A/N: As a thank-you for your patience I have a "Character Meme" up on my LJ!

Inthe Character Meme you can ask any of my fic characters - canon or OC - a question and they'll give you an honest answer. Not necessarily the whole answer, but an honest one.

That means you can ask questions of any of the characters from

"The Tides of Time and the Bones of the Earth",

"Only a Game",

"Lothíriel" and so on

and they will do their best to answer you!

My LJ user name is juno(underscore)magic and there is also a link to my LJ on my profile at FFNet.

Have fun!

ooo

91. History Lessons

I was cold.

The sunny Narquelië – October – had passed into a cold and grey Hísimë – November. It seemed to me that the winds never stopped blowing that month. Rohan is a country of winds. Although it is sheltered to the south-west by the heights of the Ered-Nimrais, there are cold down-winds carrying the icy scent of glaciers into the streets of Edoras from the peaks of the White Mountains. The Gap of Rohan between the mountain ranges of the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains serves as nothing but a tunnel to concentrate the force of the storms blowing in from the seas and straight across the desolate plains of the Enedwaith. To the north Fangorn and the Misty Mountains offer some shelter, that is true. But the Brown Lands across the Anduin to the north-east are almost devoid of any vegetation, and the winds that rush into the Wold and into East-Emnet from the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil have a bad name. Sickness and bad luck are supposed to fly in their wake. The only wind that is greeted with smiles seems to be the gentle south-eastern – whispering its way into the East-Fold from the sun-kissed lands of Anórien in springtime.

But any thought of spring was still a long way off. The taste of first snow was in the cold draught whistling around the corners of the bathing house at the back of the palaces of Edoras.

I had just finished a quick shower, Rohan-style; enduring to be splashed with the contents of a huge bucket filled with icy water. My teeth had stopped chattering only moments ago and my body seemed to glow with an inner furnace right now. Extreme spa, is what I call that in my mind. I adjusted the scarf I wore wrapped around my head and started to cross the inner courtyard of Meduseld. I could have gone around the long way inside of the buildings. But I did not feel up to the long corridors and the inevitable bows and curtsies from any servant or dignitary I might meet on the way.

The courtyard was deserted. The fountain was already laid dry for the winter and the summer flowers that had filled the squares of the small formal garden had gone the way of all mortal beings – ending up on the manure heap. The sky was the colour of lead and the air more cold than crisp. And it was windy. My mother would have scolded me to have even thought of going outside in that kind of weather with my hair wet and my body not yet quite dry from the shower. But I wanted some time alone. And fresh air. And anyway. Any self-respecting bacteria or virus would have run off a long time ago…

It is not that living in the royal palace of Rohan is a life-style without any creature comforts. But it is not Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth. And certainly not the Shire.

I stopped at the fountain. The basin was filled with a thin layer of yellow and brown leaves curling at the edges and rustling with a dry, whispery sound as the breeze stirred them. I cast a look at the heavy grey clouds overhead. There would be rain today. The leaves would be a soggy brown mess tomorrow. But to my surprise I discovered that there were still a few late rose blossoms left over from summer on the low rose-bushes that circled the fountain. The only other colour was the neatly trimmed box bushes and the ivy curling around the basin of the fountain. Everything else between the grey of the sky and the grey of the stonewalls that surround the courtyard was dozing in the dull colours of late autumn, just a breath away from the long silent slumber of winter.

I gave a shivery sigh. I was alone in the palace for three weeks. Well, not alone. The palace was full of people. But Éomer was not here. He had called the muster of the Rohirrim, the éoherë. Most of the troops would be stationed in the mountain-keeps. Some at Aldburg. Only the King's Riders, his guard – the White Riders – his own éored, would be stationed at Edoras. Although the War of the Rings had taken a heavy toll – of the six-thousand spears riding out with Théoden only a little over three-thousand had returned – together with the troops that had been left behind in Rohan during the war, there were about six-thousand riders to be quartered and out-fitted for the éoherë. A full muster would really produce some nine-thousand riders at the moment, but three-thousand riders were the home-guard, riding under the command of Dúnhere, the Lord of Harrowdale, our last ditch-defence, who would not leave the country.

As King of Rohan and First Marshal of the Mark the responsibility of the muster rested on Éomer's shoulders. When the first shock of the news died down, Éomer actually arrived at the conclusion that it was not all that bad that he had to hold an éoherë so soon. That way the diminished troops of Rohan could be reorganized and the Rohirrim could get to know their newking. Although Éomer had been a rider all of his life, his ward had been the East-Mark, so that riders from the Wold or the West-Fold might not know him very well.

But seeing to the éoherë took a lot of work and more than anything else: time.

Damn. I missed Éomer so much.

And all of a sudden I had too much time to miss him, too.

After I had put down my foot, Elaine and Gosvintha had reached a truce. It was an uneasy truce, of tight lipped smiles and cold looks, but they managed to be civil in their daily dealings with each other and did not take their mutual antipathy out on anyone else anymore. So I did not have to come up with more ideas of how to keep up the peace in the royal household.

For a few weeks I had been more than busy with getting the household ready for winter.
Household sounds so… you know, not too big. Like a house with people in it.

But I am talking a royal household here. That means 120 guards – the famous White Riders – just to start with. Add to that 60 Queen's guards. Then there are the servants. There are the scribes and musicians. There are the actual members of our household – the Harper, my ladies-in-waiting, Éomer's advisors… And the families of all of those. Some 447 people all in all, with seven babies due during the winter and early spring.

Getting that kind of household ready for winter is real work. Stocking the larders, drying fruits, mushrooms and other vegetables. Cooking jams and various preserves. Counting and branding the cattle. Luckily not my responsibility. Only making sure that it was done – in effect, standing next to Gosvintha and nodding and looking at the herdsman with a strict expression on my face…

And those bloody ledgers. Keeping track of the treasury. With the keys of Meduseld that I had received on the morning after our wedding-night the responsibility of the up-keep of the household had been dumped neatly into my lap. Still struggling with the Cirth – not to mention the tengwar – and by no means fluent in Rohirric that was not an easy task for me.

Not that I envied Éomer. I had to keep the royal household in order. He had a people and a country to keep safe.

But for weeks I was up before dawn and only got to bed late at night, my mind reeling with the business of the day. Sleep only came to me way after mid-night – though there were other reasons for that, too.

Then, suddenly, and it seemed to me that it was literally from one day to the next, the preparations for the winter were done. Today there was really not much to keep me occupied at all.

I still kept up my weapons' training, which had been the reason for the cold shower on this cold morning. So that was done already. Helmichis and Rhawion had taken over the training of the ladies who belonged to the household. I preferred training with Helmichis with his slow smile and calm and easy manner. Rhawion was so grim. But Elaine was no less grim than the captain of my guard, and quite skilled in the use of knives. A professional hazard, no doubt. Sorcha was clumsy and easily flustered. Though I knew she would have no compunctions in beating any attacker on the head with a frying pan, she was terribly self-conscious when asked to try and attack one of the male guards with a knife. Helmichis did his best to put her at ease, but somehow that only made matters worse. He tried to help her, but she brushed his attempts off, with raised eyebrows and a falsely cheerful "No, boy-o!"

In the afternoon a meeting with Thorkel, the chief-scribe of Meduseld, was scheduled. Éomer wanted a history of the War of the Rings. As I knew more than anyone else in Edoras about the different stages of the war – except maybe our mysterious bard – the task to tell the story to the scribes and answer their questions fell to me. It was a good thing that I had started writing everything down so soon after it had happened and that I had written a second version of the story soon after I had sent my first journal away with Gandalf. That way the events that had led me here were clear in my mind, down to the most curious details.

My gaze drifted along an inscription in the stone basin of the fountain. It was Rohirric, written in Cirth… something about water and memory. Memory… There would be a Rohirric history of the War of the Rings and I would be in that history. What had happened would never be forgotten now. I sighed. Not for the first time I wondered how the story of the war and the history of Arda had leaked into the world where I was born.

A sudden gust of wind made me shiver. I remembered my still wet hair and started walking again. As I hurried towards the door on the left hand side of the courtyard, that led to the royal apartments, a cold drop of rain hit my cheek. It was November, Hísimë. Winter waited just around the corner.

ooo

The meeting with the head of the court-scribes took place in the library. I would have preferred Éomer's study, because I felt safe there, and close to Éomer, even though he was away. But the scribe wanted to take notes, of course, so he needed a table of his own. Therefore we were in the library.

There was a fire in the fire-place. Thorkel was an old man, tall and thin, his skin sagged around his bones like wrinkled, soggy paper. His nose stood out like the beak of a bird of prey. His eyes were the grey-green you will find often in the Rohirrim, but watery and strained from a life spent reading and writing. His hair, once a pale blond, probably, had turned into a wispy white tinged with yellow. He wore a skull cap and robes of brown. He spoke in a low, slightly quavering voice.

Although he treated me with utmost courtesy, I somehow had the feeling that he disapproved of me and that he eyed me with contempt whenever I turned away from him. But I never even caught him with a frown on his face. Perhaps I was only imagining that he did not like me. And even if he despised me… for whatever reason… well, there was nothing I could do about it. Holding out for universal sympathy is a fruitless effort.

"Well," I said in a friendly manner, gesturing to Ini to pour some mulled cider for us. "Where did we stop?"

The story Éomer and I had agreed upon was as close to the truth as possible. Gandalf had met me in my native country and asked me to attend the Council of Elrond, as I was a student of lore and might be able to give some advice in the matters of the rings. I had gone to Bree to meet Gandalf there. When he had not come, I had accompanied Aragorn…

"You were telling me about the Council of Elrond Peredhel in Imladris, my lady." Thorkel had spread out wax tablets and styli in front of him. Now he looked at me expectantly. "I should like to know about the lore that was discussed and how wisdom of a far-away country such as yours was of aid to our troubles."

I gave the scribe a long look while I tried my best not to show how my heart had started to race. Finally I swallowed dryly. "I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss that. I am bound by my oath to keep the secrets of the council… secret." I ended lamely.

The question of what I had done to aid the quest – though it had been answered by wizard, elf and brother – sometimes still woke in the small hours of the night. But by now it was only a sigh in the darkness and when I turned and inhaled the familiar, exhilarating scent that was all Éomer, and all mine, I could close my eyes and go back to sleep again.

"Ahhh… I see," the old man commented. But he did not look convinced. "Of course."

I proceeded to tell the story of how the fellowship was put together, how the preparations of the journey had been made… how it had been to walk for endless miles through the desolate country that had once been Eregion.

At some point of my story-telling Ini came in and lit the candles. The thick lead-framed windows with their greenish hue were not enough to light up the room even on a bright day. Today, with the rain and the dark clouds candles had to be lit even this early in the afternoon.

When the tale came to the part where we had made it out of Moria – barely – Sorcha and Ini appeared with a tray with soup bowls. I could see that the old scribe was grateful for the warmth and nourishment the soup provided. As always when I thought about Moria I felt cold and shivery, so I welcomed the soup as well.

Thus the afternoon went by.

ooo

When the scribe finally packed his things up and left the library, I felt drained. More than anything I now wished for Éomer's strong and soothing presence. I tried to picture him, walking the walls of Helm's Deep with Elfhelm and his captains… But I failed. I had never been to Helm's Deep. I had only a vague image in my mind from a movie I had seen once, long ago, in another life, in another world. I huddled on the faintly gothic arch chair and suddenly felt very tired and alone.

But luckily I had not much time to continue sitting there, feeling sorry for myself. Following Éomer's wishes I kept up the formal dinners most evenings. And for that I had to change from my comfortable cream and green tunic into a real dress.

I saw to it that the fire was well banked, so that the precious library was not in any danger because of stray sparks. I put out the candles and left the room.

ooo

A few days later I visited the scriptorium to take a look at the progress of the "History of the War of the Rings".

The Scriptorium was situated in the eastern wing of the palace behind the Hall of Meduseld. It was a big room with large, precious, clear glass windows and great chandeliers so that even on dark days the room could be lit brightly enough to allow the scribes to do their work.

Though the Rohirrim are not a people of books and lore like the Gondorians, that does not mean that they are illiterate. Well, most common folk are, of course. But that's not so much different in Gondor. And although most stories and histories of Rohan are passed on in songs and ballads, there are books. In the royal palace – and in the households of the high lords of the five provinces of Rohan as well – there have always been scribes, books and libraries. There is more to Rohan than horses and riders!

But it was very much like someone from 21st century earth imagines a medieval scriptorium to be like. Desks, parchment, quills, calligraphy and pictures curling around the letters at the beginning of each chapter. Silence and an atmosphere of lore and reverence.

When I entered the room, the scribes rose from their various seats and tasks and bowed deeply. Although not all of them wore the horrible brown colours Thorkel seemed to prefer, all of them wore robes and those monk-like skull-caps. Though those had nothing to do with faith, and all with keeping hair from falling into the wet paint of their calligraphy.

Thorkel actually smiled when he saw me. He bowed again when he reached my side. "My lady, it is an honour to welcome you here!"

He gestured solemnly at the desks. I bit my lip. An ironic "Well, thank you for having me" was probably not the correct answer of a queen to the head of the court-scribes. I settled for inclining my head. Hopefully with that air of gracious coolness I had seen Éowyn use so effectively.

"The first three chapters are prepared for your inspection, my lady. If you will step over here?" He almost danced ahead of me, with excited, spidery movements, the long sleeves of his robe flying. Thorkel was writing the history himself. He led me to his large desk that was placed at an ideal angle to the largest window. A number of single pages of parchment were spread out on the desk. They were filled with neatly printed runes. Cirth, to my relief. Although I had started learning Cirth only when Helmichis took over my tuition from Elladan and Elrohir, I was far more comfortable with the clear, spiky letters of that script than with the curling, flowing beauty of tengwar. I was so obviously neither elf nor Dúnadan!

"Here," Thorkel pointed, "is the first page. It continues here – then down here – and here… And this is the last page of the third chapter." He gestured magnificently at the page at the bottom right-hand corner of the desk.

"You have a wonderfully clear hand, Master Thorkel," I said.

"That is necessary for my duties," Thorkel replied stiffly, but there was real warmth in his eyes, as he motioned one of the younger scribes to get me a chair.

"Sit down, my lady, and if you have any questions regarding the script, I will be at your complete disposal. I would only ask you not to touch the pages. The colours may not be completely dry yet."

"Thank you very much, Master Thorkel," I nodded to the scribe and sat down on the simple wooden stool that was offered to me. Yes, the room had a definite monastery-like feel to it.

I rubbed my eyes and concentrated on the black runes whispering my story from the cream coloured parchment in front of me.

I was slow reading this.

Although it was by far easier for me to decipher the Cirth than the tengwar, it was still Rohirric. So I had to first get the words out of the runes and then a meaning out of the words.

Concentrating on the reading and translating, I forgot my surroundings completely.

The introduction was really well written indeed. The language seemed a little archaic, almost Tolkienesque to me; a thought that made me smile, but it touched on every little bit of information I had been able to give to the scribe, presenting a well-rounded, concise, and precise story of the background of the War of the Rings.

I nodded to myself. It had been an excellent idea of Éomer to order that history.
But I had to admit that I was eager to find the point where I would appear in that history.
Eagerly I read on.

Suddenly I frowned.

I moved back to the beginning of the chapter and read the last paragraphs again.

My frown deepened.

It was the tale of Bree and the hobbits failing to meet Gandalf, and how they found a Dúnadan instead to be their leader.

The hobbits were there.
Every one of them. Complete with their family trees in the margin.
Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

But there was something missing there.

I read the paragraph again, with a mounting feeling of anger and confusion rising up inside of me.

There was something missing in this "History of the War of the Rings".

Something was being purposefully left out of the story.

And that something was – me.

I was not there!

I stared at the parchment, trying to figure out what to do or say.

Finally I raised my head and stared at Thorkel.

The old man was patiently waiting for me to come to an end. Now he gave me a sweet, expectant smile – well, as sweet a smile as you can get out of a face that looks like crumpled parchment penetrated by an eagle's beak.

"It is a wonderful piece of work, my lady, isn't it? Even if I do say so myself!" He positively beamed at me.
I swallowed hard. My heart was thumping heavily in my breast.
"But…" My voice sounded weak and shaky to my ears. "Master Thorkel…"
I tried again. "It… it is very well written, Master Thorkel. And your hand – so clear – that is amazing… But… there is something missing, Master Thorkel. You have left me out of the story!"

The scribe blinked at me, full of amazement. Then comprehension visibly dawned on his face. His smile grew wide and a little flustered. "But of course! How could you be, my lady! You are the Queen of Rohan! It would not be at all appropriate if you were in a history of men and war!"

I sat there and gaped at the old scribe. I tried to think of anything to say to him, but nothing came to mind. After a long moment I forced a smile that probably looked like a grimace.

"Thank you very much, Master Thorkel. Continue your good work. I am sorry, but I have to leave you now – my duties… And I don't want to keep you from your work…"

I rose and somehow made my way to the door, with the scribes bowing and smiling to my right and to my left.

On my way back to the royal apartments Sorcha and Elaine who had accompanied me to the scriptorium were chatting animatedly about the various writings and paintings they had seen. But not a word of what they were saying really registered with me.

Once safely in my rooms, I sent both of them away, claiming to be exhausted.

I slumped down on the window seat in my study.

I felt strangely light-headed and disoriented. I looked down at my knees, the green fabric of my dress, the pale skin of my hands, the pinkish, slightly glistening scar tissue that curled snake-like around my wrists.

I had not been in the books on earth.

Now I would not be in the books here.

Did I even exist at all?

ooo

A/N: Details of the miliatry structure of Rohan can be found in "Unfinished Tales", "Cirion and Eorl" and "The Battles of the Fords of Isen" and the various footnotes.