Thank you for reviewing, subscribing, reading and lurking. I'm so happy because of your interest in this story; the number of readers made me squint with delight! ;-)
Special ta to silverswath: "sleazeball" was an up to now unknown expression I happily added to my collection; who knows when it might come in useful. ;-D
This will be the last chapter before my well-deserved holiday, so enjoy reading; there will be no supply before the 15th August, so you'll have loads of time to review! ;-)
Chapter 9
When they finally approached the site of the wreckage, Erchirion's boat was already anchoring off the western edge of the reef, as close to the wreck as possible.
It had taken them quite some time and effort to reduce the sails and tack the boat around, due to current and wind direction, and all the time Lothíriel's expression had been unreadable. Though the manoeuvres certainly had demanded concentration, Éomer could not help the impression that she had paid them more attention than necessary, just to avoid his eyes.
Bringing their ship alongside, they anchored as well, careful to keep the anchor line short enough to forestall the vessel drifting into the derelict. Elphir was alone on board, and stepping over onto their boat, he informed them about the circumstances, his face grim. "Their hull got stuck on the ridge, so that's quite safe at the moment, but it might get dangerous if the thing floats free with the proceeding tide."
Glancing over to the foundered ship, Éomer noticed three men, yanking at the sail that lay deep in the water, dragged down by the weight of the soaked cloth. He could see little more than their heads and arms, bobbing up and down in the sway amongst the debris, no help for identification, as nearly all Godoreans seemed to have dark hair.
"Where's Erchirion?" Lothíriel's voice was calm, yet Éomer noticed a certain strain.
"Down over there helping." Jerking his head towards the wreck, Elphir continued to explain, his eyes watchful on his sister's face. "His men managed to jump off, but Mardil himself got jammed in the wreck, or entangled in some ropes. I'm not sure. He's under the sail and at the moment his head is above the surface."
"Roth!" Erchirion's voice caught their attention. Swimming the short distance towards their boats, Erchirion surfaced beside them, his face twisted in a wry half-smile. "Roth, lend a hand. He's stuck in the debris and we need to cut away the sail. The sailors are already exhausted."
Cursing softly, Amrothos drew his dagger and lowered himself into the water.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Éomer saw Lothíriel's jaw muscles bulge, but she said nothing. With a sigh, Elphir stepped beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Loth, we can't just let him drown."
She shrugged, her face not giving away any of her emotions. "I know, Brother. You wouldn't... and anyway, there are witnesses."
Casting Éomer a sheepish look, Elphir squeezed her shoulders. " Loth, please..."
Without even looking at her brother, she shook off his hand. "Just stop it, Elphir. I know I have to accept it, but don't try to reason with me for once." Taking a ragged breath, she stepped aside, thus enlarging the distance, leaving her brother standing alone near the gunwale. Shooting Éomer an enquiring look, Elphir motioned towards his sister, and only after an assuring nod from the Rohir, did he climb back to his own boat.
In the meantime Amrothos and Erchirion had reached the wreck and chopping the lines they were able to reach, the four men were finally able to pull back the heavy sodden cloth far enough to free Mardil's head. The waves already reaching up to his chin he was stuck, the boom of the main sail weighing down his right shoulder, and though the sail covering his head was removed now, its weight lashed to the boom still kept him down. But it did not seem the only obstacle. Éomer realized that Mardil did not try to wriggle out from underneath the boom, so obviously he was trapped in some other way as well. He was conscious, and from the way his mouth moved, able to speak, but being too far off, Éomer could not understand, what he was saying. Due to the clutter of the entangled ropes and broken planks, there was no chance for the men to get closer to the Lord of Edhellond and Éomer could well see that one of the sailors was at the end of his tether, now and then clasping at a piece of wreckage, panting exhaustedly.
"Perhaps I should..."
"No!" Her tart voice stopped him. "It's enough that my brothers risk their health for that scum."
"She's right." Elphir confirmed. "More men would be of little use, because of the constricted space, and anyway I don't like the idea of you, the king of an allied country, being hurt or worse in such an action."
Éomer felt awkward, knowing too well, that he had not at all wanted to help Mardil, it had just been the sailor's obvious weakness that had triggered his offer. What would she think of him? And why did that matter so much to him?
The men in the water were not making any visible progress. The removal of the the boom proved impossible, as the wooden beam was entangled in the sail and the ropes. Pushing aside various planks and debris, they still tried to get Mardil free, having to stop now and then, because the pulling or cutting away of one piece often caused others to slide and endanger them.
"I wish he would drown." Her angry remark of the morning springing to his mind, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Was it that, she had cried to Osse for? He felt his heart skip a beat, seeing her face, her cold and vengeful stare, the expression of a bird of prey, having cast its mind on a victim that had no chance of escape. Fascinated he turned to her, a cold sensation sweeping over his back, leaving the frisson of goosebumps in its trail. Thus he would imagine revenge come alive!
All of a sudden a nightmarish wail called his attention back to the wrack. The rising tide had now reached Mardil's mouth, causing him to struggle desperately in the futile attempt to free himself. The men in the water shouted to him, trying to bring him to terms, but to no avail. The wail was soon interrupted by retching sounds, as the rising water caused Mardil to choke. Closing his mouth, he threw his head back, trying to keep his nostrils over the surface, his wide-opened eyes in a frenzied stare, while two of the men frantically slashed at the ropes that held the sail, the two other trying to float it free. All around them pieces of the wreckage drifted, as the surge bit by bit loosened parts of the splintered hull.
Suddenly coming free, the boom shifted and rolled over, pressing against Mardil's neck. With a gurgling shriek his terrified face disappeared, being pushed just so slightly below the surface, the top of his skull still visible, jerking in convulsions amid a flush of bubbles, as the Lord of Edhellond choked out his life, until all movement had died away, his black hair floating in the swell like some exotic kind of seaweed.
The sound of her breathing in deeply, brought Éomer's attention back to Lothíriel. The fierce expression on her face was gone, and to his amazement she looked dazed and vulnerable, like a child, just woken from sleep, troubled by a nightmare. He had to fight back the unexpected urge that flared up in him to reach out, to hug her, hold her, whisper nonsense and caresses into her ear till she smiled...
"No!" Her scream pierced him like a dagger's stab. With a quick lunge he pulled her back from the gunwale, throwing his arms around her shoulders, gathering her back against his chest, her nails digging into his forearms, as she clutched at him.
"Erchi! Roth!" The back of her head nearly collided with his teeth, as she jerked up her head, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Cursing, Elphir rushed to the prow of his boat to have a better look at the derelict. Caused by the shifting of the boom, the wreck had moved, parts of the frazzled hull slipping off the crags, rolling over in a tangle of shivers in the swirl of Aeglir Caragon.
To his great relief Éomer spotted Erchirion and one of the sailors near their boats, but his heart sank, as his scanning of the surface brought no sight of Amrothos. Lothíriel was now motionless in his arms, her nails still embedded in his flesh, her body tense as a bowstring. He was afraid to let go, expecting her to jump overboard to aid her brother.
"No." A mere whisper now, it frightened him more than her screams. "No." She started to shiver in his arms, sagging against him, as her knees gave way.
With dismay Éomer watched the pool of red, billowing like a cloud over a dark shadow in the turquoise waters besides the channel. Amrothos! Dratted valiant idiot! Pulling her closer, his body in a helpless rocking motion, he closed his eyes.
„There!" Her voice started him out of his misery like a gush of cold rain. A head appeared in the grey brackwater of the channel, an arm shot up waving, signalling, then arm and head disappeared again, the man diving.
Her elbow nudged him in the stomach. "It's Roth! Hurry, lengthen the anchor line. We are closer than Elphir. We'll let her drift further towards the channel."
While Éomer hastened towards the rope, Lothíriel took the tiller to keep the boat clear of the floating wreckage, and soon the vessel drifted towards the spot they had seen Amrothos diving. Gasping he surfaced again, dragging a limp body with him, trying to keep the man's head above water. Erchirion and the sailor reached him swimming there, and when the boat was close enough, Amrothos climbed aboard, in order to heave the man up, while Erchirion and the sailor pushed up the lifeless body, before turning back towards Elphir's ship.
The other sailor. Éomer could not hide his relief, as he helped Amrothos to pull the man on board. The sailor was unconscious but obviously alive, a bruise forming above his left ear, his tunic torn at his midriff, blood soaking his left side. They lowered the man on deck, and after a quick check for broken ribs, Lothíriel unceremoniously turned him on his belly. Ordering Éomer to stand over him and pull the man slightly up by his hips, she slapped the back of the prone body. A gush of sea water welled out of mouth and nose, and all of a sudden the man started retching.
Without a single word Amrothos went for the cuddy and coming back with a mop of rags and a wooden bucket, started to to clean the planks, while Lothíriel carefully cut the torn tunic off the sailor's chest. The injury looked nasty, the compete left side having been mangled by the cracked fragments of some beams, but the various cuts were not very deep, mostly being not more than extensive abrasions, except for one gash in the upper part of his ribcage, a deep wound with frazzled edges that bled profoundly. Folding a padding from her headscarf, Lothíriel pressed it on the wound with both hands to staunch the bleeding. By now, he man sported a big lump above his left ear, the blood of the effusion slowly spreading down his face, causing his temple and cheekbone to swell and blacken in an ugly bruise. He was conscious now, reacting to their questions, but feeling weak and dizzy.
"I don't know if he was retching just because of the brine or because he has a concussion." The princess' mien was somewhat worried, as she looked up, though her voice did not hint anything but professional determination. "But be that as it is, we need to bind his wound. Go and have a look if there is anything we can use as a bandage, will you."
Nodding, Éomer rose and made for the cuddy, but Amrothos' call stopped him. "Wait. There's nothing suitable there. We'd better wait for Elphir and Erchirion. If nothing else, we can confiscate their headscarves. Can you hold the dressing for a bit longer, Loth?"
Noticing his sister's nod, he turned to Éomer. "Come on, lend me a hand now at making the poor bugger a bit more comfortable."
Having finished cleaning the deck, Amrothos carried the bucket and the mop back and returned with the mat they had used on Tol Cobas and two thin cotton blankets. He then fixed the sheet rope of the main sail to keep the boom in the middle of the ship, and together the two men pulled the sail over it and spread it, thus creating a kind of tent to keep the injured sailor out of sun and wind. While Lothíriel pressed the padding on the wound, Éomer and Amrothos stripped the man of the remaining soaked clothes and then settled him on the mat and one of the blankets, covering him with the other. They spoke little, feeling subdued and exhausted, and only when Elphir's boat pulled up alongside, the atmosphere livened up and soon the man was bandaged properly.
"You'd better take him to Dol Amroth. It's as far as Edhellond from here, but the journey will be easier for him that way, as the tide is about to turn and you can sail with the current, which will provide much smoother waves than going against the current up the Ringló. He really doesn't look as if some more bumping would do him any good." Erchirion sounded even and convincing, yet Éomer could not help the impression he wanted them out of the way.
If Lothíriel thought alike, she never gave it away. "The healers of Dol Amroth are more competent anyway, so we better get going. What about Elphir and you?"
Avoiding her eyes, Erchirion jerked his head towards the channel, where some fishing boats were approaching. "We'll wait for them and then try to retrieve the corpse. We'll make for Edhellond afterwards and return to Dol Amroth tomorrow."
"Don't risk..."
"We won't," he interrupted her. "I know he's not worth it."
Taking his sister's hands, he smiled at her, a strangely serious smile, his eyes grave and concerned. "Be well Sister and rejoice," he said under his breath.
"I will." Her voice was calm and firm, and with a pang Éomer realised, how much it contradicted her statement.
Stepping up to the gunwale, she said good-bye to Elphir aswell, and while the brethren stayed behind, Éomer hoisted the anchor and slowly they started to sail down the channel towards Dol Amroth, using only the foresail.
While Amrothos had again taken the tiller, Éomer and Lothíriel sat down on deck beside the injured sailor. The waves were still choppy and now and then caused his head to bump hard on the mat. Frowning Lothíriel made for the cuddy and soon came back with some folded cloth of dark blue.
"My skirt," she explained with a wry half-smile, seeing Éomer's enquiring look. "I simply slip it over the trousers when going ashore."
No doubt, Imrahil's daughter was nothing but practical. What worried him was her quietness, as if she distanced herself from the world around her, withdrawing into herself. Shouldn't she be happy at her enemy's downfall? Shouldn't she rejoice as her wish had come true? He was at a loss but there was little time to ponder, because their course, sailing against the wind, demanded repeated tacking and kept them busy.
After a while they felt the turning of the tide, the waves smoothing and their boat speeding up, lying in the water much steadier now.
"I'm thirsty." The sailor's voice was hardly audible.
Lothíriel went to fetch the remains of the tea, but she hesitated to let the man drink. "It won't do, if he has a concussion," she said doubtfully.
"Let him drink," Éomer pleaded in a low voice. "The worst that might happen is that he'll vomit again, and as we are present, there is no danger he might choke on it."
She nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. He has lost quite an amount of blood anyway, so let's try if he can keep it down."
Kneeling behind the man's head, Éomer carefully lifted him, shoving his knees under the injured man's shoulders. Cradling his head in the crook of his arm, he brought him into a position to drink from the cup Lothíriel was holding out to him with small sips. Lowering the man slowly back on the mat, Éomer watched the princess, who was sitting cross-legged on deck, absentmindedly turning the cup in her hands.
Strong hands, deft hands with long fingers, fingers sporting the archer's callouses...yet the hands were moving as nervously as that poor bird's wings in the morning. Why? Hadn't she torn the net that had been entangling her, watching her predator's destruction? Fighting the urge to reach out for her hands, his fingers trailed the tattoo of bruises her nails had left on his forearm.
Smile woman! As if she had heard his silent plea, she suddenly looked up, and finding Éomer's gaze on her, blushed profoundly, though as before on Tol Cobas she did not lower her eyes, but held his gaze, proud and bold. He struggled to keep his face even, though he felt the suppressed smile tuck at the corners of his lips inexorably. She must have sensed it too, for suddenly she snorted in her typical way, and tossing her head back, turned away from him, looking out over the sea instead.
What a proud and powerful stance! Against his better knowledge he kept his eyes on her, drinking in her features. Gondorean, to be sure, but not the haughty courtier, rather the bold fighter now visible in her mien. Her dark brows were set in a frown like a black cloud over the grey of her eyes, her straight nose and her high cheekbones flushed by a slight sunburn, her lips firm, her chin raised in challenge, exposing her slender throat, while her hair, free of the headscarf now, hung over her shoulder in one long braid, some escaped jet-black strands fluttering in the salty wind.
Béma, what would that mane look like, if set free... Black silk, billowing in the wind. He silently upbraided himself. She needed support, not some frustrated horselord ogling her!
Soon the injured sailor fell asleep, and to Éomer's unacknowledged regret Lothíriel rose wordlessly and went to the prow. Filled with concern, he noticed the sag of her shoulders, wishing he could follow and hug her, giving her the comfort and support she obviously needed. He shook himself, and having made up his mind, turned to Amrothos at the tiller.
"Are we going to change course soon again?" His question caused Amrothos to cock an eyebrow.
"Why? Longing for some more honking?"The smirk in his voice was all but obvious.
Taking the teasing in his stride, Éomer shook his head. "No, not at all. Though having seen how apt you are at cleaning up the mess, I don't worry too much should the pukes get me."
Amrothos gave a lopsided grin. "That's the real problem. As soon as a man is too sick to puke outboard, he surely is as well too sick to clean the mess up. But tell me: What is bothering you?"
With a jerk of his head the Rohir indicated towards the prow. "Lothíriel. If we are just holding to the course, let me take the tiller and go and comfort your sister. She should not be standing there alone."
Suddenly serious, Amrothos nodded and went to join his sister.
Grimacing, Éomer watched him go. Obviously the princess was not the only one of Imrahil's offspring to hide different layers of personality.
He was surprised by the envy he felt, seeing Amrothos hug his sister and then step beside her, his arm around her shoulder. Sighing, he averted his eyes.
How many times had he stood like that with Éowyn on the terrace of Meduseld those last months? He would not have been able to cope with all the challenges the aftermath of the war had brought without her unwavering support. He would feel bloody lonely without her in Edoras. He shook his head... He was getting pathetic. Éowyn deserved all the happiness Middle Earth could give... and Faramir was a good man.
Looking at the billowing sail, his gaze was caught by the gulls, white specks, hovering in the vast blue sky above, cloudless, yet slightly hazy now from the heat of the day.
His first attempt at sailing, his first time on an island... Chuckling, he remembered Erchirion, the true-bread warrior, gathering sea lavender for his mother... How her soft brown eyes would smile at her son... Those soft eyes... why had they looked so sad this morning? He would ask her to send some of these bougainvilleas up to Emyn Arnen for Éowyn's garden. A beautiful garden it would be in but a short time, full of life, with Éowyn's children running around amidst the flowers, playing...
Changing his hands on the tiller, he turned his head eastwards, where the first of the long line of cliffs could be guessed in the haze. The warm wind tugged at his hair, blowing strands across his face.
By now the silk he had bought in Minas Tirith should have arrived in the Wold. Would she like it?Hrodwin had been sure of it, that day after Éowyn's wedding, when they had bought it in the cloth merchants' lane. The tour had only been meant as some diplomatic action: Woolen cloth from the Mark was to be sold there soon, so a visit by Rohan's king was something to tickle the merchants' pride. And to take Marshal Elfhelm, who was well known and highly honoured in Minas Tirith had only been logical.
He saw Lothíriel lean her head against Amrothos' shoulder, her brother's arms circling protectively around her.
Gytha was protected and loved by her family, he told himself, not able to push away that strange mixture of joy and sorrow he always felt, thinking of her. What would she say, opening the packet? Silk, green-golden Godorean silk. The very moment he had seen it at the merchant's stall he had known it would go splendidly with her hair. Those lovely red-golden waves... so much softer a colour than her mother's fascinating fierce red. He could not help a chuckle, thinking of the exquisite cloth and that delicate lawn, Elfhelm's wife had chosen for a shift and imagining Gytha wearing anything like that. Her first silken gown...when would she wear it? His Gytha, with her dirty suede breeches and crumpled tunics...but soon... Would he be present, as she wore it for the first time?
Raking his fingers through his wind-matted hair, he tried to shift his thoughts to something different, but to no avail.
His mind wandered back to that dear face with the much too wide mouth, the little pert nose, strewn with freckles and those incredible blue eyes, dark like a tarn in the mountain's shade. He should get her a gift from Dol Amroth aswell... something special. If they left the day after tomorrow there would be time to get her something. She had never seen anything but the Wold, yet just some years ahead she might go to live in Aldburg, come to Edoras even. Would she like it there? Hrodwin had ensured him she would. He enjoyed the thought to have her near, to cherish her, to be responsible for her, though Elfhelm had laughed that he would spoil her rotten. But then it was such a temptation to please her, just to see her joy... He would have liked to send her some of the delicious kinds of fruit they had in Dol Amroth, some of those peaches, he himself had liked so much: Juicy, sweet with that tempting smell of summer. What a treat that would be for his little girl!
Pulling out of his reverie, he saw Amrothos and Lothíriel coming aft, the princess' face calm and relaxed now, and suddenly the image before his inner eye shifted from a pink freckled face with laughing blue eyes to a darker one, one with a golden tan and grey eyes, sparkling with mirth, as the woman oblivious to the sensations she aroused licked the peach juice off her fingers.
He groaned inwardly. He had to stop that! He should really ask for that tavern... His throat went dry, as with a jolt he realised, that that no longer held any promise.
Annotations:
As in the last chapter, there are some nautical terms that might cause the landlubbers amongst you some problems. So here are some explanations; I just hope I didn't forget any.
to tack around: to turn around
boom: pole running aft from the mast; the lower part of the main sail is attached to it
tacking: working to windward with the wind first on one side of the boat, then on the other (see: to beat about; chapter 4)
Gytha: (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) female name, meaning "Gift"