Thank you again for the reviews that I have received! Writing has been really difficult without motivation from the reviewers. (I start to wonder if my writing is so poor that it fails to attract more reviews! Perhaps I should opt for a Beta Reader.)
Writs of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 10: of Liquid and Flame
Gamling had been paying attention to his king's behaviour for the last few hours. He had heard the riders talking about their king dancing with a Gondorian lady, not for one but three consecutive sessions, which was definitely unusual. Marshals Enkerbrand and Elfhelm both shared the same thought. All three of them watched Éomer from the moment his sister and he were brought to Edoras to live with King Théoden, until he became Third Marshal of the Riddermark. They knew him like the back of their hands. Éomer was very much like his father, not just his appearance but also his unyielding character.
He was trying to be sociable when he turned his eyes back to the dance floor and his king was gone. He must admit he was in the state of slight panic when his king disappeared all together with the young lady from the Hall. He stretched his neck around and only to see Éothain was too busy drinking and laughing that he was not aware that he had just failed his responsibility – protecting the King!
Gamling frowned, scanning through the Hall once more. He was dead certain he was not the only one looking for them. There, he saw Imrahil eyeing at every corner. Béma, he must find his King. He made his way to the entrance swiftly, in hope to that they might actually be outside. He shrunk his shoulders, wrapped his hands around himself as the chilly air hit him. It was spring but the wind could still readily strip the very warmth from a man. His eyes searched under the rising blue veil of dusk.
Then he heard rather loud chattering. Why did it sound so familiar? His heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he saw his King – not only that he was shouting but he was pressing against a woman who was not ordinary woman other than the daughter of Imrahil!
"Éomer King!" He called once, hurrying his steps toward him.
"Éomer King!" A second attempt, slightly louder. No, that did not work either!
"Éomer King!" Third time, the loudest he had ever voiced before his king and his previous king. He saw Éomer slowly turning his head towards him, panting angrily, still baring his teeth.
Grabbing the shoulder of the young man, he dragged him forcefully. Shaking his head, not believing what he had just seen, he pulled him until a safe distance, pushed hard on his shoulder and said in their own tongue, "Éomer, son of Éomund! "
"I heard you."
"Permission to speak as an old friend, my King?" The older rider demanded. He found it hard to hide the stiff measured tone in his voice.
"Since when do any of you have to ask the permission to speak?" His answer came with a slight hint of irritability.
"May I?"
"Get on with it, Gamling!" He barked his most trusted advisor. Patience was not his best virtue.
"Have you lost your mind!" The older man barked back, with his index finger poking the left side of the head of his king a few times – something that most people dared not do. He was really grateful that his long friendship with his young king had granted him the privilege at such moment. "What were you doing? What were you thinking? What has got into you lately?" He went on to question his king' sanity.
Éomer hid his face in his hands and rubbed his temple hard. He closed his eyes, "I don't know, Gamling. I am beginning to question myself that."
"Did you just try to kiss her?" Gamling could not help with the suspicion of what he saw.
"NO!" Gamling's words sent Éomer fuming. "I was not kissing her! Why would I kiss her? Gamling, are you blind?"
"It certainly did not look that you were not doing it for anyone with a pair of eyes!" Gamling could not hold back his prejudgement he had when he first spotted them. Above everything else, he really could not any reasons to explain all the wrong behaviours of his king lately. "Then you better explain yourself, Éomer – what were you doing there? Why were you and the Lady of Dol Amroth in…in...such a compromising position? Can you imagine if it was not me but Prince Imrahil who caught you? How wrong would that all look to him! No, wrong is an understatement! Indecent would be a better word!"
"Last thing I need is your sarcasm, Gamling."His young king sighed. "It was not how it -" Éomer found it extremely hard to elaborate the previous situation.
"My lord. Please tell me." The older rider spoke in a softer tone, trying to courage his king to speak up. "Can you please find a sensible reason that you were pressing against Imrahil's daughter?"
"I was upset with her." Éomer uttered, knowing his reason would trigger more questions from Gamling.
"Tell me something I don't know, Éomer." Gamling rolled his eyes.
Every Rider of Rohan in the camp knew their king was not pleased with certain lady from Dol Amroth. It was not new. Their encounter at the injured soldiers' camp and then the next day when Lothíriel went galloping down to their camp had been a heated topic of discussion at the dinner table for the past few weeks. Rumours only went as far as how angry Éomer got, but beneath it, there were ongoing debates about the chemistry between both.
"Gamling, please!" Éomer hissed at his old friend.
"Look, Éomer. If you cannot explain yourself to me, how are you going to tell Imrahil if she has gone crying to her father and told him that you had assaulted her?"
"She won't do that." He said with a tone of iron certainty.
"How do you know she won't do that? Have you threatened her not to tell her father?"
"Gamling! What and who do you think I am?" Éomer roared at Gamling's last words.
"I seriously doubt you have any sanity left the moment you met that woman."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Éomer worked his brain to untangle the mess and the intoxicating effect the woman had imposed on him. "She never told me who she was. I did not know she was Imrahil's daughter until just now. I could not help but think her deliberate attempt at hiding her identity."
"Well, that should not have sent you off the roof, should it? The fact that she is Imrahil's daughter should not matter in any case."
"Well it should since I tried to kill her twice!" Éomer finally blurted it out.
"You what? Oh, for Béma's sake! When and how did this happen? Why either I, Marshal Elfhelm or Marshal Enkerbrand knew nothing about this?"
Gamling, seemingly gave up on his king, threw his hands in the air, disbelieved by what he just heard.
"After we first met her at the camp, I was back in my tent. She tried to tend my bruise and then my reflex just went. Second time - when we returned from the forest, I went to her chamber to speak to her. I mistook her as an intruder. None was intentional."
"That would be an impressive story to tell to her father." Came the irony in Gamling's reply.
"Gamling, that is the problem. She did not tell her father, or anyone. Moreover, she somehow did not see the importance of mentioning to me that she is Imrahil's daughter either!"
"Is that why you attacked her?"
"Yes- NO! I did not attack her. I was just explaining to her that she ought to let people know who she is." Éomer sighed. It was weary and painful having to explain everything to old Gamling.
"Well, I guess, she will remember it for the rest of her life." He sat next to his king and eyed at him. He sighed with a tone of either disbelief or relief. "Stupid woman."
"Exactly." Éomer could not agree anymore.
The evening of celebration was rapidly passing from a murky gloom to obscurity. Gust of wind with dense drops of rains were sweeping across the path in front of him. He quickened his step toward the doors and the door guards opened them for him then closed behind him. Gondorians valued the respect to the highest. Even the doors to the tomb made no sound when swung.
The dinner finished earlier than expected. Éomer believed it was his friend, Aragorn's intention to retire everyone earlier as most host of the West were still weary from the returning journey. Shadows of the night seemingly moved and lurched in the Tombs of Kings. Flickering light touched the icy stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of marble walls that marched ahead. Éomer watched eyefully the marble dead that were resting on his left and right side of the pathway. Their likenesses were carved into the stones and in long rows they slept. His booted steps made no sound as he walked among the fore kings, stewards and knights of Gondor. Tonight he had come to pay respect to his uncle just like he did since the seventeenth king of Rohan fell. But something was different tonight. Something implacable that set his sense off and triggered his full alert. His hand moved on the tilt of his sword. He decreased his pace, moving as slowly as he could.
A song feminine voice sang in the dark.
Oft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ,
The song cast a shadow in his heart. It was an old Rohirric song that soldiers sang to lament the passing of their comrades. His mother would sing the same song whenever his father returned home with the cold blue bodies of his people.
ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,
gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra,
The singing stopped abruptly. Éomer knew every line of the song by heart and it should not have stopped here. Some heavy snorting was as loud as the groans of trolls on Pelennor Field. But it was not his.
"What are you doing here, you rat!" A female shouted. There was no mistake that her voice completely betrayed her emotion. Her voice was thick with hatred and coiled with anger.
"Lady Lothíriel, why would you greet an old friend in such an unschooled manner?" A male said with anticipation.
Éomer rose his brows as he heard her name. What was she doing here? It had passed midnight.
"Murderer!"
"Why would you say that, my lady?" The man sounded incredibly calm with full expectation of the woman's reaction.
"Get out, Saewon! Before I call the guards!" She barked at him.
So it was the elder nobleman he met in the afternoon. Éomer's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He continued to listen.
"I came here to make a deal with you, my lady."
Éomer could hear the victorious laughter in the man's voice.
"I don't make deals with murderer!" Lothíriel, on the other hand, was losing her composure.
Ignoring her reaction, the man continued, "Maybe your father has not had the chance to tell you. Let me pass you the delightful new. I have made your father an offer, something that he cannot refuse." He paused for a moment, then added, "I would be happy to have you as my daughter-in-law, Lady Lothíriel. Glavror loves you dearly."
His words were not only a shock to Lothíriel but were also unexpected to Éomer. Why would a man allow his son to marry a woman who dismay them to the point of disgust?
"Never. My father will not allow this." Words were forced out from her gritting teeth.
"I told you. It is an offer he cannot refuse."
"Over my dead body, Saewon. If you think you can use me to revenge my father and avenge your crippled son, you will never ever have it. You and your sons are all murderers." Her voice was hoarse with remembered grief and shame.
"How can you call Balchron murderer when you were the one who stabbed his leg ten years ago? And remember the Council decided that he was not guilty but you!" He reminded her the incident ten years ago.
"You poisoned the Council against me! You marred them from the truth! What your sick-minded son did to that servant girl was inhuman! I saw with my very own eyes that night! Your son deserves nothing than rotting in the Flame of Udun! I should have killed him when I had the chance." She was fighting hard to keep her voice calm.
"Are you accusing me?" He asked in with deliberate challenge.
"You know what you have done, you scum!" Anger began to surface in her voice.
"Ah, we have different opinions about this. You see, until now, the killer has not been found. Perhaps that is what that troubles you."
"What troubles me is that you still breathe."
"Ha!" The man chuckled with a sarcastic tone. He continued. "But you still miss the point here - you will be my youngest son's bride. And I am really looking forward to attending the wedding in autumn. An offer your father cannot refuse, remember? Have a good night, my lady."
Proud footsteps echoed louder. Éomer intercalated himself swiftly between the shadows with a fluid move. Saewon did not see him. He waited until the older nobleman had left the Hall then he cast himself out of the shadow. He continued until he reached the entrance of High Hallows, there he saw her standing back to him, showering herself under the scarce moonlight that channelled from window. Her midnight blue hair that shone like black steel fell behind her loose. She had undone the braids on her hair since they last met outside the Hall. Gamling had tried to keep him so busy at the celebration dinner that he could not spare any attention to other matters.
"You should not be here alone."
She startled by his words, her shoulders staggered lightly. She turned her head slowly to look at him. Now her face came into his sight with scant lit of moon. Tears came unbidden to her grey eyes. Her large eyes seemed magnified under the shimmering liquid that welled up in her eyes. Under those long thick lashes, if they looked hollow before, now they resembled bottomless pits that whirled in every soul they met into them. Her face carried a clear complexion, with a straight nose that met her pale lips. The muscles around her jaw twitched. He could tell she fought back holding her tears from falling.
She stared at him wordlessly. After a short pause, her face was veiled with a doleful look. She returned her stare to the window and asked in a weak tone as if an ill patient, "You have heard everything, have you not?"
"I did not mean to eavesdrop. I am sorry." He offered.
Still locking her eyes absently to the window, she said seemingly to no one in particular in a soft voice, "I learnt that song from one of your old riders. He said it is a lament to remember the fallen heroes. I came here to sing it to my mother. Though she is not resting here, this is the only place I've found peace in Minas Tirith."
Upon hearing her words, he felt as if a string in heart was pulled, pitching the painful memory of the loss of his family . He knew too well the grieve of losing someone dear and having to live and to remember the loss. He had lost too many. He examined her with thoughtful look. The young woman in front of him now appeared much mature, very unlike the untamed character whom he encountered just hours ago. The intrepid arrogance varnished from her. She seemed to have grown into a different person in a few hours. He was not sure if it was his words that hit her before or the grave memory that was deliberately brought up by Saewon.
"I must take my leave, my lord. I bid you a good night." The tremble in her voice signalled the dam of her emotion would not hold much longer. "And, I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you." She added.
She took a quick and deep breath, and hastened her feet to the doors. Her steps were no longer proud and wide but fast and narrowly paced.
He watched her gradual decreasing figure and asked a question without crossing his brain, "Are you going to marry him?"
Her steps came to a sudden halt. She gave him a glimpse over her shoulder. Her mouth gave a bitter twist. "No."
He found himself not disappointed by her answer and then he started to question himself why he had asked at all. It was evident that his heart seeked for it. But for now it would be better to deny that.
Note1:
Balchron = Balch (cruel) + ron (doer)
Note2:
Oft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ,
ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,
gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra,
This is an extract from the first seven lines of an Old English poem known as The Wanderer which laments the passing of the heroic life of a warrior.
Translation is as below:
Always the one alone longs for mercy,
the Maker's mildness, though, troubled in mind,
across the ocean-ways he has long been forced
to stir with his hands the frost-cold sea,
and walk in exile's paths. Fate is fully fixed
Thus spoke the Wanderer, mindful of troubles,
of cruel slaughters and the fall of dear kinsmen