Author's Note: Back again, friends! Sorry for the delay in posting; work's been very busy lately! Thanks to y'all for sticking it out with me :) and a huge thanks to the sweet UntilNeverDawns for the SUPER sweet review. Made my whole day and pushed me to crank out the last bits of this chapter!
And I know I promised our favorite duo would reunite this chapter buuuuut plot got in the way. I know, I know, I'm sorry! But there are other good things happening, I promise!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The peace-talks with the Dunlendings are exactly that: peaceful. After years of battles and slaughter and insurmountable enemies, it seems the Gods have finally smiled on them. Or, at least that's what Ceorl says, during the few hours they spend away from the bend in the river.
"As promising as this treaty is," he reminds Eomer, as if he has never negotiated a truce before, like he's some wet-behind-the-ears boy and not the King of the Riddermark, "we need to remember that it is only with this tribe. The others will not recognize it unless they send their own representatives."
Each Dunlending tribe holds a particular animal sacred-the eagle, the bear, the beaver, and so on-and their people pride themselves on emulating their respective familiar's most defining trait. Madoc and Dera's tribe is of the fox, known throughout their people for their cunning. So it comes as no surprise that these...fox-people are excellent negotiators, ready at every turn to offer an agreeable compromise while still getting most of what they want. On the surface, it would be easy to say that it's Madoc who leads his people-heir to the former Chief, level-headed despite his youth-but Eomer has seen enough trading agreements before to see where the power truly lies. It is Dera who counters Ceorl's arguments, Dera who has clearly considered the resistance of both her people and the Eorlingas in the town to such a treaty.
"How is it," he asks, "that you lead in place of Cadoc's son?"
Dera smiles, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "Madoc is still just a boy. Was just a boy when his father-the bastard-made that devil's deal with the White Wizard. Our men are gone, straw-king, and the oldest boys left are younger than him. How could they lead, when they know so little of the world?"
"So it fell to you," Eomer says.
"It fell to me," she agrees. "My mother was-what is the word? The healer. She was respected, resilient. But healing has never come naturally to me. I could not be as she was, but I could become what the tribe needed."
Eomer thinks of Eowyn, so long burdened with the role of Meduseld's Lady when all she had wanted to do was fight. What would she have become had Wormtongue's plan had succeeded? The thought disturbs him, even though he knows the slimy cifesboren is beyond all threats of pain now. "Do you ever regret it?" He asks.
Her brow furrows. "Regret? Regret what? Keeping my people from starving, removing us from the White Wizard's reach? It was not an easy task-still is not-but it had to be done."
Their paths have not been all that different, Eomer realizes. He certainly never expected to be king, never expected Saruman-their long-time ally-to turn on his people, never expected to sit on the banks of the Isen discussing peace with a warrior-queen of Dunland. "I understand," he says.
She smiles, amusement plain on her face, and again he's reminded of Eowyn. "I know you do, straw-king. That is why I am still here, speaking of peace."
In the end, the treaty they agree upon is decently satisfactory to both sides, if not entirely without flaw. The villagers will allow the Dunlendings to be given space enough to bring their housing materials within the safety of the walls of the village in exchange for ceasing their theft of eggs and other foodstuffs. In turn, the Dunlendings have agreed to show the villagers their methods of preserving food for the winter months, as well as sharing their vast wealth of pelts to be used for blankets and cloaks.
Eomer and his eored agree to stay until the Dunlendings are settled. The village is depleted in men, like so many other places in the Mark, and their presence is a comfort to both sides. Protection is something their being there guarantees, as well as ensuring that this tentative truce is not ruined before it can truly begin.
"Helle," Eomer hisses as the Dunlendings trail across the bridge. The snow has begun to fall and he is more glad than ever to have made this journey. The children are worryingly thin, the smallest ones scarcely more than skin and bones from where they peak out of their mothers' stick-like embraces, or from behind their older siblings' backs. And Dera had not been lying; Madoc was the oldest cnihtcild by far, the only one who could even remotely be called a youth.
"Do you see now why I pushed for this?" Eothred murmurs. "To have refused them aid would have been a death sentence."
"Bema," says Eothain, eyes wide. "I have never seen children so thin."
The villagers, once having seen the state of the smallest Dunlendings, seem to let go of some of their fear, their reticence. Though, in truth, Eomer blames them for neither. Their peoples have been at war for the better part of two Ages, and this tiny truce is just that: small. It is possible that it will have little to no effect on the overall relationship between Dunlendings and Eorlingas in the long run.
"It is a good thing you have done, Eomer Eadig," Ceorl says, as if he can hear his thoughts. "A very good thing."
A gaggle of children-dark-haired Dunlendings and fair-haired Eorlingas-have gathered in a circle, eyeing each other cautiously. One blonde girl offers out a raggedy-looking doll to a Dunlending boy. The care with which he takes it from her hands is evident even from Eomer's vantage point.
"Plægeaþ?" She asks.
The little boy offers her a very confused expression. Dera leans down to translate and the meaning becomes clearer. All of the children break into motion; playing, as the girl suggested.
"If only adults were as welcoming as children," Eothred grumbles.
"We have had longer to fear one another and caused each other more pain than those children will ever know," Dera says, coming to stand beside them. "But I believe this peace has the potential to last."
"We will have word if it does not," Eomer says. "On either side."
Dera nods. "You do your people credit, straw-king. Perhaps you are as blessed as they say."
There is a sudden shout and disgruntled-looking Madoc appears, with Heled on his arm. There is a short exchange between the three in Dunlendish-after two weeks, Eomer thinks he has begun to get used to how the language sounds, if not well-enough to know what any of it means-that results in Dera giving the boy a sharp thump to the side of his head.
"Violence already!" Teases Eothred, who is more at ease with the Dunlendings than the rest of them put together.
Dera rolls her eyes. "Hardly. The idiot boy was nearly neglectful in his duties."
"I remembered in time," Madoc grumbles, the youthful petulance in his voice reminiscent of Eomer's youngest riders. "There's no need to embarrass me, Chieftess."
Heled shakes a finger in the boy's face once more before turning her attention towards Eomer. Her eyes are as piercing as ever, and she holds his gaze as she takes a bundle from Madoc's arms and presents it to him with a brusque shove.
"What is it?" Eomer asks.
"Some of our finest furs," Dera explains. "Heled insists. Take them and our gratitude, straw-king, though neither are enough for what you have made possible here."
Heled says something then, that makes both Dera and Madoc burst out in laughter. The sound echoes, drawing the attention of the surrounding villagers.
"And what," Eothain asks-he has spent the least amount of time with the Dunlending representatives and remains distrustful of them, even now-"is so funny?"
"Heled suggests that your king give them to whoever has opened his heart enough to try for peace with Dunlendings," Dera laughs, "and while she sounds wonderful, I suspect it was not his warrior sister who has done so."
"Opened his heart?" Eothain repeats, sounding far too interested for Eomer's peace of mind.
Eothred merely chuckles, "Who indeed, eh, nephew?"
"Lothiriel."
She jumps, tearing her gaze away from the merrily crackling fire to meet Eowyn's amused expression. "I-how long have you been calling me?"
"A good five minutes," Eowyn says, settling onto the bench beside her. "And I must admit I'm very interested to know why the hearth has earned such scrutiny."
Grateful that the warmth of the fire has already put a bit of color in her cheeks, Lothiriel twists a strand of hair around her finger. "Just thinking over a few things."
"Things," Eowyn repeats, deadpan. "Would it have to do with any of your numerous suitors I've had to shoo away from the rafters lately?"
Groaning, Lothiriel shoves her friend's shoulder. "They are not my suitors, Eowyn, no matter how much you and Wilfled try to convince me otherwise."
"But someone has caught your interest," Eowyn continues, nudging her. "Cwenhild said she found you sighing over something in the stables yesterday morning, and I have it on good authority from both Eothain and my ungerád brother that there is no greater sign of a woman in love than excessive sighing."
"I scarcely recall you sighing over Faramir," Lothiriel answers, ignoring the traitorous racing of her heart at the mere mention of Eomer-if it was this bad now, how was she supposed to pass for normal once the eored returned? The peace-talks with the Dunlendings had gone well and they had begun their journey to Edoras nearly a week ago. There was scarcely any time left to learn how to control her blushes, which would certainly give her away to anyone caring enough to look. "And I am not in love."
"Hm," says Eowyn. "There is a phrase from one of the books your mother sent me that comes to mind, min drút."
"Oh?"
Eowyn smiles, clasping her hands under her chin in a decidedly un-innocent expression. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
"Eowyn!" Lothiriel cries, face flushing once more.
"Fine, fine," Eowyn relents. "Keep your secret suitor. But do not forget how well I know you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, nor how much I want to see your happiness."
Any irritation-and embarrassment-Lothiriel feels slips away at that, and she reaches out to squeeze Eowyn's hand. "That I cannot protest against."
Eowyn smiles. "I suspect you called me here for something other than teasing you, Lothiriel."
"Observant as always," Lothiriel agrees. "We are waiting on a few others, I'm afraid."
As if on cue, the doors from one of the many hallways open, revealing Edoras's chief dreámere, Gléobeam. A jovial man, somewhere between his thirtieth and fortieth year, with a thick crop of blonde hair so common among his people, Gléobeam cuts an impressive figure in his musicians' robes, despite his relatively short stature.
"You have called upon me, glómmung cwén, and so I have come!" He announces, taking a sweeping bow.
He also has the tendency to be in a state of constant performance, no matter how small the audience or how inappropriate the venue.
"Yes, thank you, Master Gléobeam," Lothiriel says, ignoring Eowyn's obvious attempts to hold back her laughter. "Did you have any luck in finding my brother?"
The musician's face falls. "I am afraid not, my lady! But I can send one of the minstrels to search for him again."
Sighing-Lothiriel had hoped for Erchirion's help in this-she shakes her head. "No, I have an alternative since my brother is...otherwise occupied."
Eowyn arches an eyebrow at that-Erchirion and Lisswyn's secret has become decidedly less so, of late, so much to the point that Lothiriel is amazed that Eothain has not come barrelling back across Rohan's fields to remove her brother's head from his shoulders-which she resolutely ignores.
"What is the lesson today, Lothiriel?" Eowyn asks, seemingly having put two and two together. "I cannot fathom why we would need Master Gléobeam to help teach me how to be a proper Gondorian lady-"
The doors open again, revealing a very disgruntled-looking Duilin. "This had better be good, girl, to call for the canceling of our herbs lesson and cutting into my midday meal."
"Oh, it is," Lothiriel assures him, stepping forward to loop an arm through the Master Healer's elbow. "I had hoped for Erchirion's help, but as he has already found a diversion for this afternoon, I could think of no one else better suited to take his place."
Duilin blinks, looking from Eowyn to Lothiriel to Gléobeam and back again.
"What is this?" He asks in a dangerous tone.
"This, Master Duilin, is a Gondorian dance lesson," Lothiriel says sweetly. "One I trust you will help me give."
Duilin gapes at her while Eowyn grimaces. "Surely I have learned enough from my dances at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding-"
"Ah, but in that setting you were merely a guest," Lothiriel says, "which is quite different from being the bride."
"Yet another one of Gondor's more ridiculous customs," Duilin grumbles, "as if a bride and bridegroom want to dance with any other person than each other!"
"I am sure Rohirric brides and grooms must also share," Lothiriel tuts. "Do you remember the steps to Beren and Lúthien, Duilin?"
"Impudent girl," he grumbles. "You know very well it is impossible for any noble Gondorian child to ever forget those blasted steps."
"Good," Lothiriel chirps cheerfully, coming to stand before him. "We can show Eowyn together, then."
Gléobeam, already prepared for his cue, begins the familiar string music. Duilin drops into a bow, Lothiriel a curtsey, and Eowyn looks on with resigned interest.
"You know as well as I that your brother would have been a better choice for this," Duilin murmurs, low enough not to be heard over the music. "Why waste the time on me, girl?"
Lothiriel bites her lip, focusing her eyes on their wrists as they tap in the next motion of the dance. True, Erchirion is closer to Faramir's height, and younger, more spry, than her teacher. And it would have been easier for him to keep up with the intricate moves of the dance, easier for Eowyn to imagine Faramir in his place. "I thought it might please you both," she admits in a quiet voice.
Duilin arches an eyebrow, and while he may not be either Eowyn or Eomer's grandfather by blood, the expression is endearing in its familiarity. "Meaning?"
"Thengel King and Eomund Marshal are long dead," Lothiriel whispers, "and Theoden King after them. I know Eowyn will have Eomer, come her wedding day, but...I thought-"
She nearly trips over Duilin's feet as he falters; only a quick shift on her behalf keeps them from both tumbling to the floor. A muscle ticks in Duilin's jaw and Lothiriel sighs. She has offended him, somehow, made the wrong judgment here. Perhaps it is painful, reminding him of his own lack of blood-kin. Perhaps he was only truly close to Theodred, and this is an overstep of his and Eowyn's relationship.
"You are too kind to an old man," he says, suddenly, and the waver in his usually commanding voice has her lifting her head to look at him.
Oh, Elbereth, the expression on his face. There is even the slightest bit of moisture in his eyes-it would embarrass him horribly, if she pointed it out-and Lothiriel squeezes his hand, offering him a smile. "I am only as kind as you deserve, Duilin."
He squeezes her hand back. They finish the dance in comfortable silence, accepting Eowyn's applause rather sheepishly.
"It may not have lifts as our dances do, but I think I can manage," she declares, coming to take Lothiriel's place in front of Duilin. "Certainly better than I am progressing with needlework."
"And this is an activity both you and Faramir can enjoy," Lothiriel says, grinning at the sudden blush in Eowyn's fair cheeks. "And it will hopefully provide less bloodshed!"
"I think I am beginning to understand how your not-suitor could name you byrnihtu cwén," Duilin grumbles. "Come now, Eowyn-"
But Eowyn's head has turned sharply in Lothiriel's direction, startling both her and Duilin. "Byrnihtu cwén?" She repeats, something very, very worrying in her voice. "Lothiriel, I only know one man block-headed enough-"
"Gléobeam, play on!" Lothiriel cries abruptly, stepping back from the pair as the music begins again. Eowyn gives her an exasperated look, but gamely takes Duilin's hand. Lothiriel watches in a daze, only vaguely aware of the genuine happiness on her friend's face, of the low murmur of Duilin's occasional corrections.
Of course Eowyn would have heard the name before and know precisely who is making her prone to "excessive sighing." The song is only so long, even with the occasional stumbles from Eowyn, and Lothiriel knows she cannot escape the ensuing conversation forever. The doors to the hall suddenly burst open once more, startling the minstrels into silence and the dancing pair into stillness. Even with the sunlight nearly blinding behind him, there is no mistaking Eofor's mop of unruly red hair.
"Eofor?" She calls. "Is something the matter?"
He is breathing heavily, having obviously been running, but as he stumbles closer, Lothiriel can tell he is white as a sheet.
"M-Módor," he stutters, "the babe, she s-sent me for Master Duilin-"
With an agility Lothiriel hadn't known he possessed, Duilin is suddenly in front of the boy, placing his hand on his shoulders with a soothing gentleness. "How far apart are the pains? Has there been blood yet?"
Eofor goes even whiter, if possible. "No, n-no blood, she just said she would need you-"
Duilin nods, giving the boy's hair a ruffle before passing him off in Eowyn's direction. "Find some food for the lad. And send Mistress Déorwyn to Wilfled's house, as quickly as you can."
Gléobeam leaps into action, turning on his heel towards the doors leading to the midwives' huts. Eowyn gathers the now shaking Eofor into her arms, murmuring words of comfort in Rohirric that are too low for Lothiriel to make out.
"And find Lisswyn!" Duilin barks, already halfway out of the hall.
Realizing the last task must fall to her, Lothiriel hurries towards the kitchens.
Sweet Elbereth, she thinks, let the eored be close.
Today marks their sixth day of travel at a breakneck pace, and understandably, most of the men are weary. Eomer would not usually condone such speed, especially with the thin layer of snow on the ground, but Eothain is visibly impatient to be home. He is well-liked and well-respected, as a captain, and no Eorlingas can begrudge him for wanting to be back in Edoras before the babe is born. It may help, too, that Wilfled's temper is somewhat legendary. Eothain had missed Eofor's birth, nigh eight years ago now, and the ensuing tongue-lashing he had received is still talked about.
Still, even the most season rider requires food and water. The horses, too, need rest if they are to make it home in one piece. So Eomer calls for a stop; they are perhaps half a day's ride from Edoras, now, and there have been no messengers with word of anything ill at ease either with Wilfled or the capital itself.
"Phew!" One of the younger riders cries, flopping dramatically on the ground. "You owe us all a round of ale for this, Captain!"
"Shut your gob, Fram," Caedda barks. "Man's got a bairn on the way, he has every right to want to get home as quickly as possible."
The men chorus their agreement. Food and water is quickly passed around, some men choosing to lounge on the ground, while others rub down their horses' tired legs. There is some more good-natured ribbing: bets on how long Eothain would be banned from his bed after the babe's birth, questions about names they've considered. All things to be expected questions for a father-to-be. But when Eomer turns to look at his friend, he finds Eothain's face drawn, almost frightened.
"I know it's foolish," Eothain say suddenly, voice low enough that only Eothred and Eomer can hear him, "but I feel as if I am there when the babe comes, there is less of chance-that Wilfled will-that nothing will-"
Eothred claps a hand to his nephew's shoulder. "That's just nerves, lad. Wilfled needs as little help from you in birthing a babe as she does in all aspects of her life."
Eothain snorts at that, but rubs a hand over his face, clearly still unsettled. "I wasn't there, for Eofor, and I promised her I would be for this child."
Eomer grimaces; it is because of him, because of the Dunlending truce, that Eothain has not seen his wife for the majority of the last month of her pregnancy. The guilt curdles uncomfortably in his stomach. "I am sorry, my friend. I should have sent for another captain-"
Eothain fixes him with a flat look. "And let those wee children starve to death in the snow while you waited for Fasthelm to ride from East-emet or Grimbold from Grimslade? There was no time for that, Eomer. I know my duties as a captain of the Mark."
"Still," Eomer starts to say, "if there had been any other way-"
"You would have done it," Eothain interrupts, finally smiling. "I know that, sire. I suspect if you could have passed this whole venture off on someone else, you would have."
"I do not regret making peace with Dera's tribe," Eomer says, quirking a brow at his captain's suddenly mischievous tone.
"No, that I do not doubt," chuckles Eothain, "I was referring to perhaps another reason you would be loathe to leave Edoras."
Oh, helle. Six days they have ridden, and for six days neither Eothain nor Eothred has brought up Heled's less-than-delicate parting remark. It seems his good luck is finally at an end.
"Yes, I wondered about that myself, nephew," Eothred chimes in, grin widening, "who could this mysterious woman who's softened your heart be, eh?"
"Eothred," Eomer hisses.
"I think I could hazard a guess, uncle," Eothain answers, the bastard, "and I suspect I am correct in saying that these furs will look lovely against her dark hair."
Eomer groans. "Do not encourage him."
"It seems that you are the one who needs encouragement, lad," Eothred chortles, slapping Eomer's shoulder. "She's a fine lass, lovely and true, and you've been dragging your feet!"
"I am not-" Eomer starts to hiss, but Eothred waves him off.
"Eomer, son of Eomund, I have known you since you were a stripling lad with your first saddle-sores. I've seen you mooning over lasses before, heard tales from this one," he jerks a thumb in Eothain's direction, who shrugs helplessly, "about youthful tumbles in the hay, but never have I seen your head as turned about as it has been by this Gondorian filly."
"Must we refer to her as a horse?" Eomer grumbles, tugging at his hair. "I am not Firefoot, Eothred Marshal, and despite what the Dunlendings would say of us, I have little desire to spend my nights with a mare-"
"Ah!" Eothain cries, grinning dangerously. "But you do have some desire to spend your nights with the lovely lady from Dol Amroth."
"Who wouldn't?" Eothred offers.
Eomer shoots him a fearsome stare. "She is a princess, Eothred," he growls. "Not the sort of woman you can just spend one night with."
Eothain snorts. "She could be a scullery maid and still not be the sort of woman you should only spend one night with." And then he blinks. Processes. "If not one night...then all of them? And your days, too?"
"I-" Eomer begins, and then stops himself. Bema, is that what he wants? There could be no casual dalliance with a woman like Lothiriel. No meaningless flirtations, no stumbling steps back towards the nearest ale house-even as he thinks it, he recoils from the idea. Lothiriel is a princess, and even if she hadn't been, she deserves better than that. Deserves to be courted properly. To be shown all the admiration, the affection, that those Minas Tirithian bastards have so long denied her, to be appreciated for her quick wit, her sweet humor-
"Oh, helle," he says, suddenly.
Eothred bursts into laughter while Eothain merely grins, thumping his back. "S'alright, sire. I thought you wouldn't figure it out until at least Yule."
"Yule?" Eothred laughs, mopping at his eyes. "I didn't think he'd know it until Eowyn's wedding!"
Eomer is mercifully spared from responding by the sudden call of a horn. A messenger approaches, thundering closer on their mount. A young rider, by his armor and helm, not to mention the carefree way he swings down from his horse to offer a jaunty waves. An older eorlingas would have delivered his message before dismounting, and a wiser one would know the tension his presence would immediately bring to the group.
"Hail, Freca!" Caedda calls. "What news from Edoras?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Caedda," the boy-and he is that, spots revealed when he pulls the helmet from his head-answers. "The councilors are pleased with the report of the treaty going well, the horses have begun to be brought in from the pastures, Eothain Captain's wife is in labor-"
There is an explosion of noise at that, and Eothred has to yank Eothain backwards to keep him from strangling the youth.
"What?" Freca asks, looking less carefree. "What did I say?"
"Mount up!" Eomer yells. "We ride for Edoras!"
Lothiriel is nearly at her wits' end. She has been to the kitchens, the pantries, the larders (twice), Eowyn's solar, the council room-though she was rudely shouted out by a number of cantankerous council members-and now stands in Morwen Queen's garden, ready to pull at her hair.
Lisswyn can usually be found in any number of these places-it was no secret that Merthwyn considered her a natural successor to the leading Housekeeper position at Medulseld-and yet she is conspicuously absent. Remembering Gléobeam's earlier failure to find Erchirion, she can only sigh at the implication.
"My lady?" A familiar voice calls. "Is there any particular reason you're standing in Morwen Queen's garden, groaning loud enough to shake the walls?"
Flushing to the roots of her hair, she offers Cwenhild a helpless smile. "None that I would trouble you with, Cwenhild-oh!" She cuts herself off, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the strawberry-blonde child on the older woman's hip. "Hello there, Darwyn."
"'Lo, lady," the little girl giggles, offering her a wide smile.
Lothiriel runs a hand through the girl's hair-she looks so much like Lisswyn but for her eyes, which must have come from her seldom-talked-about father-before looking up to Cwenhild cautiously. "How long have you been watching her?"
"An hour or so, I'd say," Cwenhild says, arching a brow at Lothiriel's question. "Is something amiss?"
"Wilfled's labor pains have begun," Lothiriel says, wincing at the older woman's sudden intake of breath, "and Duilin sent me to find Lisswyn, though I know not why."
Cwenhild sighs, setting Darwyn down so that she might pluck at the few remaining leaves in the garden. "No, I suppose you wouldn't know. It is an old tradition, begun in the first years of the Mark. When a child comes into the world, we call upon Vana to bless and protect the babe. In order to draw the goddess's attention and protection, the oldest living relative of the woman in labor is present in the room, to help fill it with prayers, for both the babe and its mother. She serves as the mǣg, or sister-helper, and if anything happens to the mother, it is she who will take on her role for the child. "
Horror creeps icily up Lothiriel's spine. "And it would be considered very ill-luck for a babe to be born without a mǣg, I assume."
"Very ill," Cwenhild confirms. "If a woman has no female relatives, a close friend may stand in, though given the average size of families in the Mark, it's somewhat of a rare occurrence."
"Cwenhild," Lothiriel says, "do you know where Lisswyn is?"
The older woman shakes her head, biting her lip. "I agreed to watch Darwyn for the afternoon. I suppose she is not in any of the usual places?"
"No," Lothiriel agrees, thinking of some truly inventive names to fling at her brother the next time she sees him. "And no one can recall seeing her after the morning meal…"
Cwenhild mutters a curse, which earns a wide-eyed look from Darwyn. "Dollicu mægþ! She could not have chosen a worse time to become so flighty!"
"Is there anyone else who might serve?" Lothiriel asks, a sense of urgency tingling unpleasantly in her stomach. "Wilfled has been anxious enough about the birth of this child without having to face it alone."
The older woman gives her a searching look. "Would you consider Wilfled a dear friend?"
"One of my very dearest," Lothiriel answers without hesitation. Then she can feel her mouth opening in surprise. "Cwenhild, you cannot mean me-"
"I can and I do," she interrupts. "You have experience healing, are unlikely to faint at the sight of blood, and what's more, Wilfled trust you. Eothain trusts you. I can think of no higher commendation than that."
"B-but I do not know the prayers! Surely, Eowyn would be a better choice-"
Cwenhild frowns. "Eowyn has seen blood on a battlefield, not a birthing chamber. And have you not a sister-in-law?"
"I-I do," Lothiriel stutters, "but an unwed maiden would never be allowed in the birthing chamber in Gondor-"
"Bah," Cwenhild interrupts again, swinging Darwyn up on her hip with practiced ease. "They should be, lest some man try to convince them that birthing a child is an easy feat. Go, glómmung cwén, and be Wilfled's mǣg while I try to find her errant sister-in-law."
Lothiriel gawks at her for a moment longer before the older woman all but shoves her back towards the door. Nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste, she hurries back through the Great Hall and down the steps of Medulseld. People call to her as she passes, some in greeting, some in curiosity, but Lothiriel hears none of it, the blood rushing behind her ears. Naneth had been with Alycia during Alphros's birth but Lothiriel had spoken the truth: in Gondor, even in Dol Amroth and far-away Pelargir, unwed maidens were not allowed in the birthing chambers. Apparently, it was thought that witnessing such an event would turn the maiden off childbirth-and therefore marriage-entirely. (That, or or it would give the young ladies such a rush of "child-fever" that they might find themselves in a compromising position while unwed. Personally, Lothiriel thought both theories utterly ridiculous.)
Still, the thought of seeing Wilfled in such pain frazzles her so greatly that she gets lost twice on the way to her and Eothain's home, finally stumbling in the door red-faced and panting.
"Wilfled?" She calls. "Mistress Déorwyn?"
"In the bedroom, my lady," comes the midwife's voice. "Is Lisswyn with you?"
Wincing, Lothiriel steps inside. Wilfled is clad only in her shift, slightly pink in the face, with sweat on her brow, but otherwise looks wholly normal. Mistress Déorwyn arches an eyebrow as it becomes apparent that there is no one trailing behind Lothiriel. Her assistants-two other midwives, both married and older than Eowyn-murmur to each other in surprise.
"Where is Lisswyn?" Wilfled asks, her voice slightly pinched.
"I do not know," Lothiriel admits, drifting closer to offer brush her friend's hair back from her face. "I have looked everywhere. Cwenhild has taken up the search, but bid me to come here and serve as your mǣg. I told her that surely Eowyn was a better choice-"
"Lothiriel, do shut up and hold my hand," Wilfled interrupts, still fiery despite the considerable discomfort she must be experiencing, "and if my sister-in-law doesn't turn up by the time this babe does, I would be happy for you to be their mǣg."
"Oh," Lothiriel says, feeling utterly absurd tears prick in her eyes. "Wilfled, I-" And then Wilfled is gripping her hand, tight enough to hurt, and Lothiriel has to hold back a surprised yelp. "Elberth!"
Mistress Déorwyn huffs a laugh. "I suspect you and Wilfled both will both be invoking the gods' names in less than favorable ways."
"The...name that's going to get the most abuse is my husband's," Wilfled pants. "Especially since he is not here, again…"
"A rider was sent for the eored," Lothiriel promises. "They cannot be more than a day's ride away."
"Vana give them speed, then," Mistress Déorwyn says. "The second babe often comes a bit faster than the first."
"That is...no guarantee of s-swiftness," Wilfled mutters. "Eofor took hours. If not for Master Duilin's smelling salts-"
"Duilin was present?" Lothiriel asks, somewhat stunned.
"Of course I was," comes Duilin's voice, causing Lothiriel to jump. Wilfled huffs a laugh and Lothiriel sends him a glare over her shoulder. He has obviously come from his shop, arms laden down with a basket of herbs and vials. "Where else should a Master Healer be during a babe's arrival, eh?"
"Not in the room!" Lothiriel cries. "This-it is a woman's place!"
"The birthing bed is, certainly," Mistress Déorwyn agrees. "But no woman worth her salt would reject aid in any form when a babe is coming. Especially when it's coming from the same man who has helped deliver the past two generations of the Mark's royalty."
Lothiriel can only gape at them. A woman's closest female relative being nearby to offer support made infinite sense, surely, but a man? Even a man such as Duilin, well-versed in the art of healing and herbs-! The thought unnerves her. She would not want any man to see her in child-bed, let alone her cantankerous and sharp-tongued teacher.
"Do stop gawking, glómmung cwén, and do your duty," Duilin orders. "Cwenhild sent word that you'll be taking Lisswyn's place until she is found."
If she is found, Lothiriel thinks, cursing Erchirion's quiet charm and sincere affection as she does so. "What am I to do?"
Mistress Déorwyn smiles. "Aid Wilfled in any way you can. Wet rags are here, to help keep her cool. Distract her with stories, help keep her hair out of her face. Today you are her mǣg, a sister in all but blood. That is no small thing, my lady."
She turns to look at Wilfled, who nods. "To think this babe will be waited upon by a princess! Eothain will go hoarse bragging about it to the other riders."
"Oh, stop," Lothiriel says, flustered. "Today I am no princess, just a friend who loves you dearly."
"And I you. I am sorry, though, for your poor hand," Wilfled huffs, offering Lothiriel a wry smile, despite her pink face."It will probably never be the same again."
"I consider it a fair sacrifice," Lothiriel says, squeezing Wilfled's fingers. Wilfled squeezes back, leaning back against the pillows. Lothiriel stands, anxiety and affection warring in her breast, until Duilin turns back from his basket of herbs and barks a laugh at her.
"The babe is not coming this instant, girl! Sit down and rest, while you can. Entertain us all with stories of Dol Amroth, or that troublesome brother of yours."
"Oh," Lothiriel murmurs, feeling foolish. Of course the babe was not coming now; Wilfled's labor has just begun, and she has not gripped Lothiriel's hand in the same desperate manner in a number of minutes. Sinking into the chair one of the other midwives has pushed closer for her, she turns her face back towards Wilfled. "Where should I begin?"
"Tell me of your other brother," she says. "For knowing you and Erchirion makes me doubt you could have a brother as troublesome as my Eofor."
"Amrothos's tales of mischief could take years to tell," Lothiriel says, smiling. "So I suppose it's a good place to start."
Even as Wilfled laughs at a story about Amrothos's mis-adventures while fishing in a too-small boat, Lothiriel spares a moment for a prayer all her own: Elbereth, Vana, Valar: grant them speed. Let Eothain be here to put Wilfled's mind at ease.
Author's Note: I know I promised in the last chapter that our pair would be reunited, but plot got in the way! Soon, my darlings, soon. At least they're thinking-and being forcibly reminded of each other by meddling friends-eh?
But there's a lot to unpack in this one, so let's begin:
The Dunlendings' tribal structures are based on Celtic traditions, per Tolkien's canon. I've tweaked it a bit here, obviously, to better fit the story. Also, for anyone keeping track of faces, I'm personally imagining Megan Gale (otherwise known as Valkyrie from Mad Max: Fury Road) as Dera.
Of course Gondor would have a dance named after the most famous Elvish lovers, and of course all Gondorian noble children would be required to learn it. It's considered a traditional wedding dance, between bride and groom, and signifies the strength and significance of the bond they're entering into.
The tradition of the mǣg is of my own invention, but it was traditional for women-especially in societies resembling Rohan's-to be involved in the birthing process. Midwives generally ruled this area, and men like Duilin would not have been introduced until later, when men began to professionalize medical arts and push midwives into the realm of witchcraft. But this is fiction, and y'all didn't come here for an in-depth discussion about how much knowledge was lost when midwives were reduced in status/burned as witches.
On more plot related notes: OH HO HO. These two are so transparent, even people who've never met Lothiriel know there's *something* going on with Eomer. And hm where *could* Erchirion and Lisswyn be? (Hint: getting into trouble would be a good blanket term here.) The next chapter actually (I promise) has our favorite pair reuniting, as well as the arrival of Wilfled and Eothain's child. (Among other things ;) )
Terms:
cifesboren: bastard
cnihtcild: young male child, youth
Plægeaþ?: (We) play?
ungerád: foolish, idiotic
min drút: my friend
dreámere: musician
mǣg: sister-helper
dollicu mægþ: foolish, rash girl