Chapter Four
All New Territory
Dunharrow, Rohan
April 30th of the year 3020 T.A.
Someone was trying to wake her up.
Lothíriel didn't want to. For the first time in what seemed like forever she was comfortable again, warm and safe. It seemed like ages since she had slept, and she wasn't eager to let go of her newfound contentment. She gave a faint moaning grumble, trying to tuck her face deeper into the soft, warm cloth that served as her pillow. A pillow which—strangely enough—smelled of leather, horse and another, spicy and masculine sort of scent that she couldn't identify. Lothíriel was still very deeply asleep however, so the oddity of that didn't quite register completely. Just a passing thought easily abandoned in the face of her desire to reclaim her peaceful dreams.
"Come now, little one," a deep, male voice suddenly murmured from somewhere very near her ear, tinged with humor and faintly husky with something else. "Open your eyes, or you will miss your first glimpse of the Riddermark."
Very slowly her eyes started to crack open, wondering dazedly all the while who was in her bedroom speaking to her. It was not her father's voice, and none of her brothers had dared enter her bedchamber unannounced ever since she entered adolescence. Bleary-eyed, slowly blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, she stared up into a pair of warm green-brown hazel eyes only inches away and tried to remember where and when she was.
Lothíriel stared up blankly into the handsome face of Eomer King for a solid minute before her memory finally returned in a rush. She stiffened with a gasp, eyes widening with horror.
Oh please, no . . . .
She only had bits and pieces of memory about what had happened under the mountain. She had been terrified to go into the Paths of the Dead, but was determined not to appear weak before her father and, worse, the atrociously attractive King of Rohan. As soon as the darkness had closed around her however, things had become vague in her mind. She dully remembered fighting off the icy fingers of terror for what seemed an eternity, of desperately resisting the sensation of the walls closing in, of her breath shortening until it seemed as though there was no air left for her to take. Yet eventually the strain had become more than she could bear.
Lothíriel didn't remember a whole lot after that, only that she was sure she was going to suffocate. And then she'd heard a voice, his voice. Calming the whirlwind of panic that filled her mind. Bringing her back from the very brink of madness. She dully remembered him pulling her out of Gyldenfax's saddle after that, wrapping her in his cloak. And against all logic, somehow that had helped. She had closed her eyes tight as he'd bidden, and wished with all her might that she was back in her spacious rooms in her father's castle by the sea.
She'd barely registered the two powerful arms wrapped around her then, or the huge chest her face was buried into. She'd clung to the only solid thing in a world of darkness and kept repeating her mantra over and over, mindless to anything outside of her cocoon. Eventually, lulled by weariness and warmth, she must have fallen asleep.
As if everything else wasn't bad enough. At least he didn't seem disgusted with her or angered. If anything, the young King looked thoroughly amused by her sudden predicament. Although, truthfully, Lothíriel didn't want to seem so amusing to the man either, so his unexpected attitude could hardly be called an improvement.
"Oh . . . I . . . please, I-I am sorry," she started to stammer, starting to pull up away from him with a wrench. The arm he had wrapped around her back tightened into the resolve of steel however, keeping her still.
"Easy, princess," he murmured, voice low. "Wouldn't want you to fall. And Firefoot's not so used to bearing two, take care not to move too suddenly."
Instantly she froze, respecting the need not to spook the powerful stallion. Yet her eyes widened again.
"Gyldenfax! Is she—,"
"The mare is perfectly fine," he cut her off with another of those slight—almost uncertain—smiles. Almost as if he did not have much practice in it. Lothíriel wasn't sure where that sudden assessment had come from, though the thought of it saddened her in a way she couldn't explain. "One of my riders led her safely through the Dark Door," he assured. "We have come through the Dimholt, and will be arriving soon in Dunharrow. I thought you might like to be awake to see it for the first time."
At this, Lothíriel became aware of her surroundings outside of her current perch. They had indeed emerged back out into open air, a fact for which she was most grateful. She prayed with a faint shudder that she would never again be forced to take that road. The air was colder now than it had been on the other side of the White Mountains, especially as dusk was fast approaching, the sun hovering low on the horizon. She was suddenly glad for the extra warmth of the huge green cloak she was still wrapped up in.
Lothíriel carefully straightened enough so that she could see out and around her—and to pull herself from such close, intimate contact with the man she rode with. Granted, he wore full leather and mail and she was bundled up in several layers herself. Yet for all that, she was still very aware of the fact that she sat practically in the lap of a man she shared no blood ties with. The steady rocking motions of their mount's gait didn't let her forget it either.
She was still largely innocent, but she wasn't a fool either. Lothíriel was also very unaccustomed to being in such close proximity to a man. Of course, now would be the time she would become so aware of everyone else that surrounded them. Riders of Rohan as well as her own family and a handful of her father's men. All of whom seemed unnecessarily interested in her return to consciousness. Elphir cast her a disapproving look from where he rode several lengths away, face dark, while her father's expression remained curiously neutral.
Lothíriel felt her cheeks turn hot even in the crisp air, and prayed everyone mistook the color for the wind's bite and not her sudden, acute embarrassment. She made a desperate grab for her composure, and did her ultimate best to appear calm and at ease. Yet she squirmed a little in an attempt to put a little more distance between herself and the King, where their bodies were currently wedged so tight they seemed as one being. Yet, as soon as she moved, she felt his whole body tense and a he hissed in a curiously sharp breath.
Immediately she froze again, her eyes flying up to meet his, wondering what she'd done wrong. Thinking she might have somehow hurt him, for his gasp had seemed somewhat pained. Their gazes met and held, and Lothíriel was fascinated—though confused—by the way his dark eyes suddenly seemed to smolder into a hot black-brown. She didn't know why, but the heated look he was giving her suddenly made her breath hitch and her face grow warmer.
"Careful now, princess," he murmured after a tense moment and a slight clearing of his throat. His voice seemed different now too. Deeper . . . almost hoarse. "We are almost to the clearing."
Lothíriel pulled her eyes away and stared ahead instead, deciding that staring up into his handsome face was far too dangerous by half. By the Valar, she would have to guard herself closely in the coming weeks, she decided then. While she wished to find some common ground with the young King on which to build a friendly relationship, she did not want to fall head first into some pathetic infatuation doomed to remain unrequited either. A fate which his golden good looks was fast in danger of creating, if the way she was suddenly feeling was to be interpreted.
She focused on the land around her instead. Already she could see changes. Trees were sparse compared to the Gondorian side of the mountain, the grass thinner on a whole with random spots of denser golden-brown thickets.
Very soon they entered into a wide clearing, filled with large white tents, men and horses. Many yelled out greeting to Eomer, which he returned warmly. Obviously these were the rest of his Éored, who had awaited his return from under the mountain. She did her best to smile and greet those who called out to her, trying to ignore the fact that she was being weighed and measured most carefully by her soon-to-be husband's men.
They continued through the camp. Lothíriel had become quite engrossed with examining her surroundings, enough so that she hardly noticed when their companions slowed and dropped back. Continuing alone, the King guided Firefoot right up to the edge of the cliff. Lothíriel gasped, eyes widening, at her first true glimpse of the land that was to become her new home.
"Welcome to the Mark, my lady," Eomer murmured softly.
"It's so beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself, and meant it. The land stretched out before her like an immense golden sea, as far as her eye could discern. "I had read of the vastness of the grasslands," she continued eagerly, almost forgetting to whom she spoke in her excitement, "but I had never dreamed of the truth." She turned back to find Eomer staring at her, not of the incredible vista before them. He had that hot look back in his eyes, tempered now by a softness in his expression that immediately brought back her self-consciousness. She dropped her eyes away again and cleared her throat somewhat. "The books of the Great Library do no justice to your lands, sire," she announced after another uncomfortable moment. "It is truly magnificent."
"I am glad to hear it," he returned finally, and the sound of his voice eased some of her discomfort. "Also that you have apparently taken such an interest in the Riddermark. Faramir wrote to me that you had set to the task of familiarizing yourself with your new home with an . . . impressive dedication."
The faint note of humor that returned in his tone told her just how much of her somewhat obsessive reading habits her traitorous cousin had revealed. She'd gut him for sure, for this. While a furiously blushing Lothíriel struggled to come up with something to fill the gap of silence, Eomer spoke instead.
"I was quite pleased to learn that you can both read and write with ease," he announced. "Not many in my country can boast of this, unfortunately. How many languages do you know?"
Lothíriel kept her eyes on the setting sun, finding it much easier to stare at while she spoke, giving an honest accounting of her knowledge. "I can speak, read and write Westron as well as Quenyan and Sindarin Elvish fluently. I have also taught myself enough Rhovannion to translate simple words and runes, though without the tutoring of a native speaker, I could never speak or write it clearly. And I have learned a handful of Rohirric words in this same fashion through my studies."
Here she trailed off. Eomer was utterly silent behind her, and she swallowed somewhat nervously. Perhaps she should not have been so blunt. No doubt Eomer could probably only read and write Westron, and even that was a rarity among his people. She had probably come off sounding self-important and snobby.
"Though, no doubt I murder the pronunciation," she quickly inserted. "I-I am really only truly fluent in Westron . . . a-and perhaps Quenyan."
"It seems I am to wed a true scholar," he murmured after a moment. The tone of his voice was neutral, but Lothíriel was too afraid to look back and see what emotion would be mirrored in his hazel brown eyes. "You should not try to diminish yourself, little one," he continued firmly after a slight pause. "Your intelligence is a rare gift, one I truly hope my sons might share in."
At the mention of sons—the creation of which she would be intimately involved in—Lothíriel felt her face turn scarlet. Yet Eomer continued, seemingly oblivious, his voice a little faraway now. As if he spoke his inner thoughts aloud.
"The Kingdom of Rohan can no longer afford to remain so secluded and withdrawn. Too long have we concerned ourselves only with the Mark and its troubles and ignoring all else. If anything, the War of the Ring has taught me that. Renewing the Oath of Eorl was a start, but there are many changes yet to see to, if the Rohirrim are to survive the coming Age."
The knowledge that she would have a very large part to play in that task was a daunting one indeed. Yet one that filled her with pride also, so that her shoulders pulled just a little straighter, her chin lifting. They were suddenly interrupted out of their moment by a large blonde, bearded Rohirrim man, one who had not accompanied his King under the mountain. He approached slowly, his posture hesitant.
"My Lord, Prince Imrahil inquires after the well-being of his daughter," the man murmured, his deep voice powerful but pitched softly in deference.
Lothíriel tensed at the reminder of her father. Eomer sighed. "Very well, Gamling," he heaved.
The man bowed sharply, then turned on his heel and retreated back into the press of camp. The barest of nudges from Eomer and a sharp click of his tongue had Firefoot turning smartly about and trotting back the way they had come.
In due time Firefoot was pulled to a stop in front of one of the larger tents, only slightly smaller than the massive pavilion that must be Eomer's own.
"Do you think you are well enough to stand?" he questioned. When she nodded, he continued with, "hold fast to the horn."
When she'd taken hold of the saddle as he bid her, the King shifted his cloak from around her shoulders, and then in the next breath he was down on the ground at Firefoot's side. How he managed to make it look so easy she would never know. Just the thought of trying to get down from this great beast's back on her own was enough to cleave her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Lucky for her the young King had no such intention.
Not waiting for her father or brothers near by, Eomer issued out a sharp order to his stallion in Rohirric—causing the massive horse to go as still as a statue—then reached up and took her around the waist with both hands. His fingers nearly touched each other in the small of her back. She was given no time to ponder the strange thrill of that, as in the next breath he literally plucked her off the saddle as easily as one might have lifted a daisy from the grass. Startled, she immediately reached out to grasp at his upper arms for purchase.
By the Valar, I hope most of these bulges are from the armor, she thought, once again struck somewhat breathless.
Eomer carefully—and effortlessly—lowered her down, until her booted feet were planted back on the ground again at last. It was a long way to travel, and Lothíriel stared up at him with widened eyes. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. She had chafed somewhat at his calling her "little one," yet it seemed he was entitled.
She let go of his arms as soon as she was safely aground, though he was a little slower in releasing her hips, as if he were reluctant to do so. Yet when Elphir suddenly appeared at her side, Eomer let her go completely and took a step back.
"Rest tonight, princess," he bade firmly. "We will start later in the morning tomorrow so that you can be properly recovered. And should you suffer from anything else on the journey, you will let your father or myself know immediately."
Lothíriel frowned a little at the sudden, commanding tone he had taken. Elphir took exception to it too, if his sudden low-pitched growl of irritation was any indication. Eomer didn't pay her older brother any mind however, keeping his eyes on her.
She started to tell him that she was not made of glass, and that she needed no such protective coddling. Then she took in his stubbornly resolute stare and decided that butting heads with him would be a moot point. Besides, it was not as if she had given him any other impression after the underground tunnel fiasco. So instead she nodded obediently to his wishes and said nothing. Pleased with that, Eomer hesitated only a moment more to indulge in a fierce glare with Elphir, curiously enough, before he turned on his heel and walked away. A murmured word in Rohirric had Firefoot trailing after his master as obediently as a well-trained hound.
"Oh Lothí!" She turned to see Riana hurrying toward her. Her sister-in-law engulfed her in a hug, and she laughed slightly but returned the embrace. "I was so worried! Are you all right? I cannot believe you did not say something about your fears!"
"I had hoped it would not be a problem," she answered apologetically. "I did not know I would react so badly. I am sorry."
"You do not need to apologize, child," her father contradicted, reaching out to tenderly brush her hair out of her face once Riana had loosed her. His gray eyes were kind, but stern as well as he continued with, "though King Eomer is right. You will not keep such things a secret in the future."
"Yes father," she immediately agreed. Elphir let out another foul-humored growl at the mention of King Eomer, however.
"Not that he has any right to say so," he snapped.
Lothíriel was slightly taken aback by the amount of venom in his voice, but Imrahil just shook his head while Riana laughed and wrapped an arm around her husband.
"You will have to learn to let go of this protectiveness, dearest," she murmured playfully, much to his foul-humored glare. "Lothí is soon to be a wife, a woman of her own, and a Queen. You cannot keep her to yourself forever."
"Until the ceremony is over with," he announced stiffly, "she is still a Princess of Dol Amroth, and father's daughter. That horse-lord would do well to remember it. He treats her far too familiarly."
"What, you would prefer he not look at or speak to her at all until after the wedding?" Erchirion demanded incredulously, and Amrothos laughed.
"Aye, that would make for a warm marriage bed indeed."
"All right, you two," Imrahil cut in firmly.
"Suddenly I fear for poor Finuviel," Riana murmured, "when she comes of age to begin drawing suitors. She will probably die an old maid, if her father has anything to say about it."
The next Princess of Dol Amroth just giggled unrepentantly in the face of her scowling husband, her humor not in the very least intimidated by his black looks. She was probably the only one other than his father who could claim such. Even Erchirion and Amrothos—who were known to be some of the most fearless hellions Gondorian nobility had ever seen—would only push Elphir so far. Slender Riana remained completely unfazed by him.
Not for the first time, Lothíriel marveled at the relationship between her often dour and sullen brother and the light-hearted Riana. They seemed so different, and yet they were so in love with one another—proof being their three year old son and nine month old daughter. For as much as she teased him relentlessly, the fierce spark of affection never left Riana's green eyes when she gazed up at her husband. And in the times when Elphir thought no one was looking, he would stare at his slender wife with an expression that could only be likened to utter devotion on his face.
Lothíriel let Riana guide her into the tent. She was quick to shed her heavy layers, down to her thin white chemise, and then washed what she could of the dirt away with the cloth and basin of water that Riana produced. Meanwhile her sister-in-law helped undo her ruined coiffure and gently worked out the tangles.
The food that was brought in later by her father and brothers was simple but warm and very filling. For Lothíriel, who hadn't eaten well since yesterday morning, it was heavenly. Wrapped in a warm blue fur-lined robe, she thoroughly enjoyed the playful banter that passed back and forth between her family. She watched it all largely silent from her perch, taking in the scene and committing every detail to memory. It would be one of the last times she would see them all together like this, she well knew. And memories like these would be what would help her get through the months ahead, filled with doubt and uncertainty. Those fears could wait for another day, however. For now she was safe and warm and well-fed, and surrounded by those she loved.