A/N: If anyone out there knows Rohirric, I'd be glad for some help… that is I'd be glad if you could tell me what my clumsy efforts at including some Rohirric in this story should look like… (for the time being I use Old English, but I don't know if that's correct; it could be that I should use Middle English or Anglo-Saxon - if anyone knows more about this, please tell me!)

79. A Rohirric Children's Tale

I had escaped from the palace for a morning stroll. All alone. I knew that was no proper behaviour for a young noble lady betrothed to marry a king. But I desperately needed some time to myself and my thoughts.

Now I was standing at the foremost edge of the cliff of Minas Tirith. It was very early in the morning; the sun had just climbed above the peaks of the Ephel Dúath. The six circles of the city down below were still quiet. Now and again I hear the crowing of a cock, or the rumbling sound of cart-wheels on the cobbled stones of the streets, or the soft neigh of a horse, but all in all the six circles of Minas Tirith were still quiet and perhaps a little drowsy with sleep. I was leaning against the white wall of the Embrasure that came up as high as my breasts. I had crossed my arms and out them on the wall, comfortably resting my chin on them. The stone felt cool against my palms, the texture of the stone was a little crumbly. I would get my clothes dusty and Míri would give me that look again – the look that told me she would have expected such behaviour from Mel, but not from me. I did not care. It was good to be alone. It was good to feel the strength of the stone against my breast and my arms.

The sun was rising in the east in a burst of fire, golden, red, orange. The sky was the soft pastel blue of spring. It was only the 15th of April. Forty miles to the east, the dark blue shadows of the Ephel Duath loomed against the bright sky of morning. With the sun rising up behind the ragged slopes of Mountains of Shadow, the Ephel Duath were true to their name and looked like a huge, shadowy fence set against the eastern horizon. Before them the soft hill country of Emyn Arnen swelled up in gentle, fresh green hues of spring. I remembered April – or by now I should really start saying Víressë, even in my mind – last year. I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking back to the ferry that had taken Merry and me to Cormallen.

To be in Ithil, now that April's there…

I frowned. To be in Ithilien, now that Víressë's there…

Somehow that did not sound true.

My eyes drifted westwards. The silver ribbon of the Anduin, the great river, as it flowed between the hills of Ithilien and the district of Minas Tirith to the south… and to the new white walls of Osgiliath, and behind those a glimpse of white and grey and gold, walls and roofs and cupolas, testament to the slow rebirth of the city of the Citadel of the Stars. Arwen had told me that the foundations for a new Dome of the Stars had been laid in Súlimë in a beautiful ceremony and a great feast afterwards. The main city of Ithilien would regain the splendour it had had at the beginning of the third age - that much was sure.

The short stretch of fields between the walls of Osgiliath and the Rammas Echor – not even ten miles in width – was lush with the new growth of spring. The eastern walls of the Rammas Echor had been repaired and gleamed again as whitely as the walls of Minas Tirith. But my gaze drifted quickly past the walls, caught by the brilliance of the Fields of the Pelennor. From way up here, the northern and the eastern part of the Pelennor was a sea of brilliant reds. Only the small southern edge that had escaped the battle last year showed the usual springtime colours of green and white, grass and the blossoms of the orchards. The road to the eastern gate had been paved with smooth white stones. It would soon turn grey with use, but for the moment it was a streak of pure white colour among the crimson of the poppies blooming on the Fields of the Pelennor. Apart from the road and the white and green hills of the grave mounds at the side of the road to Osgiliath, the Pelennor was suffused in the red of poppy blossoms. Poppies on the Pelennor…

Last year I had thought that nothing would ever grow again on the dark and desolate battlefields of the Pelennor. I inhaled deeply. The morning air was still crisp in the middle of Gondorian spring. For the first time in days I felt more or less calm. Behind me, on the Tower of Ecthelion, the colours of the King were flying proud and beautiful.

Aragorn had returned to Minas Tirith yesterday. He had managed to destroy a settlement of orcs close to the Morgul pass, but he had been unable to determine if it had been the company that had attacked Osgiliath or who had banded so many orcs together. I was so happy that he was back. Somehow this having a king turns me into a child again – who believes that as long as Daddy's here, nothing bad can happen.

But what is even more important: Faramir will be alright. He's on the mend. He's improving daily. His health, that is. Not his temper. Gods, I'm so glad that I'm able to witness his temper tantrums! I thought Faramir was the quiet one of Denethor's sons. I was wrong. He just hides that temper better than his brother did. He's still planning to leave for Edoras in five days. He has promised to be in Edoras on the first of May, Lótessë, and that's that. So he can't ride. Well, there's such a thing as carriages. He is stubborn, that Steward of Gondor.

I am told that Aragorn left his room and kicked a wall in frustration.

But the Lady Elaine says that if Faramir really takes a carriage, it won't endanger his recovery, and especially the mending of his leg. So that's exactly what he plans to do.

I think that's wonderful. And Éowyn will be so relieved. But I may not go with him. Damn. Aragorn told me it is too dangerous. Imrahil agreed. Míriël said it was not appropriate anyway.

Why dangerous? Aragorn's sending a whole company of knights with Faramir! And on their way back Éomer and I don't know how many companies of Éored will be with them! And Éomer's white riders!

And appropriate… that almost makes me miss the turmoil of last year. With the war and everything no one was able to care very much about what was proper or appropriate for me to do and what was not. Somehow it's still difficult for me to adjust to the fact that here in Gondor and in Rohan noble ladies don't get to decide for themselves where to go and what to do.

I do know that I am in a special position as the betrothed of Éomer King. I also know that there is danger out there. One attempt to kill me, one attempt to kill Éomer, one attempt to kill Faramir, one attempt to kill Ioreth: yes, I guess that does sound like trouble.

But it's still difficult. Back on earth I took so much for granted: the freedom you have as an adult woman in a western country… to dress any way you like, to go where you please, to do what you want… In the closely knit society of Gondor and Rohan that is more or less impossible. It's easier for commoners, working women. But even for them the laws of the land and – much more important – customs and conventions define their lives in a way that is much, much stricter than what I knew from Germany, Europe, earth, 21st century.

Yes, I heaved a sigh. But not much of a sigh. Even if I was not allowed to travel to Edoras, I would see Éomer again soon. My heart thumped heavily. How would that be? To meet him again… after seven months… I had never been parted from a lover for that length of time. But he was not my lover. He was my fiancé. I swallowed dryly. What if things had changed between us during the seven months we had not seen each other – and only heard from each other in rather short letters? How would it be, to meet him again?

Éomer… with his mane of golden, dun and dark hair, his darker beard, his almost black eyes with those weird amber flecks… Éomer, with his strong, capable, callused hands… his wide shoulders… Éomer… that spicy scent mixed with the smell of horse, warm, dusty, pungent… Éomer… that deep, clear voice that made me all shivery inside…

How would it be, to meet him again?

Today was the 15th of April. Faramir intended to set out on the 20th. It would probably take him ten days to get to Edoras. He would stay at Edoras for five days. Formal vows and consummation of a new marriage deserves five days, even if the celebrations and the public announcement are to follow only later… Five days in Edoras and at least ten days back to Minas Tirith. That meant they would be here on the 15th of May at the earliest.

A little over four weeks. Perhaps even five weeks until. Until. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach did one of those weird flops. Five weeks until I saw Éomer again.

A bell chimed. A quarter to eleven. I would have to be quick now.

I hurried back to the King's House. Although I had no real lessons at the moment, I did have to keep up my studies. Helmichis had taken over from the sons of Elrond to try and get me speaking Rohirric in a way a Rohirrim might be able to understand what I was saying. I had an appointment with him at eleven o'clock to practice my Rohirric. It wouldn't do for the lady to be late when her bodyguard was on time.

The King's House is situated behind the Tower of Ecthelion. Actually it is an add-on to the Hall of Merethrond built at a right angle behind the hall, which is actually the old palace, and not only (but mainly) a hall.

The layout of the palace is quite simple. You enter the King's House from the east. To your right is the Hall of Merethrond. At your back is the Tower of Ecthelion. You step into the entrance hall of the King's House. The entrance hall goes up to the first floor. It's huge. At the back of the entrance hall there's a broad staircase of white marble leading up to the other floors of the palace. To the right are the kitchens and the servants' quarters. To the left is the real palace.

On the ground floor of the King's House are the official rooms, council chambers, libraries, dining halls, but also the kitchens and guardrooms and such. The first floor is the royal apartments. The second floor is the apartments of the lords and ladies in residence and rooms for important guests. There is also a third floor and an attic. And everything connects to the servants' wing to the north, so that everyone can be waited on in next to no time. Efficient.

But there are more buildings to the Citadel – the seventh circle of Minas Tirith – than the King's House, the Hall of Merethrond and the Tower of Ecthelion. There are several small palaces for guests and ambassadors; there are houses for the knights and the squires of Gondor and the famous Guard of the Citadel. There are houses for the every day needs of life at the Citadel: bathing houses, washing houses, smithies, houses to store supplies, to name but a few.

citadel is almost like a city in the city, I reflected as I climbed the great marble stairs to the suite of rooms I shared with my family. At least by now I did not get lost every time I left our apartments.

I entered the study. With some satisfaction I noticed that I was on time. But Míri was already there, too. She was sitting at a desk near the window, studying a ledger. She was probably calculating the costs of the household for the next weeks.

I managed not to grimace. I knew that I was contributing a fair share to those costs. My dowry had to be assembled. I could have done without any dowry. I know that Éomer would not have minded. He knows where I come from, after all, and what I had with me when I walked up to the gate at Bree. And for heaven's sake, he's a king! There's everything I will ever need at Meduseld, more than I will ever need in my life, in fact. But that would be completely inappropriate. That is not how things are done in Gondor and in Rohan, when nobles and royals marry. Dowry, bride-price, what have you, those customs are important, those customs are a way of displaying wealth and influence. Royal weddings are an insidious mixture of politics and show-business.

I ran my fingers across my head, making sure that the knot I had twisted my hair into was still there. I wrinkled my nose. As far as I could tell my hair was still where it was supposed to be. But I was fairly sure that a few strands had escaped my attempts at a proper coiffure once again, trailing around my neck in disarray.

Míri looked up from her ledger and shook her head at me, her eyebrows raised slightly.

From her look I could tell easily that I did not look like a proper young noble woman of Gondor. Again. It's not as if I didn't try. And I am willing to bet my last shirt that Éowyn would be much more rebellious than I am. I am not really rebellious. Just clumsy. And sometimes I need a little time for myself and my thoughts.

I sat down in one of the two arm chairs in front of the fire place, trying to remember what my last lesson of Rohirric had been all about.

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in," I called, and the door opened. It was Helmichis, his thick blond hair still damp from washing. He was dressed in the blue and silver livery of Dol Amroth. I could tell from the way he moved that he was still uncomfortable with coming to the apartments of Dol Amroth not as a bodyguard but simply to talk to me in Rohirric. He moved as if he felt too big and clumsy for the refined surroundings of these rooms. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Not so very long ago I had felt just the same. Heck, more often than not I still felt the same.

But by now I knew that the apartments the Prince of Dol Amroth kept at Minas Tirith were almost plain. Everything in the rooms was chosen with care, and only the best materials available were used, much as at Dol Amroth. But even though the furniture and the trappings of the rooms were beautiful, they were meant to be used, to be lived in; in other words, the chairs – made in the fashion of the elves – were comfortable and the tables were large enough to really work there, you could heap piles of books and scrolls on them and still have enough room left to write a letter.

"Good morning, my ladies," Helmichis said and bowed deeply, his tone of voice caught between the clear rolling sounds of the Bay, which is Westron with the memory of Sindarin in the liquid flow of the language, and the more rumbling sound of the Rohirric. Míri inclined her head politely, but did not say anything. I was to do the talking. In Rohirric.

I had to answer in Rohirric. Now. Politely. I swallowed dryly. I might be able to read tengwar by now, but Rohirric was still difficult for me. "Ic grete þe. I greet you," I said finally, curling my tongue around the still unfamiliar sounds. Helmichis bowed again.

"Wes ðu hal, hlæfdige min," he said. "Hail, my lady."

"Please, sit down," I said, the Rohirric words sounding awkward in my ears and pointed to the other easy chair in front of the fire place. Helmichis carefully sat down. "What shall we talk about today, my lady?" He asked politely, taking care to speak slowly and pronounce his words clearly so that I could understand him. I frowned because I did not know how to say what I wanted to say in Rohirric. Finally I gave up on it and switched to Westron. Gandalf had put a spell on me so that I could speak and understand Westron as if I had been born to it. Why the hell couldn't he have done the same with Sindarin and Rohirric? "Perhaps if we start with something you can simply tell me… a tale, perhaps. And then… umm… perhaps you ask me a few questions about it and I try to answer them?"

Helmichis nodded slowly. He has a way of doing everything slowly and firmly – except fighting, that is, I have watched him at weapons' training, and he's like hell on wheels; but apart from fighting, Helmichis acts and speaks with careful deliberation. When he says something or does something, it always seems as if he has thought things through and now will put all of his mind and strength into the matter, because he knows it is right. "Giese, hlæfdige min. Yes, my lady." Then he gave me a surprisingly bright smile. "That is a good idea. I will tell you the tale of Felaróf, the horse of Eorl the young, the first Meara ever to be tamed. It was my favourite story when I was but a lytel cniht, a small boy."

That did not sound so bad. In fact that sounded positively interesting. I settled down in my chair and looked at my bodyguard expectantly.

"Once upon a time," Helmichis began, then winked at me and switched to Rohirric.

"Æne ongean in tid, there lived a great lord among the Éothéod who was much renowned for his skill at taming wild horses. His name was Léod. He was married to a beautiful golden haired woman and had a little son who was called Eorl. There have always been wild horses in the lands of Calenardhon. And the best and most beautiful among them are the famous white Mearas, the descendants of Béma's great steed, Nahar. But until the time of Léod, no one had ever been able to tame any Meara. They were simply too wild, too smart and too strong. Now, Léod desired more than anything else to be the first to tame one of Béma's horses. He knew that if he could tame a Meara, his fame would be greater than that of any other lord of the Éothéod. He watched the wild white horses for many years. But he never got close enough to them to catch one of them, although he tried often. He had almost given up on his plan, when he found a mare which had just given birth to a beautiful white foal. The mare was still dazed from the birth, and the foal was only staggering. This was the moment Léod had waited for! He slipped a coil of rope around the foal's head and led it home. A short time after their birth, foals will follow anyone. That is their nature and because of that horses move away from the herd for giving birth – they don't want to lose their foals to another mare. And so it was with this one, too.

Soon it followed Lord Léod as if he was its mother. Léod took it home and fed it like a human baby, by hand, waking many times every night for weeks. Léod took good care of the foal. The foal grew quickly into a proud and strong stallion. He was fair beyond any horse ever seen in all of Calenardhon. But the stallion could not forget that he had been taken away from his dam with a trick and he would not allow himself to be truly tamed. He would not allow himself to be saddled or bridled, not even by Léod.

Finally Léod was beyond patience and care. He wanted that horse more than anything else in the world. So one day, he mounted the stallion without a saddle or bridle or tether. The stallion reared and raced away in a great burst of speed. It is said that the stallion kept running across the plains of Calenardhon for three days until he threw off Léod. It was only a matter of time until Léod was thrown off, of course. But the stallion was very wild and very angry and he threw Léod off his back violently. Léod hit the ground hard and unfortunately his head struck a rock, and Léod died. After Léod's death the Éothéod called the stallion 'Mansbane' and no one dared approach that horse as it ran across the plains, white lightning against the darkening sky, so fast was the stallion.

But Eorl son of Léod swore a solemn oath and he vowed to avenge his father. He hunted high and low for the horse, and his face was grim. His companions were sure that when he would finally lay his eyes on the horse which had killed his father, he would simply string up his bow and shoot the proud white stallion – taking a life for a life. Finally, after weeks of following that horse all over the plains, they caught sight of the stallion. Proud and noble, the white horse seemed to await their approach, barely flicking his ears. It was a king of horses! But Eorl was destined to be king of men.

To the surprise of those who were with him he put down his weapons and approached the horse on foot, his hands held up in a gesture of greeting. He called out to the horse in a clear, loud voice: 'Come hither, Mansbane, and get a new name!' And to the wonder of the riders who had accompanied Eorl on his hunt, the horse looked at Eorl for a long time and did not run away. Then the white stallion, the proudest of all Mearas lowered his head and slowly walked towards Eorl. Eorl reached out for the horse and caressed the noble head. "Felaróf, I name you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life's end."

Then Eorl mounted the stallion and Felaróf submitted, carrying Eorl gently and meekly as if he had never done anything else. Eorl rode him home without bit or bridle; and he rode him in like fashion ever after. The horse understood all that men said, though he would allow no man but Eorl to mount him. And on Felaróf Eorl rode to war on the Field of Celebrant where he won his kingdom and his crown, fighting for Gondor. But Felaróf lived as long as his rider, faithful to the last. And so has it been with all the Mearas descended from Felaróf, the sire of the noblest of all horses, the Mearas."

I sighed deeply. What a wonderful tale. What a wonderful tale?!

"I actually could understand that!" I exclaimed happily.
Helmichis gave me one of his slow, gentle smiles. "So you did, my lady."

"But I thought the Mearas, like my Mithril, or Brego or Hiswa, are still caught from the wild?" I asked, barely aware that I had – though haltingly – spoken Rohirric, caught up in the tale as I was. The horse lore of the Rohirrim is bewildering.

Helmichis nodded and replied – again speaking Rohirric, but slowly enough for me to understand him. "That is true. The royal horses are still caught and tamed in the manner Léod caught and tamed Felaróf. But the Mearas ridden by the white riders, the guard of the king, and the captains of the Éored, are bred and the sire of that herd was Felaróf. They are kept in a special herd, apart from the normal horses used by the common riders, and they are allowed to roam the plains in relative freedom, but they are not wild horses anymore. There are some that say you might not even call them Mearas, because Mearas are only the wild horses of the plains which trace their ancestry to Béma's horses from West over the Sea. However, it is said that the Mearas ridden by the King of Rohan and his family are still captured from the same herd from which Felaróf was taken, more than five hundred years ago."

Once again I was in awe at the honour that had been bestowed upon me with the permission to ride Mithril. Once again I wondered if Gandalf had known what would happen between Éomer and me all along.

I shook my head. Somewhere outside a bell chimed brightly. It was already one o'clock. We had been talking almost two hours. No wonder my head was buzzing. I smiled at Helmichis. "Thank you very much for telling me that story. I really enjoyed it. I think I have learned a lot today. About Rohan and the Éothéod. And I for the first time I have the feeling that I might even have made some progress with the Rohirric language. Ic þe þancas do, leof min. I thank you, my friend."

Helmichis rose from his seat, moving surprisingly graceful for such a large man. He bowed to me. His smile was broad and easy. He had enjoyed telling me the story he had loved best as a child. "Ic sæcge eow þancas, hlæfdige min. I thank thee, my lady."

That was more or less everything I accomplished that day. But I was content. A morning spent outside, for once alone with my thoughts, and the first real progress with the Rohirric language. That was good enough for one day.

However, I did go down to the stable in the afternoon. I brushed Mithril's coat until it gleamed like the precious metal she is named for, and whispered to her in really bad Rohirric what a wonderful horse she is and what an honour it is that she allowed me to ride her. And yes, I do believe that Mimi understood every word I was saying. I think she even told me where my pronunciation was off with a pointed flick of her right ear.

A/N: So, tell me, who is still out there and reading this? I'd really like to know! Please, drop me a line (or two or three! ...greedy me…).

I do realize that some of the chapters are probably exhausting, because nothing much happens, and that other chapters are exhausting, because they are strangely action-packed, but without an explanation of what is actually happening.

But that is actually part of my plan… I try to limit the story to the things Lothíriel can see, hear, do and experience. Therefore there are supposed to be (some) strange gaps in the story. Because (for example) at the moment she is not allowed to visit Faramir, she is not allowed to travel to Edoras and she is not told about everything that goes on in the negotiations with Harad, Umbar and Khand.

Now: as a thank you to everyone who's still here, I have some glimpses of what's in my outline.

SPOILER-ALERT!

For the next months Lothíriel will stay in Gondor – I think about three or four chapters (Éowyn's wedding, a visit in Ithilien, Sorcha coming to live with Lothy…). Then we move to Edoras for the wedding and some serious sex.

The year 3021 will see some painful adjustments to married life and the duties of a queen. Also, at the beginning of 3021, Arwen's first children are born and some time in the summer we can expect Éowyn's first son.

3023 Lothíriel's first child will be born. Ælfwine.

Later on there will be war and Lord Grimsir will be up to his old tricks (or perhaps some new ones?). Also there is the unresolved matter of why the Lady Elaine wants to be one of Lothíriel's ladies-in-waiting (as always, Mija was right on the spot with her suspicions…).

Then there will be more babies, but also death and grief; there will be a surprise in a big wooden box, and in between some romance, of course. The harper from the Field of Cormallen will reappear and there might be a side-story about Solas and the harper's apprentice.

I hope you liked the quick look at my outline. And yes, I still hope to be done with 100 chapters.

Cheers!

Juno