"Angol Iaur"
AN: This is a story written for a dear friend. Lydia loved Lord of the Rings, even before the movies were made, and she absolutely loved Eomer when she discovered Karl Urban was playing him in the movies. I decided to write this story for her when she got sick, to cheer her up, and she gave me permission to publish it online, for "the enjoyment opportunities of others." I know Lydia isn't a very Middle-earth name, and the character is a tad Mary-Sue, but please don't find fault. Lydia loves it.
Reaching up to brush loose wisps of hair off her forehead, Lydia smudged soot in a streak across the sweat-damp skin. She paid it no mind, intending to dump a pail of water over her head before she finished for the day. She pulled the cherry-red steel from the fire with a bare hand and placed it on the anvil, giving it a smart tap with her hammer. Sparks flew, landing on the sooty floor or on the thick leather apron she wore to protect her clothes from just such an occurrence.
She was the only smith in Edoras who could make the fine swords the men of the court favored. Of course, she was also the only female smith in the West. Born in the Gondorian city of Minas Tirith fully twenty-three years ago, she'd taken to hanging about the smithies in the Fifth Tier until they grew used to seeing her about and even began to let her ask questions and help them with small chores. The greatest smith in the city had taken a great liking to her and begun to actually teach her the art of metalwork. She took to it like a fish takes to water and fifteen years later, she'd surpassed her teachers and removed herself from the great White City to serve in a place where there was need of someone of her skill, the Riddermark.
Only two months before, she'd arrived in the capital city of the horse-lords and immediately drew business to herself. Her smithy belonged to the small inn next to it, so she opened it for business and paid a young woman to run it as an inn while she worked, sleeping in a loft above the forge.
Tearing her mind away from the past, she looked up as a shadow darkened her doorway. Squinting against the light, she tried to recognize the shape. Politely, it took a step forward so the light was more on his face. She smiled and put the sword back into the forge to offer Lord Eomer a courtesy bow.
"My lord," she said as her head dipped. "It is good to see you return safely."
"Theodred was not so fortunate," he replied softly, naming the king's son. Lydia gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. "He was ambushed by orcs near the border he'd gone to defend. He is the only one of that patrol who escaped with his life. We found him…" The young captain bit off the rest of his sentence. More than just being his cousin, Theodred had been his friend and fellow defender. "Grima Wormtongue has banished me from the Riddermark for daring to speak against him." Her eyes widened.
"Eomer, no! You are needed here! You cannot leave; if you do, our last hope is lost!" All pretense at stiff formality evaporated. She was in earnest. While Theodred had been strong, he and Eomer had been the sole force keeping the aging king Theodin from going mad and killing all those who wondered aloud if they might need help from elsewhere. Lydia knew, of course, that there was no help to be had from Gondor: the steward, Lord Denethor, had gone mad. He saw treachery everywhere and in everyone, much like Theodin now.
The young captain took heart from his friend's reaction and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. "I will seek aid from the south. Do not fear, meldis nin. I would not leave you here without hope." She had begun to teach him Sindarin, the language spoken by most elves in the nearby regions. He was grasping it quickly, though his accent, like hers, was unalterably human. She managed a smile.
"You would be better off staying. Gondor will not offer any aid, no matter how you beg. But wherever your trail takes you, my dear friend, take care." She clasped his fingers briefly, before ducking her head to hide her sudden tears. He slipped a hand under her chin and lifted her face.
"Have hope for me," he whispered. "I'll be back, and you can make me that glorious new sword you've been promising me." Her smile was a bit forced, but it was the best she could do.
"All right, Eomer. You have my blessings. But when you get back, it should be with legions of fighters behind you. Only then will I forgive you for leaving me behind." Eomer noticed the quiver in her voice and wondered suddenly if she was bidding a friend farewell, or a lover. Could they be…? He blinked that thought away. If he carried it through to conclusion, he would never leave.
"With legions of fighters at my back," he promised. Then he squeezed her shoulder and swept out of the forge. Only then did Lydia yelp and spin, pulling the beginnings of a sword out of the fire before it melted.
By concentrating on the work to be done, she managed to keep her fear for Eomer and the Rohirrim at bay. Cleaning the forge after her day's work, she dumped the prescribed bucket of water over her head and sputtered as it dripped into her eyes. She shook her head, spraying water everywhere, just as Eomer's sister, Eowyn, entered the yard. Her eyes were cold and distant, though her lips curved into a warm smile.
"My lady," Lydia acknowledged.
"You have seen my brother?"
"He left several hours ago, my lady." Her face was wistful.
"Did he leave no word for me, then?"
"He…he said he would be back, and that he would bring aid from somewhere. The Wormtongue has banished him from Edoras, and from Rohan." She ducked her head. "He also told me of your cousin. You have my sympathies."
"I do not want your sympathies, wench!" Eowyn burst out. "You do not know! You cannot know! You are a mere girl whom my brother has taken a liking to. But he will lose interest in you soon enough and move on. Only hope he does not leave you with a child. One such as you would snap under such a burden."
Lydia stood stone still and waited for Eowyn to finish. Her temper had heated her skin, making it radiate the heat of the forge. When her voice emerged, it was cold, controlled, and emotionless. Her words, however, were calculated. "You would do well to hold your tongue, Lady Eowyn. What does a high-born chit like yourself know of hardship, of burdens? You bear the sorrow of your cousin's death in your heart, yes. I bear the grief of my mother's death, my father's anger and disappointment in my heart. I bear the burden of contempt from women like you, and men as well. In this city, only two were kind to me; one of them is now dead, and the other banished by that serpent you keep in the castle. I left my homeland and my people behind. When you are stripped of hope and friends, Lady Eowyn, come back and we shall share words once more." Each word was like a slap in the face to Eowyn, and when she was finished, Lydia turned away, going back into the forge for a bath.
Her mind raced, even in sleep. Eomer was gone, Theodred dead, and she was alone in this country. No one could equal her talent with metal, few could rival her skill with the blades she forged. And not one person was left who could appreciate all that she was.
So busy was her mind that night, that she did not drop to sleep until dawn. As such, the forge remained quiet and cold until well after midday. Emerging from her cocoon of blankets when Koria brought midday in, Lydia groaned to think of the time she'd lost in sleeping half the day away.
Fortunately, her work was not missed. Over half the city's defenders, most of her business, had ridden off with Eomer the day before. She worked on a dented breastplate until supper, and then stopped for the day. Dropping off to sleep that night was easier, but her sleep was disturbed and uneasy. She woke at dawn feeling as if she had not slept at all.
Even an apprentice knew that a tired smith made mistakes, so she did not light the forge at all. Instead, she spent the morning darning some of her stockings, and mending one of her shirts. After midday, she helped Koria clean the two rooms the inn possessed, as well as the privy. The sun was setting when she decided to go for a ride.
Saddling her mare, Aeglos, a Sindarin word for icicle, she mounted in the yard. She carried a sheathed dagger strapped to her thigh, and a sword strapped to the saddle. No one left the city, anymore, without a weapon of some sort. She dismounted just shy of the gates and knelt in the road next to a freshly piled burial mound. "Oh, Theodred," she sighed. She dropped a bundle of elanor on the grave and wiped her streaming eyes. "You will be missed, my friend. My prince." She mounted up through the haze of tears and nudged Aeglos into motion.
The mare carried her afield, towards the river Isen. Not far, but still far enough from the city to distract her from her emotions. As the moon rose, she noticed a faint cloud of dust rising from the horizon. Shrugging, she turned back towards the city. She arrived just as the guards finished sealing the gates for the night. Without protest, she dismounted and pulled a bedroll off the back of the saddle, unrolling it across the road from Theodred's burial mound.
It was the first peaceful night's sleep she'd had in a week. The creaking of the city gates woke her in the morning. She rolled up her bed and led Aeglos into the city, up the hill to her forge. She deliberately groomed the mare longer than normal, delaying the moment when she would have to light the forge and pretend everything was all right again.
Nothing but repair work awaited her that day. Many of the remaining defenders needed their horses reshod, and several wanted the edges on their blades sharpened. She saw to it all and discovered an empty forge midafternoon.
An idea was lurking on the edge of her mind, one that refused to be ignored. She put several rods of tempered steel on the fire to heat while she mulled it over. Like a flower opening inside her head, she knew what she should do. For the first time in a month, her mind was blessedly clear. Closing her eyes, she drew the first piece out of the fire, ready to be shaped.
A tap of the hammer here and one there, and a quick reheating, and an hour had passed. She had finished the handle of the hilt. The tang was thick and sturdy, meant for one man's hand alone. She finished the cross-piece when she would normally have been ending for the day. Instead, she lit a lamp and set it above the forge for better light.
Engraving was a specialty of hers, and she loved doing it, even though it took great strength and concentration. But the design was in her mind and refused to leave, so she indulged in it and carefully hammered it into the metal long into the night.
As the midnight bell tolled once, she stood back and stretched. Done with one side, she flipped it over and set it in the coals for a moment as she moved stiff muscles and rubbed feeling back into her hands. When she judged it hot enough to work without melting the design together, she pulled it out and set to work on the opposite side.
Halfway through, she felt a throbbing and tugging behind her eyes. Mentally cursing, she continued, trying to ignore it. The ache built in strength until it was a sheet of white. With a sigh, she kept the presence of mind to set her tools and project aside before her eyes rolled up and she collapsed to the dirt.
Koria had cleaned the forge and set aside everything in its proper place, she saw when she woke next. It had happened before, when she'd been stubborn enough to ignore the warnings. She'd collapsed twice in Minas Tirith and once along the road to Edoras. Each time she had slept right through a week and awoken ravenous and thirsty.
She climbed down to the forge in her nightclothes and eagerly drew a bucket from the well. She drank almost half of it before her sharp ears realized that there was no sound but birds anywhere nearby. Curious, she poked her head into the inn. Koria was not there. She approached the bar and saw that the young woman had left her an explanation.
Mistress Lydia,
I am sorry. I tried to wake you, I really did. But the king ordered us to evacuate the city after he threw out the Wormtongue. I went to the Hall to ask for help, but no one would listen to me, so I locked everything up tight and had to leave you. Please do not be angry with me. I was only following the orders of my king. I couldn't stop them taking Aeglos, either. Be safe, and follow us to Helm's Deep. I shall expect you soon.
Koria
Lydia stared at the paper and reread it. The handwriting was definitely Koria's, but the message made no sense. The king had thrown out his advisor? The entire city had emptied to flee to Helm's Deep, but left her behind, unable to defend herself? Had the whole world gone mad while she slept the sleep of the dead?
Shaking her head to clear it, she set the note down and went to raid the kitchen. She found most of the food gone, but enough left to last her a while if she ate sparingly. Too bad she wasn't going to eat sparingly. She inhaled half a roast chicken, a large hunk of cheese, a loaf of bread slathered in butter, and a flagon of milk before she was satisfied. That had just cut her food supplies in half.
Returning to her loft, she dressed. If she'd been sleeping a week, which her time sense said was accurate, then the city had been empty at least four days. Why the city would empty in the first place was beyond her to guess, but she put aside the matter, resolving to ask the first person she saw. Finding a large pack, she stuffed a blanket into the bottom and wrapped the rest of her food, placing it on top of the blanket. Then came a fresh change of clothes and another blanket. She swirled a cloak around her shoulders and strapped her knife to her thigh and her sword across her back, under the cloak. Over it all she strapped the pack.
Taking a deep breath, she set out towards Helm's Deep, a three day walk straight across the plains to a ravine far to the north. She hummed to herself as she walked, Gondorian folk songs, Rohirrim travel songs, Elven ballads, and even Dwarfish drinking songs. When she ran out of songs, she began to talk of the places she'd seen and the things she'd done in her short life.
Between sunset and moonrise, she started to feel a slight tremble in the ground. Ignoring it at first, she continued to walk, silent now, straining her ears for the sounds of tack jingling as the horse wearing it ran. Nothing came but wind.
Near midnight, and just after her decision to stop for the day, she heard the first sound of horses in motion and froze, barely breathing, to listen. An hour later, she was still listening as the sounds grew louder and the trembling of the earth grew heavier. Straining her eyes, she could see the cloud of dust to the south, coming towards her. She waited and waited, another hour slipping past, and then another. At the fourth hour of the morning, she could finally make out the specter: two thousand men riding hard north, led by a white-clad old man on a blazing white horse.
She nearly shouted with joy when she recognized the helm of the rider beside the man in white. She herself had forged Eomer's impressive helm, and she knew it as well as she knew her own name. "Eomer!" she called, pitching her voice to carry over the noise. His head turned towards her and his fist lifted into the air. Slowly, the columns slowed and stopped. She raced towards him as he dismounted, removing his helm.
She collided hard with his chest and hugged him tight, feeling his arms encircle her in turn. "What are you doing here?" he asked through her hair, not really wanting to release her.
"I'm on my way to Helm's Deep," she said slowly. "Apparently, everyone left the city on king's orders after he threw out Wormtongue."
"And you were left behind?"
"If I hadn't been, don't you think I'd already be at Helm's Deep?" she retorted. "I had one of my episodes; I was unconscious for a few days before and a few days after the evacuation. I only woke up this morning."
"Gwaluth is without a rider," Eomer said softly. "Mount up. We ride for Helm's Deep as fast as an eagle flies. Gandalf brings us news of war." At that, Lydia looked up sharply, her eyes piercing.
Eyes of blue ice met hers squarely. "Mithrandir," she breathed in both awe and anger. "Always the bearer of bad news, wizard. Or should I call you Silvrendir instead? Your colors have changed but your habits have not."
"I remember you, child."
"As well you should," she snapped, her awe wearing away quickly. "Your interference caused my exile." She ignored Eomer's hand and mounted the horse he'd offered. She gathered the reins and sighed. Eomer mounted his own horse and nodded to the wizard. He gave the signal and two thousand Rohirrim leapt into motion, riding hard for Helm's Deep.
The sun rose slowly behind them as the ravine came into view. On the open ground before it, Lydia saw the black carpet of enemies, orcs of Saruman. She drew her sword with the others, ignoring Eomer's attempts to catch her eyes. He finally gave up and offered a quick prayer to whatever deity might be listening to keep her safe.
Her whole attention was focused below, on the causeway of the great fortress, and a sudden indrawn breath made her choke. Gandalf turned his eyes on her. "Child?"
"That…man…who is that man with the king, Mithrandir?" Gandalf smiled.
"His name is Aragorn son of Arathorn. He is-"
"The true king of Gondor," she breathed. She turned her eyes on him. "We shall have a king again?" The old wizard's smile broadened. Few recognized a king in the lanky Ranger, and those few were either his Elven brethren, or those whose magic remembered the kings of Numenor. This girl-child was neither Elf nor Numenorean. She had to be angol iaur. (angol iaurancient magic)
The wizard turned to Eomer and the pair had a quick discussion before the Rohirrim captain raised his blade above his head. "Rohirrim! To the king!"
"An I aran!" she agreed with an incoherent shout, kicking her borrowed horse into a headlong gallop down the steep quarry slope, fire in her eyes and passion in her breath. Beside her, Gandalf rode, staff upraised, shining pure light down on the dark hordes. Eomer's sword bit into the air and whistled, coming down to cleave orcs. (an i aran to the king)
The retreat was messy and many orcs died trying to outrun the mounted Rohirrim. Still more were trapped and slaughtered by more mounted riders. The keep's defenders, stirred by the arrival of reinforcements, fought with renewed fervor.
The battle was won; some orcs just hadn't bothered to lie down. One, his luck running out, managed to drag her from the saddle as his sword bit deep into her side. She beheaded him, one arm wrapped around her to hold the blood in. Crimson drops fell from her fingers as she stood firmly, swinging to and fro with her sword.
Hands reached over her shoulder and plucked the sword from her fingers. She sagged, her sight going gray around the edges. She looked up into calm, kind blue eyes and relaxed into a strong chest. Arms lifted her and carried her up the causeway into the keep, her hand still clasped firmly over her wound. Her rescuer set her down gently on a pallet and brushed her sweat-soaked hair off her forehead. He placed a cool, damp cloth on the heated skin and clasped her free hand gently.
"Rest," he said kindly, concern filling his features. "You fought well, my lady. I owe you my gratitude. You took that swordstroke for me."
"A girl does what she can for her king," she managed to sigh. His eyes widened and his hand tightened on hers.
"You are mistaken. I am not Theodin. I am no king."
"You are Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil." She coughed and continued. "You are the true king of Numenor, of Gondor." Her eyes cleared slightly and she smiled. "I am no Eorlingas. I am a child of the White Towers." His own eyes cleared and he understood finally. His hand stayed firm around hers.
"You have my eternal gratitude, child of Gondor. Sleep now so you may heal. We shall speak more when you are better." She nodded absently and licked her lips.
"I have one request, my king."
"Name it."
"Where is Eomer?"
His smile was gentle. "I shall bring him to you at once."
"Hannon le," she sighed in Sindarin, allowing her eyes to close and sleep to come. Only moments later, hands cleaned and stitched and bandaged the wound in her side. She slept through it, waking only when she felt her friend's hand on hers, his breath warm on her face. Her eyes blinked open and she smiled.
His were narrowed in a frown. "What were you thinking, allowing yourself to be wounded?" he asked fiercely.
"It was either me or Gondor's hope, Eomer," she replied, licking her lips. "I chose me." His face softened.
"You're alive, at any rate. That's something, I suppose."
"Something indeed." The voice was firm. Lydia looked up. She was in a private room. Eomer sat next to her pallet. The speaker was Gandalf, near the door, flanked by Aragorn, an Elf, a Dwarf, and Eowyn. Eowyn's eyes were still cold, but she stepped forward.
"You said we would not share words again until I had been stripped of hope and friends. I came to offer my words to you, whether you take them or not. Twice, you have reminded me who I am; the first when you offered me unadorned truth and the second, when you offered your life for your lord's. It is my turn to make an offer of you. I offer you my friendship, to take or leave."
"Friendship? Love is all I, you, or anyone can truly offer another. The first time, I offered you my love. The second…my love was given freely to protect my king. You offer me the love of friendship, Lady Eowyn, from your duty, not from your heart." Those gathered, waiting for her next words. Gandalf smiled silently, feeling the ancient wisdom in this child's words. "When your heart is clear, offer it again." It was not a refusal, though it could be taken as such. Eowyn nodded slowly, understanding the wisdom behind the words. She turned and left.
Lydia hauled herself into a sitting position, her hand still clasped lightly in her friend's. Gandalf stepped forward to address her. She beat him to it. "I was not brave, or wise today," she said calmly. "I merely got in the way of a blade. You told me once that I had angol. I didn't believe you then, and nothing has changed since."
He hissed his laughter. "You have had no spells, then, I take it? When your magic runs out because you push yourself too hard, you do not faint and sleep for days awakening with the appetite of a starving wolf? You do not create beautiful, immortal things with very little power? You never happen to be in the right place at the right time, such as when you saved Aragorn's life?"
Lydia's mouth flopped open and closed. Finally, she swallowed. "My family cast me out," she whispered. "Not magic. Anger and disappointment. Women are not smiths. They are not warriors, and they do not serve in important functions. Even women who are healers are supervised by a man. I would never fetch a proper bride-price if my muscles were bigger than a man's, they told me. Either stop smithing and settle down to a quiet, feminine life, or leave Minas Tirith and don't come back." She glared up at him. "I left."
Gandalf smiled kindly. "Many do not listen to what they are told because their experience tells them that what they are told is wrong, even if it is shown to them time and again that it is right," he said gently. "You have magic. You are magic. Ancient magic. And a servant of your king." At this, her eyes were drawn to Aragorn. He smiled.
"A child of Gondor you were born, and a child of Gondor you remain, Lydia of Minas Tirith. Women there are in plenty, and warriors we have. But how many Gondorians are there that are both? I believe the Rohirrim have the right of it. You are woman and you are warrior. There is no one without the other. That is my word."
Her eyes sparkled. "Hannon le, brannon nin," she whispered. The Elf started to hear her speak his language.
"Are all children in Gondor taught our language?" he asked, blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
Aragorn smiled. "Lydia, may I present, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of King Thranduil?" The Elf took her hand and kissed her fingers, making her giggle. "And also Gimli son of Gloin?" The Dwarf cleared his throat and nodded to her. She smiled in return.
The door burst open then. "Mistress Lydia!" Koria wailed, pushing past the men to throw herself down next to the pallet. "I tried to make them help me! I tried! Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"Koria!" The girl trailed off and sniffed, wiping her eyes on her apron. "There was nothing more you could have done, and it was probably best that I was left. Else I'd never have found Eomer and Mithrandir, and I'd never have saved Aragorn." She patted Koria's arm comfortingly. "So, you see, everything is as it should be."
"Not everything," Eomer murmured. He looked up. "If I might have a few moments alone with Lydia?" The room cleared faster than she would have thought and the door closed behind the last with a loud click. Eomer met her eyes then. "I returned, as I said I would, with legions at my back. Will you forgive me for leaving you behind?"
She beamed at him. "Of course."
"Lydia, you are woman and warrior, water and fire, metal and magic. You are my friend and my comfort. Will you also be my wife?"
Her smile evaporated and she went pale as ice. Her eyes sparkled as her hand tightened painfully on his. "Your…wife? Eomer…I…" She stared at him, waiting silently for her answer. She saw in his eyes that he was bracing himself for the worst. "I…I can't…I can't…" She took a deep breath and let it out. Then another. "I am yours." Her head cleared, her eyes shone, and her lips curved again into a brilliant smile. He sat stone-still for a few seconds and then pulled her into a crushing embrace. "For as long as you want me and longer, I am yours," she repeated breathlessly.