::disclaimer:: if i owned this, i'd be getting it published professionally. you know that. unfortunately, this is the best i can do. also, i borrowed the story of tristan and isolde from bart marks. i have no rights to it. however, note that i changed a couple names (king mark, queen isolde, and isolde of the white hands), both to keep the ardan feel and to avoid confusion (too many isoldes!).
Chapter XII
"There you are at last!" cried Lothíriel when Éomer came into view. "But what in the world—? What did you do?"
"Your brother insulted myself, my people, and my uncle," he answered, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nose. "He hates me for certain now. Lady Saeriel is the one who stopped us."
Lothíriel closed her eyes as if trying to suppress a headache. "You are lucky that Adar is not here. He likely would have clapped you both in irons. But come, let me look at your 'battle wounds'." She picked up a satchel and began to search its contents. "Ah," she said, pulling out a small bottle, "here it is. Witch hazel. It will help to lessen the swelling." She poured some of the liquid onto a cloth. "This may sting a bit."
She dabbed it onto his face, and Éomer jerked back. "A bit?" he exclaimed. "It burns!"
"Well it's your own fault for getting into a fight with my brother in the first place," she said primly. "I rather think you deserve it."
"Hmph," he said, but allowed her to continue her ministrations.
"So how bad does Elphir look?" she asked, wrapping his knuckles.
Éomer shrugged uncomfortably. "I think I might have broken his nose."
"Really?" she said with some amusement. "I hope Adar doesn't ask too much about it then. I would hate for you to lose your credibility because you had a fist-fight with my brother."
"Agh. Don't remind me." Éomer hung his head. "I still do not know how to tell him that I am not here for the trade alliance. Have you any suggestions?" He looked at her hopefully.
Lothíriel shook her head. "The only thing you can really do is tell Adar the entire truth as soon as possible."
"Yes, I know that. I meant your brother. He will probably say that I am trying to draw away the strength of your knights, which is the last thing I want to do. I just want to help my uncle before...." He trailed off.
"Before what?" asked Lothíriel.
"My uncle does not fare well," Éomer answered slowly. "Théodred and I both fear that he will not last much longer."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "But I think I have a solution to the problem with Elphir. Do not tell him. At this point, telling him anything would only make matters worse. When Adar returns, ask for a private council with him. He will likely send Elphir out if you request it. Tell him then, and let him decide what to do. That way, Elphir will not influence him too greatly." She tied the last bandage and sat back slightly, admiring her handiwork. "There," she said, "you're all fixed up now. Just promise me you won't get into any more fights if you can help it. It would be best if we do not have to send a battered and bruised horse-lord back to Rohan."
Again, Éomer and Lothíriel spent the day together. They packed a meal of bread and cheese and meat (and unbeknownst to Éomer, a bottle of the finest Amrothian wine) and set off for the hills surrounding the grand city. It was a lovely day for a ride, and Éomer was glad for the chance to exercise his horse, Firefoot, who had not been outside of the palace stablegrounds since his arrival in Dol Amroth.
The two companions raced among the hills, trailing laughter behind them. At last they arrived at a small stream where Lothíriel reined in her horse and dismounted. "We'll stop here for lunch," she sad, breathless.
Éomer nodded and likewise slid off his mount. They stood in a small valley. To the east, the mountains loomed, and from them flowed the stream. It was a well-shaded place; many willows grew alongside the water, creating a cool haven for a traveler on a warm day.
"Éomer?" Lothíriel's voice caught him off guard.
"Sorry, what?"
She smiled slightly. "Will you hand me the picnic basket?"
"Of course." He walked over to Firefoot, unstrapped the basket from the great horse's back, and returned to where Lothíriel sat. "Here you are."
"Thank you." She set about emptying its contents, displaying each item as she went. "We have bread fresh from the royal kitchens, and delicious sharp cheese from the dairy. Of course, a picnic would not truly be a picnic without smoked fish for the sea-farer, and salted beef for those who have not the stomach for fish." She grinned at Éomer as she stuck her hand back into the basket. "And what's this?" she exclaimed. "A bottle of wine? Why, milord Éomer, how did you manage to pilfer wine from Saberman's? I didn't think I left you alone when we visited the other day!"
He protested, "I didn't pilfer any—"
"Goblets, I know," she interrupted. She sighed. "I suppose we'll just have to drink it straight from the bottle. You don't mind, do you? I promise I'm not ill."
"No, Lothíriel, I—"
"I'm glad. I would hate to be the only one to enjoy the wine."
"I—Lothíriel, I didn't take the wine. You know that."
"How in the world would I know that?" she asked, all innocence.
"Because you took it," he answered, rolling his eyes.
"I thought we needed something to liven the picnic up a bit," she said. "I honestly meant to pack goblets, though."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I'm sure."
She smiled and popped the cork and took a long swig. "Would you like some?"
He gave her a considering look and then sighed. "I might as well." He took the bottle from her and tipped his head back, relishing the sweetness. It tasted of summer and sunshine and happiness. "It's good," he said, wiping his face on his sleeve.
"Only the finest." Lothíriel took another sip and then commenced breaking the bread and cheese into portions. "Wine should not go uncomplemented," she said, handing a chunk of bread to Éomer.
They ate their meal in relative silence, listening to the sounds of the stream flowing by and the birds singing in the trees. When they finished, they both lay back on the blanket, enjoying the peace. Éomer was nearly asleep when Lothíriel spoke. "Tell me a story," she said.
"Of what?" he asked, rolling onto his side so he could see her.
"Your home."
"What sort of a story? An adventure? Tragedy? Romance?"
"One with everything! Adventure, tragedy, and romance! They are the best." She smiled dreamily and lay back, her arms stretched above her head.
"I will tell you one that my cousin told my sister and I when we were younger." He lay back, remembering the reason Théodred had told them the story. Their mother had just died, and he wished to comfort them.
Once upon a time (he began, as all good storytellers do), a warrior prince by the name of Tristan was born.
Tristan's father was a great knight, but Tristan never knew him. He died in a fight before Tristan was born. His mother died in childbirth, so Tristan was taken to live with relatives in another land. He demonstrated an exceptional skill as a hunter at a very early age, but otherwise lived unremarkably until pirates kidnapped him at the age of 10. He managed to escape, but was swept away by the sea and washed up on the shore of a strange land. He made his way to a forest, where he survived by his incredible skill as a hunter.
Soon, rumors of a wild boy living in the woods began to spread. Tristan was captured and brought to the court of King Marden. A year later, a distant relative of King Marden's came to visit in search of the boy he had raised since birth. Shortly, Tristan was reunited with his guardian, but he decided to stay at the court of his uncle, King Marden, in hopes of becoming a knight.
Seven years later - having proved himself as the worthiest of the knights of King Marden - Tristan would face his greatest challenge. An enormous knight named Morold would be visiting soon. Every seven years, Morold would appear at the court of King Marden demanding a tribute of young men and girls. The tribute was always paid, since no champion dared to face Morold alone, and to tackle him any other way would be ignoble.
In Tristan, King Marden had finally found a hero unafraid, even zealous, to meet Morold.
The moment Morold felt the arm of Tristan, he knew he had met a man like no other he had known, but Morold fought on confidently. Before long, Tristan received a slight wound.
"I expected more from you," said Morold.
"You expect this trickling of blood to stop me," said Tristan.
"You'll feel the pain of your wound soon enough. This sword is not what it seems. Dipped in a poison of my own making. No one can cure you but my sister, Igraine, and you'll find no comfort there. Though we are different, my sister and I are two sides of the same coin, each the other's sworn protector."
"Well then," said Tristan, lunging, "I am not the only one who will die today."
"The faster your blood races, the more the poison flows."
"Then I will move quicker still."
Tristan cracked the skull of Morold with his sword, then collapsed next to the fallen giant. Exhausted and already ill, Tristan was not yet ready to die. He knew of a Queen Igraine whose land was not far. Reasoning her to be the sister of Morold, he traveled to her castle disguised as a minstrel.
How Tristan survived the journey is impossible to say, but his magnificent body had grown haggard and weak by the time he arrived at the castle of Queen Igraine. Still, he managed to pull himself to his feet before the Queen and beg for an opportunity to speak. In a polite manner, he explained that he had been bitten by a snake and was dying. But he had heard of the sweet healing touch of the beautiful queen.
The Queen and her daughter, the lovely Isolde, were impressed by Tristan's fine manners, so noble for a minstrel on the verge of death. The Princess was assigned the task of nursing the boy back to health.
As Tristan's vigor returned, a palpable attraction to the Princess could be observed, which was a source of some concern for the Queen. A Princess, thought the Queen, should find better ways to occupy her time than consorting with minstrels.
Meanwhile, Tristan decided to send word back to King Marden informing his uncle of his improving condition. The very ideal of chivalry, Tristan was an accomplished musician and poet. Inspired by the unsurpassed beauty of Isolde, he constructed tender verses in her honor.
Moved by the gorgeous poetry, King Marden remembered his people's need for a queen. He sent word to Queen Igraine, who was thrilled by the prospect of her daughter's marriage to a powerful King. If the girl must waste her time toying with minstrels, let her do it as a well-married queen. But the Queen decided to keep her plans a secret, to surprise her daughter with the good news when the deal was set.
Then the body of Morold was brought back to the castle of Igraine. Upon seeing it, the Queen and the Princess vowed revenge upon "whomsoever did this heinous deed." Avenging the death of Morold was the solemn duty of his relatives, a pact made by a priest at the birth of the Queen and her brother.
Preparing the body for burial, Princess Isolde noticed a small chunk of metal lodged in his skull. She removed it, hoping someday to use the evidence to discover his killer.
One afternoon, the Princess found Tristan's sword and noticed a piece of metal missing from it. Matching up the fragment taken from her uncle's skull, she realized, to her horror, that the killer was the fair minstrel she had grown so fond of - obviously no ordinary minstrel.
She had no choice. She must kill Tristan. But she could not bear the thought. She had grown so fond of the boy. She resolved to follow the only honorable course she could see; she would kill Tristan, then kill herself. She might be dead, but she would be well remembered.
She chose poisoned wine as the method. She informed only her loyal servant, Brangane, of the plot. But Brangane, whose duty would have been to commit suicide along with her mistress, considered love preferable to death and switched the poison crystals for the crystals of a love potion.
The Princess poured the crystal laden wine.
"Why so melancholy, Princess?" Tristan asked, his own spirits soaring.
"To fate," she said, lifting her cup. They drank, unleashing an unrelenting passion, a love without care of consequences, without regard for any obstacle. Surely such emotions do not belong to crystals alone, but sparked by magic or fate, a seething insatiable love began to move inexorably towards its end, sweeping Tristan and Isolde along with it.
As the unsuspecting Tristan sipped his wine, the messengers of King Marden were speeding towards him with news of the King's impending nuptials - and Tristan's next assignment: to escort the King's new bride to her new home.
By elaborate scheme, Tristan and Isolde managed to avoid the wedding night horror of her in the bed of King Marden.
Rumors of a possible affair between the beautiful two had begun to trickle back to the ears of Marden. Suspicious, he decided to put Isolde to the test, a trial by fire. His young bride would swear her fidelity to him then place her hands on a red-hot iron. Her truthful words would protect her from the searing metal.
Attending the ordeal, Tristan disguised himself as a tattered pilgrim. Approaching the King, Isolde stumbled into the arms of the dusty palmer. When questioned, Isolde claimed no man had lain hands on her "save this poor pilgrim here." She survived the ordeal unscathed.
Faithful Brangane took Isolde's place in King Marden's wedding bed. Brangane covered her face, claiming her purity and the traditions of her land required such modesty.
Resorting to all sorts of similar trickery, Tristan and Isolde yielded to their passions, but King Marden and his ears grew more and more alert. Once he found the two of them lying in a forest with a naked sword between them. He stabbed Tristan in the back with a knife while the boy composed a song for his fair queen. Tristan survived the wound, but Marden could stand no more of the rumors and banished him.
Recognizing his guilt, Tristan accepted his fate and set out to accomplish many great deeds in the name of King Marden and the fair queen Isolde. The fame of Tristan spread far and wide and he joined King Cadeyrn's knights, but he could find no solace. While in service to the great king, he met a beautiful maiden whose name was Gwynhyfar. Tristan married Gwynhyfar but never consummated the marriage. Instead he set off to fight a dragon. The battle, like any mortal combat, was grim, glorious and brutal in its finality. Tristan prevailed, but was badly wounded.
As he lay dying in the castle he shared with Gwynhyfar, he sent word to his beloved Isolde, knowing that only she could cure him. He instructed his messenger to hoist white sails above the ship upon its return if Isolde was on board, black sails if she was not. Thus he would know if his one true love would come back to him.
As the ship sailed in, Tristan lay too weak to raise his head. He asked Gwynhyfar if the sails were white or black. The big white sails billowed majestically against the crisp blue sky, but his jealous wife replied, "black." Tristan died of a broken heart.
Upon finding his body, the spirit of his beloved Isolde departed this earth.
Éomer was surprised to find tears in his eyes as he finished the tale.
"That was beautiful," Lothíriel whispered. "But the lady Gwynhyfar was terrible. Did she not love him enough to let him be saved?"
"You sound like my sister," Éomer laughed. He sat up, talking as he went. "She wondered the same thing. Théodred had to explain to her that Gwynhyfar may have loved him, but Isolde loved him more. And when Tristan was healed, he would go back with Isolde. Éowyn said that if she were telling the story, Gwynhyfar would have her head cut off and Tristan and Isolde would live together forever."
"I like your sister more and more every moment," said Lothíriel. "She sounds like a lovely person."
"Aye, she is," he said. He picked up the bottle of wine and took a long draught.
"You worry about her, don't you?" said Lothíriel, taking the bottle.
"Aye. I fear...." He trailed off. "It is not important."
"You know the best way to end your worries?" she asked. "At least temporarily?"
"What is that?"
"Drink more wine." She held up the wine bottle and grinned impishly. Éomer grinned back.
A/N: and who can guess what kind of trouble they'll get into now? hehe...whoo, that took a lot more space than i thought it would. seven pages exactly! by the way, the story of tristan and isolde could possibly be important later on. ::hinthint:: and because this is so long, i'm not going to post replies today, except to answer a few questions.
lady hades: i don't know that much about weapons. the name for the glaive is from tamora pierce's books, the lady knight quartet. i made up the design and usage myself.
dancin' over the edge: i promise you will find out how lothiriel's been getting in and out of eomer's room via the balcony eventually. we just have to wait a little while...until the...oh wait, can't tell you yet. don't want to spoil the surprise!
c'est magnifique: i don't have access to tolkien's original drafts (unfortunately). a friend of mine on councilofelrond told me that in the original, aragorn and eowyn are in love, but he won't let her fight, so she disguises herself. then, when she battles the witch king, she defeats him, but dies of the injuries she receives. aragorn is distraught and wanders middle earth until he dies of sorrow. or something like that.