Thanks to all of you reading, subscribing and especially to those who took the trouble to review! You are really encouraging.
As I'll be off into the wilds in the beginning of August , here comes some compensation, or wergild, as some Horselord might put it: I'll post the due chapters before leaving. ;-)
Warning: The following chapter contains some major culture clash, severe awkwardness between a certain Horselord and a very furious Princess and last but not least Imrahil's offspring behaving like Imrahil's offspring. And it certainly gives away the author's attitude concerning male beauty! ;-D
Read and enjoy! ... And tell me if you do so! ;-)
Chapter7
Walking did not pose any problem but when climbing the low ridge, Éomer felt his toe complain, which caused him to slow down and choose his steps more carefully. When he finally reached the top, Lothíriel stood with her back to him, looking out over the endless space in front of her, the gusty wind tugging at her clothes and hair.
Stepping up beside her, he looked out over the space he had walked across only two hours ago. The rocky ground was now totally covered by water, white streaks of foam pointing out the spots where boulders hid under its rippled surface. At the foot of the low cliff the incoming waves rolled over and broke, white froth marking the shore line while further out the wind-stirred waters glistened like hammered steel, an endless plate, losing itself on the horizon.
The Western Sea! He felt a strange tug at his heart at the sight of the surface's everlasting motion, wondering, how it would be to see this sunlit expanse whipped into gushing breakers, rolling in like a thundering cavalcade, roaring shorewards, as Erchirion had described it to him at Cormallen.
"Ungwe Morgothno!"
Startled he looked at the woman beside him and nearly recoiled from the fury and hatred, displayed on her face. Pale she was, though angry red spots appeared on her cheekbones, her lips a thin, determined line, her eyes flaming daggers.
"My lady, what's the matter?"
Spinning round, she wordlessly pointed to the southern horizon, and following her outstretched arm with his gaze, he spied the triangle of a sail out on the open sea.
"Mardil of Edhellond," she spat.
"How can you be that sure?" he asked puzzled. Certainly that boat was much too far away to make out her owner.
Turning towards him, she motioned angrily with her hand. "Besides Amrothos' there is only one boat around the whole of Cabas Haven rigged like that, with main- and foresail. Normally the boats only have one sail over here."
She looked back at the approaching boat, her fists balled at her sides. "Someone must have told him where we went. That scum started late and therefore had to follow the Ringló channel."
The contempt he had already sensed in the morning radiated from her like cold fire. What made this woman hate someone like that? Éomer was sure, that if anybody dared to tell him, it would be her, herself. He realised he needed to know, not out of curiosity, but rather due to the urge to understand her. Yet he was well aware that he was treading on thin ice.
"May I speak openly, my lady?" Getting no negative reaction, he continued: "What kind of a man is this Mardil of Edhellond that you hate him that much?"
Slewing round, she gazed at him angrily: "What kind of a man?" Nevertheless she seemed to ponder the question, as after pausing for a moment, she asked him: "Tell me, my lord, at the age of twenty-five, would you have called yourself an experienced man? Mind you: man, not warrior."
What kind of question was that? Which healthy man would not be at that age? And certainly there was no difference between Gondor and Rohan, as far as he guessed from what he had seen at Cormallen and in Minas Tirith after the War. He decided to give her a plain answer. "Yes, I would," he said, surprised at the raspiness of his own voice.
She nodded resolutely, her eyes cold, dark grey and hard as the pebbles on the shore. "What then would you call a man of that age, an experienced man, as you said yourself, who took his pleasure, seducing innocents, at least ten years his junior?"
Éomer felt totally at a loss, nothing of her question making any sense to him. Was the age of fifteen not the proper age to start into adulthood? Was it not that time in life everyone started to yearn for the joys of the body? Éothain's wife had been sixteen when they got married, the reason for their decision more than audible. But then, Éothain himself had not been that much older, being not yet nineteen summers, and they had been head over heels in love. It was natural that pleasure was sought after by young people, and in not few cases that grew into love. Yet what pleasure could a man find, bedding explicitly innocents? Laying a virgin first place meant responsibility and devotion, not pleasure, no experienced man would do that, without really loving the woman...except perhaps when thought after by the wenches to teach them... but fifteen-year old girls would not do that, well at least not in general. And anyway that was nothing to tell Imrahil's daughter.
His brain was working frantically. Surely Gondor could not differ that much from Rohan in that case. Had not Erchirion warned the Riders to stay away from innocents? So surely that was something not to trifle with as well in Gondor. So what could induce a grown man to bed innocent girls that young? Suddenly the obvious solution to her riddle struck him. "A coward," he said, convinced to have at last understood what she was aiming at.
"A coward?"
Her aghast expression made clear that that was not the answer, she had been expecting. Éomer felt the urge to run his hand through his hair.
Béma, what had he got himself in! But it could not be helped now. Sounding as matter-of-fact as possible, he tried to explain. "Well, yes. Either that or a very bad lover. I mean, unless that man is not profoundly afraid of having his performances compared to his predecessors..." Seeing her, staring at him agape, made him stop mid-sentence. He felt uncertain, and this uncertainty made him want to lash out. Had not she asked that stupid question?
"No sane man would bed a virgin for pleasure," he finally announced in a sulky tone.
"I see." Her voice was tart. He hoped she would leave it at this but pushing her chin forward, she continued her interrogation. "Well, and what would you call these girls?"
"The girls?" He did not comprehend. "Well, girls, what else should I call them?"
Impatiently she threw her hands up. "My Lord Éomer, I'm not talking about farm girls or tavern wenches. I'm referring to young noblewomen. How would they fare in Rohan?"
He shrugged. "Surely their families would not be happy about it, but with such a difference in age and experience they would certainly hold the man responsible. Perhaps some people would snigger at them for falling for such a man... but then I can't imagine any girl... I mean, such a man would be the gossip and ridicule of the whole country, no woman would care for his company. And anyway, there would be male relatives to make him pay."
Shaking her head in disbelief, she insisted. "But what about those girls' future?"
He should have stayed in bed! The whole day so far had led him from one compromising situation to the next. If he only could compass what she obviously wanted to convey. He felt himself standing at an unbridgeable chasm... Nay, he corrected himself, rather a dyke, man-made, deepened through ages of differing traditions. He squared his shoulders. If man-made it was, man could overcome it! He at least had to try.
He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I don't comprehend, what you intend to make me understand. It seems customs in Rohan and Gondor differ too much for us to understand each other."
Averting her eyes, she drew a deep breath. "In Gondor any young woman of family being found no virgin at her wedding, risks disdain and degradation, not only for herself, but for her entire family. Her husband will send her back to her family, stating publicly that he found her soiled, and in order not to share her dishonour, the family will cast her out for being wanton."
Éomer stared in disbelief. What was she talking of? Soiled? How could a woman get soiled by laying with a man?
Her voice slightly coarse, she continued: "Losing her maidenhead outside the marriage bed means losing her future life. There is no real chance for her, ever to get married and start a family of her own, for no man of honour would marry her."
Realizing the coherence, he gasped, feeling horror coil in his stomach like an icy snake. That could not be! No man had the right to deprive a woman of the sacred boon to bring forth new life. That would violate the ancient rules, unbalance the scales of life and death. Unhinge the very foundation of society... And that fiend had done so knowingly? Had taken pleasure in it? Struggling for composure, he asked for confirmation, still somehow hoping he had misunderstood.
"My lady, are you suggesting Mardil of Edhellon took pleasure in destroying these young girls' prospects of ever becoming a wife and mother?" He cringed at the monstrosity of his own question.
She shrugged: "Not necessarily. I rather suppose he didn't care at all, being wrapped too much in his own importance, flattering his vanity with the thought that his seductive powers were stronger than the fear of public scorn, instilled into any maiden of family from early age."
"But why was he never punished?" He almost yelled the question. If they thought it that important for their maidens to be virgins, why did their male relatives not challenge the scum and finish him off one and for good? His head was spinning. Béma, they called the Rohirrim barbarians, but surely this was more barbaric than anything he had ever heard of.
Lothíriel laughed mirthlessly. "Sure that has to come from a man! My lord, which girl would tell her family, knowing what is to happen to her?"
"But why? Why? How can an innocent..." He did not know how to continue. He did not understand, he did not want to understand. "My lady," he finally managed to say, "these girls probably didn't even know what that filth actually was up to, how can it be that they, and only they, bear the responsibility for their action."
She looked into his agitated face, her eyes grave, yet not unkind. "My Lord Éomer, this is Gondor. And in Gondor it's a woman's duty to uphold her family's dignity."
Turning briskly, she stepped down to the beach and strode with quick steps towards the boats, leaving the King of Rohan stare after her.
When he finally reached the anchorage ground, he found Imrahil's children in a heated discussion, Elphir in his characteristic considerate way obviously holding his ground against his siblings.
"I will never let him set his damned feet on this island, even if it would be the last thing I was doing!" Lothíriel was fuming with rage. "He has no right to befoul the happy memories all of us have, coming here."
"She's right," Amrothos assented, "though I can well understand that Erchi wants a chance to welcome him fittingly."
Seeing Éomer, Elphir beckoned to him, addressing him in a low voice: "I don't know how fast that scum may be here, but just in case: Keep an eye on Erchirion, will you? I'll try and keep Roth under control."
Erchirion grunted with suppressed ire: "You just chose the right one for that task! Éomer would be the first to cut that sod into tiny twitching pieces if he knew."
Not losing his composure one bit, Elphir turned towards his brother, assuringly touching his shoulder. "And I would gladly approve but for the sake of peace in Gondor... Not now, Brother!"
"Oh, just shut up, all of you! If he knew! He knows, because I told him." Not minding her brothers' shocked expressions, Lothíriel continued: "I don't want to give the impression we are running away from that bastard either, but can't we board and await him at the entrance of the bay, thus keeping him from stepping ashore?"
"He'll be keen on challenging Roth to a race anyway, judging his boasts last night," Erchirion looked at his younger siblings deliberatively.
Amrothos sported an evil grin: "Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's get aboard and hope he'll capsize."
"One moment!" Giving Amroth a reprimanding look, Elphir intervened: "I don't want you to take any idiotic, unreckonable risk. Loth is going to sail with Erchirion and Éomer, and I'll be coming with you."
Amrothos groaned but before he could counter, his sister spoke up."No, Brother! Loth is not going to sail with Erchirion! I'll be sailing with Amrothos and we better get going before Lord Scum enters port!"
Éomer felt Elphir's thoughtful glance. "Éomer," he finally said, "do you feel up to accompanying these two imbecile hotspurs? I don't want to lose time in fruitless discussions, and I do have some hope left that being responsible for the King of Rohan's safety might keep them from foolhardy hazards."
Éomer solemnly nodded, but Amrothos howled: "Morgoth's balls, Elphir! I'm not the Horseking's nursemaid!"
With a short glance at Lothíriel, who watched the scene with an inscrutable mien, Éomer made for Amrothos' boat. Just as he was about to climb the ship's side, Amrothos appeared besides him, throwing the line on deck, his face in a sour twist. His face deadpan, Éomer slightly bent towards him. "Just in case I forgot to tell you, Pirate: I can swim."
A grin flashed over Amrothos' face. "Get aboard then, before my dear brother changes his mind."
They climbed on board, and turning to help Lothíriel, Éomer realised with admiration that no help at all was needed. Climbing the ship's side with feline grace, she stepped on deck and began to clear away their luggage, fast but carefully.
Amrothos hoisted the mainsail halfway and then went to sit at the tiller. Slowly the boat drifted towards the mouth of the bay, followed by Erchirion's vessel. Just when they were about to berth, Mardil of Edhellond's boat rounded and made for the bay.
The wood of the elegant hull shone with a deep reddish brown, the centre of the mainsail exhibiting a stylised yellow Elannor flower, the emblem of Edhellond. The two liveried men they had already seen at the jetty at Dol Amroth were busy shortening the sails. As they brought the ship alongside Erchirion's, Éomer had a glimpse at the man that had been sitting at the tiller and now was moving to the prow of the boat and he unintentionally held his breath. Never before had he seen such beauty in a man.
Sure, Imrahil's line was said to be connected with the elves of Dwimordene, and he and his sons were fair to behold, but this man bore true resemblance to the Eldar themselves. Tall and slender he was, strikingly well-built, a fact that was well amplified by the elegant cut of his clothes, and his movements were graceful and smooth, despite the rolling of the vessel.
His dark hair fell in silky waves to his shoulders, and all of a sudden Éomer realised that Mardil must have combed his hair right before turning into the bay. What a vain git! Yet he couldn't help feeling amazed by the beauty of the other man's face.
There were the Numenorean features, the long face and the high brow and cheekbones, but these features were strangely softened to some unusual pulchritude that bordered on the incomprehensible.
Whereas Imrahil's kin as well as Aragorn sported the typical slightly aquiline nose, Mardil's was faultlessly straight, thin-ridged with shapely alars, no stubble shaded his cheeks and the well-chiseled chin, and though his jawline truly displayed a well-measured male angularity, there as no ruggedness to perceive, his lips being full and mellow, curled in a slightly arrogant smile.
How old was he? Older than himself, younger? Éomer had his doubts, knowing about the longevity of the people of Westernesse. And yet there was something that contradicted the first impression of Elvish beauty and youth, some lines around mouth and nose, the slight hint of tear sacs under his eyes...
Mardil was speaking to Elphir now, who was standing at the bow, Erchrion having retreated to the tiller, and Éomer admired the absolute composure of Imrahil's eldest.
"Sure the twat will do no less than talk to the heir," Amrothos' sardonic smile did nothing to soften the tight set of his jaw. "He wants to trounce me, but he will arrange for it with Elphir." Turning to Éomer, his expression changed to his usual display of carelessness, and he addressed him with a wicked grin. "Anyway, on board my boat I'm the captain, Horselord, and when the game is up, you'll have to follow my orders."
"I thought you regarded me as ballast, how can you expect me to even comprehend any orders?" Éomer retorted.
He suddenly realised, that he missed Lothíriel's heated pay-back at her brother's asinine remarks. Turning towards her, he found her absorbed in watching Mardil of Edhellond, her face a mask of controlled fury. Standing upright, totally motionless, her head held high, she seemed like some doomed queen out of legend. Her jaw was set, her lips a thin line, her eyes expressionless, as if to shut out every enquiry into her soul. Yet as he watched her, to his utter surprise and dismay, he saw her proud chin tremble just so slightly, her lower lip quiver scarcely perceivable, and her eyes...
Bema, she was not going to cry, was she?
But within the split of a second the moment of weakness was over, and again she stood proud and erect like a blade of tempered steel. Torn between concern and admiration he watched her, when suddenly the thought hit him like a poleaxe.
An experienced man at the age of 25...How old was she?...How old had she been...five years ago. Gods, could it be?
He felt helpless, overwhelmed by the urge to care that brought forth a wave of contradictory emotions, one part of him wanting to take her into his arms, soothe her, while the other part wanted to shake her, yell at her not to yield, not to give up...
Drawing a ragged breath he suddenly sensed being watched, and turning, his gaze met the all-knowing stare of Amrothos' jackdaw eyes. Éomer steadily answered his gaze, realisation sinking in. If they were ever to make that fiendish travesty of a man pay, this was their chance, and Amrothos was providing the weapon. Slowly he inclined his head.
"Whatever you order, Captain."
"Whatever is necessary, Éomer."
"So be it," Éomer nodded.
A quick grin flashing over his face, Imrahil's son reached out for Éomer's hand. "Give me a sailor's handshake at that!"
As their hands clasped in a firm grip, Lothíriel stepped up, putting her right hand on top of theirs. "Then let me proclaim our motto: It's make or break!"
Repeating her words, Éomer looked into her face, but no hint of her former sorrow was visible. Her face still was grave but her eyes were alive now, sparkling like spearheads in the light of a rising sun. He drew a deep breath. They would fight in a way, at least something he was familiar with, though he was unsure about his role in their fight. He couldn't help a grin and found both siblings grinning back at him.
Putting an arm around Lothíriel's shoulder, Amrothos chuckled. "Well, Sister, as our dear brother made us the Horselord's nursemaids, let's teach the boy some new game! He told me he can swim and as he is sworn to the crew now, we'll pull through to the breaking of mast and cloth."
Her grin deepened. "We certainly will."
Covering her hair with her headscarf, she looked at Éomer and nodded encouragingly. "In case we capsize, just make sure to jump overboard to the windward side to keep clear of the rigging and the down-coming sails. Erchirion and Elphir will be behind us anyway, so we stand a fair chance to be picked up soon. Now come and give me a hand with the sails."
Annotations:
Ungwe Morgothno: (Quenja) Morgoth's darkness