A/N: would you believe that i've already written the last few paragraphs of this story? so now, i just have to write what happens before that..lol.
nutcase, perhaps the sokar bit was a little over-the-top, but the idea actually came to me while i was writing a xanga entry. i thought that it fit perfectly, and might give some insight as to why the sport has two names, one of which makes no sense. and before i forget, lariren-shadow gets the prize of knowing that i really liked her title idea, so i borrowed from it and came up with "before the storm falls." hope everyone likes the new title!
::disclaimer:: i don't even own the title. there aren't even any oc's in this (yet). i only own the bit about sokar and the centaur, and i don't even know if it'll show up again.
Chapter III
Éomer awoke the next morning to the sound of someone singing rather loudly outside his window. He opened his eyes to find that the sun had barely risen over the mountains. Groaning, he shut his eyes again, hoping against hope that whoever was singing would either quit soon or leave. Of course, she did neither. At last, Éomer threw off the bed sheets and stalked over to the window. "Do you mind?" he said, sticking his head out the window. "I was having a dream."
"Good morning, milord!" called Lothíriel from below him, a great smile upon her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I'd forgotten that you were staying in that room." From the way she was smiling, Éomer wasn't entirely certain she was telling the truth.
"Yes, well, um, please remember it in the future."
"Of course." She paused. "What sort of a dream were you having?"
He blinked. "What? Oh...a good one, or at least, not a nightmare."
"What was it about?"
"Um...." He looked around, checking for other people. "I'll tell you at breakfast."
"But I've already had my breakfast, milord. I was up before the sun, making sure all the mariners made it back last night. But never mind that, once you have dressed--" here, her eyes flicked to his shirtless torso and back up to his face "--I will meet you in the dining hall."
"I'll see you there," he replied, backing away from the window.
"Tell me of your dream, milord," said Lothíriel, taking Éomer's arm as he walked into the dining hall.
"What do you wish to know?" he asked, seating himself at one of the long wooden tables.
"Everything!" She threw her arms up into the air to accent her exclamation. "I love hearing of dreams, no matter how strange or dark they are. Some people," she said sagely, "believe that dreams are windows to the inner mind. Others say they are glimpses of the future. I say they are both, and I love to try to discover what they mean. So will you tell me of yours?"
He sighed. "Very well. I was in a city, though I do not know where. I could see my sister Éowyn, standing at the top of the steps to a large house, as she often does at Meduseld when both Théodred and I are away. Suddenly, Éowyn saw someone she knew, and smiling, she ran to him. I do not know who he was, but his hair was dark, and he was tall and grim, much like your people, though of sturdier build. But he made Éowyn smile, so I knew I could trust him. Then I was standing upon a hill with another man, similar again to your people, but not the same. We clasped hands as brothers and walked down the hill together. The scenery changed again, and I was here, in my room, listening to someone singing a song in a strange language. Slowly I realized that it was not a part of the dream, but someone actually singing outside my window." He glared at the princess, but could not suppress a grin.
"I swear I did not mean to wake you," she said innocently. "I was merely singing as I always do in the mornings."
"And what were you singing?" he asked.
"It is the song of Lúthien Tinúviel," she said. "My mother used to sing it to me at night when I could not sleep."
"What language is it? I did not recognize it."
"It is Elvish. My father's people are descended from the Elves that used to come to the havens in Edhellond. Or at least, that is what the legends say. In either case, I learned the Sindarin tongue when I was a child. It is far more beautiful than the common tongue."
"Will you say something to me in Elvish, then?" he asked.
"Mae govannen, rochir. Baren bar lin. Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín."
"And what does all of that mean?"
"Well met, horse-lord. My home is yours. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting."
"I can understand now why you mangled my own language yesterday," Éomer said. "Even the simplest phrases in Elvish are much prettier than anything in my native tongue."
Lothíriel blushed. "I did not mean to insult you, if that is what I did. Your language does not roll so smoothly as Sindarin does."
"Unless it is your native tongue," he said. "Westu, Lothíriel, hal! Min cýðð is eower. Leoht scinaneþþ on gemot."
"And what was all that gibberish?" she asked. "I heard my name, but I understood nothing else." She squinted at him. "You didn't curse me, did you?"
"You wound me, my lady!" he cried. "I merely repeated what you claim you said to me, in Rohirric, of course."
"Would you teach it to me?" she asked suddenly. "I have always been fascinated by languages, but no one here knows your tongue well enough to teach me."
"I would be delighted to do so, but only if you promise me one thing."
"What is that?"
"Teach me a little Elvish."
a note on the rohirric and elvish: i found the elvish translations in councilofelrond's languages section. the rohirric is, of course, old english, though i probably mangled it to pieces. if anyone knows how to conjugate the verbs correctly, please let me know! as far as i know, eomer did repeat what lothiriel said in elvish, except i exchanged "star" for "light." the links for all of the sites i used are in my profile.