All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.
Glory Bee: Thank you again for taking the time to review my second chapter!
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 3: of Hurtsickles and Saddle
City of Minas Tirith
16 March 3019 T.A.
She rose earlier than she needed to. She could not really sleep. She dreamed again last night. The very saEdit/Previewme which began haunting her 10 years ago, making every night a living perdition. She dared not sleep when it was too quiet. The red virga trailing the evening clouds of last night created was an eerie warning that she would be visited soon again by the same nightmare. She looked into her palms and found the blood was gone as it always disappeared every time she woke up.
She had a quick wash and put on a high-collar blouse to hide the purple that she received last night. There was no need to worry anyone over this matter and her father should not see it. The sky was now fair with light clouds. She opened her window and felt the westward wind brushing her face. She must ready herself soon. Much more needed doing today.
She seeked for her father after she had finished her dealings at the kitchen and Houses of Healing. Her cousin, Faramir, was recovering. The White Lady of Rohan, though still deep in her sleep, carried steady breaths. The Halfling named Merry was awake. She was astonished to learn his deed from her brother. The King had returned as rumours went around. It was good news.
As she hastened to meet her father, she saw the most unbelievable sight - an elf and a dwarf walking side by side. Legolas, as if he always recognised even the slightest Elven feature one carried, he halted and Gimli looked upon and saw a lady approaching. They bowed to the lady in front of them and Legolas greeted her in the dulcet tone of Elvish.
Lothíriel quickly realised the Elf was speaking to her though she could not comprehend his speech. She returned them with a polite bow, "Good day to you, Master Dwarf and Master Elf. I am sorry that I did not understand your tongue."
"Ah, my lady. You must pardon me that I saw the similarity that you share with Prince Imrahil. Elven blood still runs deep in you as I can see." Legolas immediately corrected himself.
"This elf can tell if you have a single drop of Elven blood even when you are miles away and he assumes everyone understands him!" The dwarf chuckled at his friend's attempt.
She raised her head and acknowledged the keen eyes of Legolas, "My lords, Prince Imrahil is my father. Should Elven blood runs deep in his veins, so should it be in me. Lothíriel is my name. Good day to you, my lords."
The brief introduction went for a while and she excused and parted from the pair of friends. She caught her father as he was talking to one of his men. "Father, has the war not won? Why is there still gloom?" Her feeling stirred and sense of unease haunted her thought when she saw her father.
"No, my daughter. The battle of Pelennor was victorious but the weapon of the enemy still lives. I suspect this is why Lord Aragorn has called for a counsel in his tent." Prince Imrahil paced around the hall, trying to explain the possible peril to his daughter.
"You are not marching against the enemy, aren't you, Father?" She could not hide her concern. The hurt of war was deep for both Rohan and Gondor. They lost many and did not have enough men. They were very vulnerable if they were to march against the enemy again.
"If there is a need, so be it, Lothíriel. Great deeds cannot be done without sacrifice. I will let you know." He asked her to prepare provisions. With that he said no more to his daughter. She excused herself. War against the Dark Lord was the domain for men like her father and brothers. Her war was here in Minas Tirith, against time and odds.
It was not until later that it was announced the Men of the West would march to the Black Gate. Her father, her brothers, Lord Aragorn and Lord of Rohan would ride with seven thousand men tomorrow. Her brothers gathered their men and briefed them on the peril of this journey. She saw the fear in their eyes as well as grief in those who could no longer fight and defend their lords.
"What will my lord think of me, my lady? I wish to follow him wherever he goes but I am no use in battle anymore!" Cried one of the aged Rohirrim riders, weeping at his missing legs. He must be older than her father. His hair was of silver and grey. He lost both his legs when the Oplihaunts flung his horse and he fell from such height that his knees shattered upon hitting the ground. Cruel but true, injured and disabled men were and would always be liability in battle. There was not always an option to carry the injured to persuade the journey of battle.
Worried by the disturbance in Anorien, Éomer kept Elfhelm with three thousand men to defend against any further attack in his absence. He then went to see his sister. The Master Healer had reassured him that she would recover fully if she stayed in bed for at least a week. She looked like a child when she was asleep. He pushed her hair from her forehead and observed her. How could he fail to see the grief and fear that she long had carried? He caressed her pale cheek with his knuckles and spoke softly as she would hear him, "Éowyn, we are marching to the Black Gate tomorrow. I know not what the perils I will face but I promise I will return."
She stirred a little upon his words but still did not awake from her sleep. He kissed between her brows. How much he loved her, the love of a brother that ran so deep it had nearly forsaken his life on Pelennor Field. As he emerged from her chamber, he heard disheartening cries across the Houses of Healing.
"What happened?" He stopped of one the healers and questioned him. "Three Swan knights passed away last night. We could not do more to save them. There were not enough medicines." This was the answer. He frowned at the answer. The struggle of getting some salves for his men last night came to make sense. Living was a blessing but trying to keep one alive was a struggle and compromise which no man could make a balance out of.
He descended from The Houses of Healing to the stables. He wanted to check Firefoot and made sure that his charger had not run out of patience waiting for his master. The stable of Minas Tirith was inferior if compared to that of Edoras. The stables here were just simple stables as they fit the purpose of keeping horses. He could understand that since Gondorian did not share the same affection for horses as the Rohirrims did.
As he entered the stable, he immediately heard a loud neigh. He recognised it. There stood Firefoot, loud and proud the noise it made. Éothain might seem playful at times but he was always careful when dealing with the care of his belongings. The horse tack was hanging next to Firefoot. His saddle, stirrup, bridle, halters, reins, martingales and breastplates were all in the stable. He opened the door of the stable box, and reached out for his horse. Firefoot neighed again lifting its head and then lowering down as it longed for its master to touch him.
"Shhh, I know it is not your stable, Firefoot. But this will have to do for now." He comforted his horse in Rohirric and stroked along its nose as his mount nickered quietly now and moved closer toward him. He grabbed a brush from the toolbox laying nearby and began brushing the sand and dust off Firefoot's back.
Suddenly it let out loud snort, a sign that stranger was present. Éomer looked to the direction of the stable entrance and found a young boy standing behind a pillar. Firefoot's loud unwelcoming snort seemed to have frightened the boy.
"He is scary." His voice sounded shaky. The boy glared at the grey beast. His huge brown eyes reflected the fear he had for the beast.
He put away the brush, and patted Firefoot on its neck, then turned to the young boy and smiled, "No, he is not. He is just not used to strangers. He is Firefoot. Do you want to touch him?" He gestured the boy to approach, encouraging him to take a look at his horse.
Still frightened by its size, the boy gave Éomer a timid smile. "I don't think he will like it." He tried to hide his little body behind the stone pillar.
Éomer only smiled to the boy. He must always remind himself that culture was different in Gondor. Unlike Rohirrims, not all Gondorians were used to horses. He brushed the neck of Firefoot and it rubbed its nose under his chin.
"Your hair is light. So, you are one of the Riders from the West?" The innocent kid started to take notice of his colourings.
"Yes." A simple answer. He was not sure if he should embark a conversation of war and orcs with someone of this young age.
Then, a mellow melody of harp rang from a distant. It sounded pleasant like a lullaby for infants. The boy seemingly to hear the song, "The dance is starting, I have to go! Good day to you, my lord." He straightened up, running off to some place where the music was coming from.
Éomer chuckled at the boy's reaction. He returned his attention to Firefoot, preparing to take his friend out for a ride. He led the reins and they left the stable. It was light and breezy. They came to a narrow path leading towards a small fountain court where the laughter and cheering of children were. He peered into the distance. Children were scampering happily around the fountain. He then noticed a black-haired lady playing a harp. The music soon stopped when she heard the stumping noise of Firefoot. She turned around and saw a tall blond man. And handsome. Definitely her type. She quickly rose and bowed to him, "Good day."
"Good day to you too," he said courteously. He did not know her.
She lifted her head up, flicking her hair behind her ear and she could not hide her smile. Her eyes were on him. She was examining him from head to toe. Her long lashes fan up and down and her eyes flickered with admiration. He knew that frivolous look. She was flirting with him.
Firefoot grunted with tapping its front feet and appeared to be rather unimpressed with the situation. Éomer patted his horse and was ready to take his leave. He was not an inexperienced man yet he was not tempted or affected by her reaction. It was not the first time that women tried their ways with him. His duty was with his people and land. Then a clear voice rang from behind him, "Moriel!"
The lady named Moriel quickly responded to the call and bowed, "Lady Lothíriel."
Éomer turned around and his eyes stumbled upon the female servant from last night. The unpleasant servant who now appeared rather dirty with grim on her dress with a basket of apples in her arm. She frowned at him.
"My lord," she nodded to him only to acknowledge his presence and quickly passed him.
"We are short in the kitchen. Can you please go and lend the maids a hand?" She tried to keep her neutral tone, not wanting to show her dissatisfaction of his presence. And it was time to despatch Moriel away. Moriel was a very attractive girl. Only a year younger than Lothíriel and had been her household servant ever since she could remember. They grew up together and as the years went by, many men fell for Moriel's beauty. She was fair with shiny black hair. Her appearance brought her great admiration in Dol Amroth and there were offers made to ask her in hand of marriage. Somehow she declined all the offers and chose to stay with Lothíriel. For this, Lothíriel was very gladful. But the hubris brought about by her beauty was always a matter of worry for Lothíriel that someday her flirtatious behaviour would result in regretful debauchery.
"Yes, my lady." Moriel bowed again and cast Éomer a smile as she left the fountain court.
Éomer did not react to her smile and her face quickly shadowed by disappointment as she went out of sight.
"Lothíriel!" Exclaimed one of the children upon sighting her presence. Lothíriel grinned at the children when they ran toward her seeing the apples in her basket. They quickly indulgenced themselves with an apple each.
Éomer was actually baffled by the presence of children, not only that they were not supposed to be there, but also they were supposed to have been evacuated. This was time of war.
"Why are they not evacuated? They are children. They are supposed to be somewhere safe!" He blurted out as he could not hold his anger. The angry feeling triggered by the battle at Helm's Deep. It was a bitter victory.
She turned to finally look at him. She did not like his eyes. They were so cerulean yet incisive. His sharp gaze could uplift the face of a liar revealing the true nature beneath.
"They are orphans." Her voice was not as powerful as she found. She looked away avoiding his eyes. "While children with parents were evacuated, they were forgotten and left behind. My brother found them hiding beneath the basement when he was looking for survivors last night."
He was not expecting this answer. He regretted having asked the question. Then an object of a round shape was coming at him, he reached out his hand and caught it. His eyes shone with amazement. It was an apple. A very big apple, bigger than his palm.
Lothíriel tilted her head and chuckled lightly, "It is for the big guy. He has been dribbling since I reached here with the apples." She gestured at Firefoot.
"Do you like it?" He asked Firefoot in Rohirric as it happily and greedily mauled down the big fruit.
"What will happen, my lord? When do we have to stop fighting and fearing for our lives?" She stared onto the horizon. West windy breeze danced around the bottom of her dress.
He was conversant in war but it should never been a topic of discussion. He must have been lost in thought when a pair of little hands was trying to get his attention. Looking down, he saw the same boy whom he met at the stable before was holding a bunch of flowers. He lowered himself to meet the little boy.
"Thank you." He grinned, accepting the flowers. He was astound and absolutely touched by this little offer. The boy returned with a shy simper, "No, thank you! Big brave warrior!" Then he ran off.
He rose and found Lothíriel staring at him. Her eyes narrowed into moon-like shape. She let out a soft laugh, pointing at the bunch of flowers in his hands, she said, "They are Hurtsickle. They symbolise blessing."
The Horselord took a closer look at the blue flowers. Yes, indeed, he needed blessing. He was about to embark a journey of peril which nobody knew if any would return.
With a loud stamp, Firefoot started to neigh impatiently. Éomer knew he had lingered too long and it was time to go.
"He is a great horse. A good horse knows when danger is about, a great horse sees you through it. Farewell, my lord. May the blessing of Valar be with you."
"Thank you," He bowed and mounted up on Firefoot.
"But my disliking of you has not lessened, Lord Éomer." She simply declared before Firefoot turned away.
"Same here, Lady Lothíriel." He replied eyeing her with his green amber-tinted iris then dashed down The White City with Firefoot.
They parted in the same agreement that they disliked each other.
Lothíriel was just finished with the preparation of provisions when her father sent a servant for her. Her father very seldom sent someone for her unless something significant was afoot. She knocked on his door and entered. To her surprise, her father was not alone. But her brothers were not here. Another man was with her father. She could tell from the use of fabric of his clothes, he was a noble. But little she knew what his purpose was with her father and her. But he quickly left Prince Imrahil's room. Her father made no notion of saying anything to her about this noble.
"Lothíriel," he grabbed the shoulders of his daughter and drew close. "Your brothers and I are riding to The Black Gate in two days with Men of The West. This is a journey of perils which we might not return." He kissed her forehead. "Should things go ill, take the ship and go back to Dol Amroth. I will try to send news but it would be difficult."
Her body trembled upon the thought of losing her father and brothers. When everyone else despised her of her wrong-doings, her father and brothers always stood by her. She did not dishonour her family. It was the right thing to do even it had cost her family their pride, she did not regret it but only the loss of lives it had caused – the consequence that she failed to foresee and the force that grew stronger every day since then taunted her.
Note: In next chapter, their disliking of each other actually gets worse...