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.
Note: Short and depressing. Next chapter would be longer.
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 6: of Blood and Knife
17 March 3019 T.A.
Minas Tirith
Her hands went up and down in a swift motion, reapplying the bandage around her foot. A dull throb of pain shot up her side when she came to tie the ends together. The grey light of the dawn was streaming through her window.
She must find a stick to help with her throbbed leg. Slowly limped and hopped toward the Houses of Healing, her leg pained her sorely. There were bypassers who very kindly helped her to pace up her painful journey. She reached for the Warden of the Houses of Healing and lied that she strained her ankle. When he offered to examine her foot, she insisted that she would be fine if she had a stick to lean on. Then she, somehow, managed to distract him with the cries of an injured soldier. He busied and forgot about her. She hobbled around the patients, moving unsteadily side to side, finally got hold of a walking stick. Just whilst she let out a sigh of relief, a man emerged from one of the bedchambers. She looked up and saw him. He was clad in a green deer-skin doublet. Green, the shades of his country. It was Éomer.
Éomer rose early. He was not fond of sleeping recently. War made him restless. He called for his raiment and had a quick breakfast and went to the Houses of Healing to see Éowyn. She was still in a deep sleep. Warden of the Houses of Healing told him she would need to rest for at least seven days for the Black Breath of Nazgul was cast upon her.
Moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eye when he looked at her. His sister, so fair and brave, was also dread with sorrow and grieve. He bent and whispered, "Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, my sister. I shall ride to the Black Gate tomorrow with seven thousand men. I come to say farewell. You are in the fairest hands. Should I return, we will go back to Rohan, together." He kissed her softly on her brows. She stirred a little but did not wake up. Éomer studied her pale face. He had always been told that Éowyn inherited the grace and look of their grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach. Like beating a stone on his heart, he turned away and closed the door.
The thumping noise from behind caught his attention. It did not take long to figure who it was. There was only one person, in the whole Minas Tirith that was clever enough to roam in the forest with suede shoes. He eyed at her foot.
Lothíriel felt awkwardly uncomfortable with his presence. But he did not say anything. He left. And, they did not meet again.
Feeling the tide of fortune on her side, her cover had not been burst so far. She managed to convince her father, brothers, Moriel and many more that she sprained her foot. She was not a good liar. She believed it was out of pity that they believed her.
She sat in front of her desk, with a sharpening knife, some sheets of papers, parchments and journals piling. She reached for a chalk, trying to remember Fields of Pelennor on 15 March. She had taken the accounts of many soldiers when she was at their camps. Their act of valour must be remembered. History must be carved in a form of manuscript for those who lived after to see. Her fingers ran on the ivory sheet with swift and skilled strokes. It was when she shaped the enemies that her mind drifted too far away.
The vision before her eyes turned crimson. The rewind of dripping never stopped haunting her since. She lifted her hands and saw it was fully of blood. She saw herself raising the dagger above her head and pierced it into the flesh with all her strength. Blood was everywhere. The screaming of woman stopped but that of the man began and it repeated in a long howl. She had stabbed a man.
She saw herself standing in front of her father, accusing a young crimpled man for a crime he kept denying. There were many that spoke. Few believed her and many more doubted her. Before justice could be done, the woman she saved was found with her throat slit and hung from a tree. It was snowing. Blood dripped onto the ground and seemed blazing red as it touched the snow. It was butchery. Her words were deemed as lies and treachery to stir the distrust among the counsel. The story of her doing was on every lip. Her father did all to spare her. She was stripped of her title. But that day also wounded her pride.
A light touch on her shoulder startled her. She reached for the knife, turned and swung it in anger and only to find Moriel fallen on the floor, shocked with blood completely drained from her face. Lothíriel heard her heart thumping in her chest. She extended her arm and helped Moriel back on her feet.
"My lady, you scared me! What are you doing with that knife? You nearly cut me!" Moriel's eye widened, fear had not ceased from them. She came to check if her lady needed anything else for her foot and perhaps she could bring her lunch. She called out for her a few times but Lothíriel did not answer. She reached for her and then came a knife sweeping at her. For a moment she thought she was dead.
"I am really sorry, Moriel. I must have been too tired and fallen asleep and had a nightmare. I did not mean to hurt you. I will never hurt you." Besides being apologetic, she could not find other words to explain her reaction.
"My lady, you need some rest. I will bring you your lunch then you must rest." Moriel hurried to the kitchen to fetch her some food.
Lothíriel seated herself on the bed, a bit breathless. Her fingers ran through her forehead. It was all sweat. And it felt cold. It was wet. She removed her hand, blood dripping from her fingers.
Hall of the Tower of Ecthelion
His unusual lumbered steps echoed in the hall, Éomer's fingers followed the drapes of green and white. He bent down, his hands on the ones of his king. The flame of the twelve torches gleamed like glorious deeds. Théoden laid on the bed and was covered with a cloth of gold. His hands were lay on top of his sword, sitting on his chest, whilst his shield was at his feet.
"Uncle," he whispered into those ears that could no longer hear. "We are riding to the Black Gate tomorrow. Bless us from the halls of my fathers." He wished so much that his uncle was here with him, to be proud of his deeds, to lead his Riders again. Théoden's face appeared to be at peace as though he was asleep. Éomer leaned over and ran his hand over his uncle's forehead, the cold diffused through his leather gloves. He then straightened up, took a deep breath and bowed, "Farewell, my king. My father."
The Citadel
Later.
"Éomer! I heard that you wish to see me!" Imrahil greeted the young king with a wide smile.
"Lord Imrahil, there is a favour that I need to ask of you," The Rohirrim king spoke reservedly.
"If it lies within my power, I will do so. Do speak, my friend." He invited Éomer to sit at the mallorn table.
"It is about Éowyn."
Fields of Pelennor
18 March 3019 T.A.
The Army of the West assembled on the Fields of Pelennor. The wind was brisky and sky veiled with ivory shade. There stood the hardy men of seven thousand, willing to follow their captains despite the unforeseen perils. Lothíriel's father, Prince Imrahil was leading three and a half thousands men. She was at her father's chamber before dawn came. She watched whilst her brothers equipped their father with armour bearing their house emblem – silver swan-prowed ship, before putting on theirs. Her father's words two days ago replayed in her ears. It was no easy task to withhold her emotions knowing her family would possibly venture to their doom. The sour taste ran down her throat from her nostril.
"Father," she called the man who had loved her from the day she was born. Tears sprang in her eyes. Imrahil embraced his daughter and spoke softly, "Do not grieve, my daughter. If what Mithrandir said is true, then our doom is yet to come. Remember you are always my princess." He touched the swan- embossed belt around her waist. It was the heirloom of her family. It was forged with Khazâd-gold in Lothlorien and was given to Elven-maid Mithrellas by Imrazôr the Númenórean, the father of first Lord of Dol Amroth, Galador. It was then passed down to generations after until it came into her hands, given by her mother shortly before she passed away.
She closed her eyes and tightened her arms about her father. "I must go. The men are waiting for me." He released his embrace and kissed her on her forehead. He descended the Fields of Pelennor carrying his sword and lance.
Trying to hold herself back, her chin trembled as she hugged her brothers. "Protect yourself if you need to. Use it if harms come to you, as it had done so for many summers." Elphir, her eldest brother, reminded her, laying his fingers on the dawn-rose stone ring, the present he gave her when she came of age. He then took her hands and kissed where the fingers reddened by the rubbing of pumice stone. "It is in your wardrobe, the lowest drawer. Remember my words." He leaned over and kissed her before they departed.
She had chosen to watch their departure from the garden of Houses of Healing. Her heart was heavy. She knew she could not follow. The House of Adrahil could not be empty. An heir had to stay. Her fingers tightened on the belt around her waist.
Seven thousand stood, some horsed, some on foot. The banners gleamed like burning will. They started marching forward. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Éomer of Rohan, Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, Rangers of the North, together they led Men of the West toward The Black Gate. So it began the March of the Men of the West.