for her to follow him out of the room.
They walked through the streets of Edoras until they reached the stables, near the gate. As with most of the houses, it was made of wood. The doors were large and carved with the standard of the Rohirrim. Théodred reached for the large handle and pulled on it. The heavy doors opened and at once a rush of air flooded their faces, smelling of leather, wood and the sweat of men and horses.
I like this place, thought Éoleth. Théodred smiled at her happily, as if knowing her thoughts.
"What is your name?" he asked curiously. Éoleth turned to face him as they walked inside.
"Éoleth daughter of Éochaid."
When they were halfway down the long length of the stables Théodred stopped her, and pointed to a stall across from him.
"This is Brego, my horse."
Brego was a magnificent beast, a great bay with rich dark coat and a mane as black as night. Hearing his name, he pricked up his ears and put his head over the stall door. He nickered softly at his master, stretching out his nose. Théodred smiled and took a long stride towards him, placing his hand on the horse's nose. Brego had a white star on his forehead and intelligent dark eyes, like black pools. Théodred tilted his head towards Brego's, looking at Éoleth encouragingly. She stepped forward and touched Brego's nose gently.
"He is a magnificent horse," said Éoleth softly. "I do not believe I have seen more fine a horse than here."
"Then you have seen nothing," said a new voice. Coming out of the stall next to Brego was a tall youth, only just come into manhood. His long pale hair was pulled back, but still unruly strands clung to his cheeks and caught in the light hair on his jaw. He bowed.
"I am Éomer, son of Éomund. Who are you?"
Théodred grinned broadly and lightly punched Éomer's shoulder.
"Forgive my cousin, he is too blunt with his words," ribbed Théodred. Éoleth inclined her head.
"Bluntness I forgive, for I have been known to be too free with that quality myself. I am Éoleth daughter of Éochaid." Éoleth bowed in turn. "Théoden King has been kind enough to allow me to dwell in Meduseld."
Éomer nodded, understanding. "Good. I shall enjoy seeing you about. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lady, foolish cousin, I must go."
And he was gone, before Théodred had a chance to say anything about his parting shot. The son of the king sighed and shook his head.
"Again, forgive my cousin. He is but twenty, and rather rash, quick-tempered."
Éoleth shook her head. "No, please. There is nothing to forgive. I rather liked him."
Théodred raised his shoulders politely. "That is a first. Forgive me. Your horse is down the hall."
Éoleth touched Théodred's shoulder. "Thank you, my lord Théodred."
"You are most sincerely welcome," replied the prince of the Riddermark. Éoleth walked down the stable hall until she reached a stall with a familiar long face looking down at her.
"Ah, my wonderful Highboy," she cooed, stroking the roan's neck. "Have they treated you well?"
Théodred, who had followed her, pitched his voice low and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "As well as the king's horse."
"Really!" replied Éoleth with mock surprise, placing her hand on her chest and widening her eyes. "How can you tell?"
"Well," said Théodred as Highboy. "That stall at the very end on the left belongs to Snowmane. A very nice mount, though only a year old now. He is to be the king's mount later in life."
"Truly?" said Éoleth, leaning back and abandoning all pretense. "How beautiful."
"Er, yes." Théodred's voice wavered from his own and Highboy's, seemingly unsure as to his current identity; horse or man. "Yes. Snowmane is still young and not as well trained as others."
Éoleth took a step back to better see the young steed. Snowmane was white with grey nose and a slightly grey mane. His ears swiveled back and forth as he tried to make out whether this new person and this familiar person were talking about him.
"I think I will be quite at home here, Théodred," decided Éoleth. "Would you be so kind as to show me where you keep the horses' tack?"
"Certainly."
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First chapter complete! Woohoo to me! Yeaaaah...any gigantic breaches in canon there? Let me know if you see any, and I will be glad to make amends. ^^
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