Announcing the special appearance by one of our most underated Riders - Marshal Éothain!
Acknowledgements
Sic Est Vita: Thank you for your constant support! :) The footnotes now come without numbering. I hope it won't be too confusing anymore.
Shy: Oh yeah, their chemstry just escalates to another level. The drafts of some rather sensual scene for future chapters are ready... ;)
Rogue's Queen: Hope this plot meets up to your expectation too! :D
b5delenn: It looks like Lothíriel warms up more than she needs to! Hoho!
Reading guide for Chapter 14
To avoid confusion, the timeline of events happen in the order of: I. Before dawn - II. Morning breakfast - III. Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire - IV. Midday .
This chapter is constructed to keep the highlight of the day (i.e. Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire) at the end so it does not follow the chronological order of time.
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 14: of Promise and Intoxication
Before dawn.
Éomer woke up earlier than usual. He did have a sound sleep without dreams. He took that he had rested well. The night was warm which was expected. It was midsummer after all. Sweet vapours rose from the earth. Night dews were still clinging to the soil and the plants glistened. Birds were calling to one another. The sky was not dawning yet. The stillness of the morning set an urge for him to swing his sword. He laid the leather sword belt over his chest and lifted the sleeve of his tent, heading outside.
The flow of stream sounded louder than during the day. But there was something else or someone talking in a quiet voice. He turned his attention to the direction which the noise came from. Under the grey mist, two shadowy figures caught his eyes. Suspicion drove his feet forward. His heavily booted footsteps seemed to glide soundlessly over the grass. As he drew himself closer, the shadowy figures lost their dark shades and began to take some kind of recognisable shapes. There, oddly enough he found the daughter of Imrahil lurking suspiciously with her bare feet in the stream with a man bearing the signature green Rohirric cloak on his back. That man was no other than his young Marshal of the Royal Guards - Éothain.
Unaware of his presence, they continued uttering lowly to each other. Their sibilant exchange only drove the curiosity in Éomer further.
"Stop, you will scare it," she hissed.
"No, let me."
"It is not working."
"No, it will work," Éothain insisted.
"I grew up next to the sea. I know what works."
"Sea is different from streams," the young Marshal reminded her.
Éomer moved in closer, close enough to be standing a few inches behind the two figures that were so absorbed into their common interest.
"Where is it now?" Her eyes were in search for something.
"Have we lost it?"
"I would not have thought so."
"Can you see it?" Inquired the young rider.
"Hmmmm...oh! It is here!" She exclaimed like a child.
"Where?" Squeezing his blue eyes, he still could not see it.
"Here! Try it now!" She pulled his sleeve vigorously, pointing at a particular direction in the stream.
"Let's see if we can get it," biting his lower lips, Éothain aimed at his target, getting ready to give a shot.
"You missed! Let me try!" She removed the item from his hands and looked at her target with full focus.
"What are you both doing?"
Éomer's voice from behind startled them and almost made Lothíriel jump on her feet. Something in her hands fell into the stream and the water splashed everywhere.
"What in Valar's name was that? What are you doing? Creeping up like that?" She turned around and barked at him through gritted teeth, her voice was furious. Her eyes gleamed in rage under the soon disappeared moon light.
"Investigating a suspicious activity if that is how you like to hear it!" Knowing that he could not expect a just response from her, Éomer turned his head to his Marshal and raised an eyebrow at him. "Explain yourself, Éothain."
"Good morning, Lord Éomer. We….we are, I meant, we were trying to catch some fish." Feeling being caught red-handed, Éothain scratched his head uncomfortably, his eyebrows lowered indicating guilt. He could feel his king's hard glare on him.
"Fishing? Do you not have anything else or better to do, Marshal?" He shot at the younger rider with a look of disbelief.
"I do." He answered in an almost inaudible tone, his head lowered.
"So?"
"I, er..." The younger man threw Lothíriel a look with sympathy.
"Éothain?" He raised his voice.
"I am sorry, my lord. We meant no trouble." He apologised, his eyes seeking forgiveness.
"Your task. Go and get it done." Beckoned the younger man to return to the camp, Éomer found his tone softer upon his apology. He kept his eyes on Éothain until the he reached the campfire to begin his assigned task of the day: preparing breakfast.
"And you!" He turned back to Lothíriel slowly. His brows frowned and anger was once again inevitable in his dark eyes. Stressing every word out of his lips, he came close to her face. "How many times do I have to remind you?"
"Remind me what?"
"Could you at least make some effort to use the very limited wisdom of yours to save yourself some trouble?"
His emphasis on the word 'wisdom' displeased her further.
"I beg your pardon?" Indignation gushed from her voice. She did not take insult lightly. "I am not stupid."
"Of course, clever enough to actually do some fishing when it is still dark?" He could not help being ironic.
"There are dozens other things to keep yourself entertained, why do you have to get yourself into a mess every time?" He continued. He moved in closer and stared down at her, taking advantage of his height. His nostrils flared. His lips protracted, showing his white teeth. Why did he always have to revisit the same issue? This woman held no regard at all for her life!
"What is your problem?" She asked.
"Why on the Middle-earth you have to do the unthinkable?"
"Fishing is not unthinkable! It only harms the fish!"
"My lady," He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly to regain some control over his temper. "Please, do you not understand?" His breaths mingled with the moist in the air.
"I did not recall that fishing was forbidden, unless it is defined differently in Rohan. And, I have not caused any trouble to anyone!" She protested, tipping her toes to meet his gaze bravely, returning them with an equally enraged stare. She hated his accusing tone. Her fuming eyes followed him closely until they came down to his almost bare chest. She quickly broke them away from him. The linen shirt he had on was laced in front. Given the warm climate, he let the laces loose and his muscled front held considerable appeal to her.
He took that as she gave in. He drew another long, deep breath, eyes closed, trying to adjust his emotion.
"This is not about fishing." He held his eyes on her and continued to explain. "If it was not for Éothain, the riders and the knights might have mistaken you as an intruder. You wear nothing bearing the emblem of Dol Amroth or Gondor and yet you were acting furtively. They won't be able to tell who you were in the dark. No questions asked. All you would get is a dart to the chest. In fact, I could've pulled the bow myself!" He made a gesture of an arrow thrusting on his chest.
Still refused to look at him, he saw the corner of her lips flinched and her eyes blinked.
"Your father trusts me with your safety." He regarded her with a sigh. "I promise him I will never pt your life at risk." His voice was gentle.
She glanced up at him. Feeling the flame of anger had died down within her, her attitude softened. She admitted, "Éothain has nothing to do with this. It was my idea."
"He will not be purnished and -" His eyes followed her milder expression, but his sentence was interrupted with a sudden unease grasp, his eyes jumped aside to the dark mountains behind her and he could not bring up what he wanted to say.
Detecting the hesitance in his voice and his bizarre reaction, she probed, "And what?"
"You should get changed. You are soaked." His eyes were unsettling but remained off her.
The abruptness of his last words surprised her. She looked down at herself and her long lashes fluttered in annoyance. The skirt of her cotton dress was wet not only from having stood in the water for all this times but also the splashing when she dropped her fishing net. Her top was also damp having absorbed the liquid from the stream and some splashing that managed to jump high enough to meet it. The fabric was sticking onto her skin, revealing her curvy figure which might otherwise be well concealed beneath her garment. She cursed. Modesty never agrees with water.
"Excuse me." Her voice dripped with embarrassment. She did not bother to bow. She went dashing back to her tent, wanting to change as quickly as possible.
He followed her steps from the corners of his eyes. The frown that sat between his brows remained still. Then, he saw a large fishing net lying idly on stones beneath the clear flowing stream.
Morning, breakfast.
By the time, she finished changing; the land was beginning to wake up with a glorious sunbeam, breaking through the mist. As she emerged from her tent, the breeze brushed her cheeks and a few loose strands that escaped from her dark braid flew freely in the damp air. There were chalks and thin leather parchments in her hands. She needed to keep herself occupied rather than getting into troubles as suggested earlier.
Heading to the main campfire, Lothíriel found herself an empty space at the campfire.
"We have bread, porridge, sausages, bacons, ham and eggs. What do you prefer, my lady?" asked Éothain, the cook of the morning.
"Everything!" She was absolutely starving.
"Oh, right away!" The young man beamed her a bright smile as if nothing just happened at the stream.
After a few minutes, a plate of freshly prepared breakfast came into her sights.
"Thank you." She gave the cook a polite smile.
"So, what did my king say to you?" Éothain leaned forward driven by his noosey nature.
"Come on, Éothain." She waved him off.
"Just tell me. I want to know what he says to a woman." He showed his trademark grin. Over the journey, their friendship blossomed, partly because Éothain learnt to admire her character when they had their board game in May, and but also Amrothos held some significant influence changing the opinion of the young man about his sister. Amrothos remained close and kept contact with Éothain after he returned to Dol Amroth in June.
"Why don't you ask him?" She preferred to have some peace with her breakfast.
"He is not going to tell me." Leaning backwards, he put a straight face.
"Well, he is your superior, your captain, your king. You should have known what he would say."
"The usual thing then."
"Yes." She laughed. In her heart, she was relieved that Éothain bought her words. The conversation she had with Éomer down the stream was not something she wanted to share. It was not her finest moment, she must admit.
"That is disappointing! I was expecting some exciting subjects."
"Such...as...?" Sipping her tea, she asked carefully and prayed her had the heart to anticipate any dodgy speculation that Éothain had developed in his brain.
"That your dress was wet!" He leaned forward again and whispered to her.
She nearly spit all her tea out. Choking at the backflow of the liquid in her mouth, she coughed a few times. Trying to catch some air, she pressed her hand on her chest to calm herself. Although sounding more preservative than usual, Éothain's reply hit on the right spot. For once, Lothíriel thanked Valar from the bottom of her heart that nobody was sitting next to her.
"Oh my, are you all right, my lady?" Grabbing a napkin, Éothain quickly passed it to her.
Nodding to him a few times, she drew a deep breath. "Is that what you think of your king, Éothain? That is shallow!"
"My King is a capable captain. He pays attention to details, if that is how you call it. Besides, you are not such an ugly woman." He commented with a hope in his voice trying to unearth the mysterious connection between his king and this young lady of Dol Amroth.
Unlike Gamling and Elfhelm, Éothain did not know the agreed condition regarding her deployment to Rohan. He was in Imrahil's tent with his king but he was not included the conversation. It was not that Éomer did not trust him; otherwise he would not have promoted to be the Marshal of the Royal Guards. Despite his excellent and responsive sense to threats and dangers, the young Marshal had a notorious tendency to slur out everything he knew when he had more than a few pints in his stomach. One such instance included an unintentional remark that Éomer made about a daughter of a local woodworker at the celebration in Meduseld after their victory at Helm's Deep. By the next morning, every rider in Edoras knew Third Marshal of the Riddermark called the poor girl a swamp donkey.
"Thanks for the compliment and he definitely does," she murmured, taking another sip of her tea.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing."
"So, tell me, do you not find my King alluring?" Éothain was as noosey as a woman could be.
"Éothain, for the start, I won't use the word alluring on a man. That sounds wrong." She poked her fork at him.
"But almost every woman I spoke to, in Rohan, agrees he is handsome."
"Not everyone in Gondor agrees." She disagreed just for the sake of shaking off her thought about him which she devised earlier at the stream.
"Well, I have seen some Gondorian women blushed heavily and gathered around just to take a look at him."
"Oh, lucky him!" She could not suppress the sarcasm in her voice.
"Even your maid, Moriel, I have caught her peeking at my King a few times."
"I am sure she just shares the same opinion with the rest of the women on Middle-earth." She continued her breakfast with some scrambled egg, trying not to show too much interest in the subject hoping that Éothain would eventually drop it.
"Hey, my King is handsome! He might look a bit rough and worn. But he is the most admirable man I've ever met! He is a real man! You should see when he swings Gúthwinë!" Defending his superior, his eyes shone suddenly with beams of adulation.
"If you say so."
"He took down two Mûmakils with one spear."
"I've heard that."
"He returned from Black Gate unscathed after fighting tens of thousands of orcs." He continued his effort trying to impress her with the great deeds of his King.
"Heard that too." Her perfunctorious response earned her a sharp look from Éothain.
"Do you not like him?"
"Look, I don't hate him." She clarified then on second thought, she added, "And, he finished my stew. That certainly counts as another decent attribute."
"But you do not agree with me." He pointed at her with his sticky egg-soaked ladle.
"Éothain," she sighed. "Why do we have to keep discussing your mighty King?"
Beneath her calm mask, she was very nervous and worried that any of her response might give away that Éomer somehow had some momentary appeal from time to time on her. Something which she hated to admit and kept bringing herself to denial.
"Most women I spoke to find this discussion rather interesting." He said admittedly.
"May I suggest that you could continue this discussion with most women?"
"Fine, we stop here, my lady. I just got carried away, you know." He shrugged.
"So, Prince Imrahil is here only with your second brother, Erchirion, isn't it?" Changing the subject, he asked about her family which accompanied the procession of King Théoden.
"Elphir had to return to Dol Amroth on the day we departed Minas Tirith."
"Are there urgent matters to settle in Dol Amroth?"
"Yes, there are."
Her expression sunk. His change of subject pulled a painful chord in her heart. Her eldest brother went back to her homeland to investigate possible turbulence between traders, farmers and fishermen. And of course, she knew clearly that he was also there to oversee the rising power of the Guild of Tradesmen. Somehow she felt she was partly responsible for this. And she missed Elphir and Amrothos dearly. She missed her home too.
Deciding that she did not wish to dwell on this paining subject, beaming Éothain a smile, she returned the plate and mug to him. "Thank you, Éothain! It was very good. I am going to find something to occupy myself with."
Whilst she roamed around trying to find an ideal location to fill her mind before the company resumed their journey, not far from the campfire stood Imrahil observing his daughter closely. Erchirion came up to his father.
"Elphir told me that King Éomer accepted your requisition under one condition." He said without looking at his father.
"Yes."
"Father, do you mind telling me?"
There was a short pause before Imrahil decided to respond.
"Erchirion, I have not seen Lothíriel smile so much lately." Ignoring his son's question, Imrahil continued. "She is happier and her thoughts are no longer dark. My only wish that it would stay that way for the rest of her whole life."
Then he sighed.
"That one condition that Lord Éomer suggested and I consented, is," he turned to his son, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he answered, "that Lothíriel will never be the Queen of Rohan."
Midday.
It was their first break of the day. The air was warm today. Gamling suggested stopping after they passed the Beacon of Erelas. Éomer led the company to a plain with some seeps plentiful for beasts and men. The water was Valar-sent for many. It was cool and refreshing.
Lothíriel climbed up the fruit wagon to pick a few. Some fruits started to show signs of being overripe and were turning soft. It was a waste to throw them away but if kept, they bore no comestible temptation to men. They would just be left in the basket and rot. Unlike men, animals did not judge an offer by its appearance as long as it filled their stomachs.
Wrapping the collection of soft and overly ripe fruits in her aprons, she paced towards the group of steeds, quenching their thirst near water source. Whilst most beasts welcomed a free treat, Firefoot appeared unimpressed with her presence. He snorted loudly a few times. The contents of his large nostrils made some evident presence on a poor mare next to him.
She continued to ignore him, only giving out the fruits to friendlier animals. But that did not please him either.
The grey stallion raised his head quickly and kept his stare on her. His ears were pulled back and flattened into his mane. After announcing his disapproval with a loud squeak, he pulled his huge lips back, baring his big yellow teeth. Agitated, he flexed his hard muscles under his grey coat and his hoofs made loud stamping noise.
"Grumpy beast. Like master like horse!" She muttered, throwing the animal an equally intimidating look.
"Back!" Someone barked at the horse in Rohirric.
Firefoot immediately turned all his attention to his master. His teeth were bared no more but replaced by a grin. Éomer walked closer and gestured his steed to go to him and predictably the beast did.
"Unbelievable." Using the scepticism in her voice to conceal her unease, Lothiriel continued to feed the other horses without turning to look at him. She was sure she did not want him to see her face.
Her hands were trembling nervously. Still partially frightened by her thoughts brought about by her last drawing, she found herself increasingly affected by his presence. With her back to him, she took a few deep breaths and continued to hide herself under her cool exterior. But her heart was racing fiercely in her chest. The sound of her heart beat echoed loudly and relentless in her ears.
"He is a warhorse. Not a livestock trained to be friendly with anyone who comes near him," Patting the grey stallion passionately on his neck, Éomer defended his four-legged friend.
She needed to make some effort to prescind herself from his effect. "That explains well why he only likes you." Submitting a strong hint of irony in her voice, she continued dishing out the fruits to all the willing animals.
Having accustomed to her attitude over the past few months, he just ignored her last statement.
"The stew was excellent."
The praise sprang out of the context of their current conversation.
Her busy hands feeding the horses stopped, she turned her head slowly to look at him, finding herself disbelieved with what she just heard. The Horselord was not the most humble person and certainly not the most generous with compliments.
"We are leaving shortly. Make ready." He beckoned her with a gesture of acknowledgement and pulled his steed away.
She watched his figure shrink to no more than the size of an apple. She let out a heavy breath that she had been holding. And the incident this morning rushed back to her like old stories.
Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire.
The foggy morning remained still with heavily suspended moist. Over the greens, Lothíriel found a rise just beneath a tree. Gathering the skirt of her short-sleeved dress, she positioned herself against the tree. Whilst deciding the subject of the day, the distinct sound of a weapon unsheathing caught her ears. She turned and in the silver mist, she saw a man holding a long sword in his right hand with another palm almost touching the double-edged blade. The blade glittered under the rising sun. His stance remained still for a while. His eyes followed the length of the fullured blade to its tip. She saw his face when he looked up. The King of Rohan was about to begin his practice of sword-fighting.
You should see when he swings Gúthwinë! Éothain's words just before echoed in her ears. Settling her tools around her, she beheld her eyes on him. Gúthwinë was a long sword. It seemed too heavy for a normal man to wield it, yet Éomer was only grasping it with one hand. In a slow and smooth motion, his wrist moved the long sword with great precision. Swinging the weapon as if it was light as a feather, each stroke was accompanied by surprising elements of elegance and fluidity. Her eyes widened. She watched in complete amazement. Unaware that her eyes never left him as he repositioned himself at every swing, she was completely fascinated by him and his demonstration of swordmanship. His long blond hair shone like molten gold and his half pony tail stirred in the wind, like a proud flying banner. She reached for her chalk and began drafting on the parchment. Her eyes darted between the leather parchments and him. Until now, she knew not a man with a sword could be so captivating.
He flourished his sword and renewed his stance. The blade tip was positioned above his head and went down diagonally with high speed. It met the moist grass but did not linger long and swung up again. The quick stroke caused the air to whistle and the veil of grey mist broke like shattered glass when he slashed the invisible breeze apart. His breathing was getting heavier and mingled with the still dew in the air. His teeth were clenched. His footing remained steady and balanced. The sun ray reflected on the uncountable sweat drops on his forehead, like diamond dust. His loose linen shirt began to snug on the moisture formed on his skin and it soon adhered to every inch of his flesh, exposing his well toned upper body which had the tendency to trigger temptation and wild dream amongst some of opposite gender. Now both his hands were on the hilt of his sword, Gúthwinë whiffled fiercely through the morning breeze with great strength. It became alive in his capable hands as if the two bronze horses coiling the hilt roared in anger. The sword and its owner merged into one being. The offensive thrust pierced the invisible enemy, followed by a turn at the hilt and an outward sweep switched to a parry. The blade glittered with perfection at each new step. Each strike danced in the air like white blazing flame, burning the vapour surrounding it. She squinted her eyes when a beam of reflected ray came blinding her.
For as long as he was practising with his sword, her eyes stayed on him. The images of an eminent warrior on the leather parchments came into shape and life under her skilful strokes. The last drawing was spellbinding to anyone who looked at it. Every feature was delivered with remarkable subtlety. His well-cut face that sat beneath his faintly lined forehead. His well-defined lips under the untrimmed beard. His high cheekbones with every freckle. His thick straight eyebrows and the scars that cut across them. And most importantly his pair of incisive eyes was translated so vividly that they drew and consumed every pair of eyes ever laid on them. She remembered every detail so well; even his scent seemed to linger around her. It was an intoxicating effect that man had on her. She felt herself falling for it. The frightening feature of this truth was that she could not help it.
Confounded by her own haunting thoughts, she grasped as if her lungs were deprived of air. Articulating her strange behaviour lately, her stomach flipped, she rose quickly to her feet and her clasp on the parchment went loose. The last piece of her finished drawing fell from her lap onto her feet. She stared down at it.
It was a close-up portrait.
Of Éomer.
TBC
Footnotes
Adulation: (noun) excessive admiration
Swamp donkey: (slang) an ugly woman
Seep: (noun) 1: a spot where a fluid such as water, oil, or gas contained in the ground oozes slowly to the surface and often forms a pool; 2: a small spring
Gúthwinë: Éomer's sword which he inherited from his father, Éomund. The feature of this sword is based on Peter Jackson's Trilogy; bronze pommel and guard of horseheads, red leather bound handle, double-edged blade
Parchment: (noun)1: the skin of a sheep or goat prepared for writing on; 2: strong, tough, and often somewhat translucent paper made to resemble parchment
Parry: an action of hindering a sword attack by clashing it with a weapon. (One usually parries an attack with a sword and blocks with a shield)
Whiffled: a whistling sound that a sword makes when swung with great speed in air