Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 20: of Searing and Enticement
Gamling was discussing some light matters with the riders when Éomer summoned him to his study.
"My Lord?"
He wanted to knock but found the door ajar and his king standing next to the window.
"Gamling, come in and close the door, if you would please," the young man turned around, full body.
Gamling could tell Éomer was frustrated. When he came back to Meduseld from the orphanage, he remained silent throughout the course of dinner and stayed as a deaf listener, not laughing at jokes or silly tales of his men. He also ate very little, less than half than his usual appetite. And, his signature frown seemed to settle on his face for the whole night.
Gamling pushed the door close and approached his King at the window.
"Are you well, my Lord? You did not eat much at dinner."
"I am, Gamling, I am. My appetite has been somewhat poor tonight."
His breath steamed with every word. Éomer dragged his eyes across the study.
"What troubles you tonight, my Lord?"
Éomer answered Gamling's question with a heavy, long sigh.
"Are there times that you think you've made a great mistake in your life."
A bitter smile touched Gamling's lips. "Many times. Too many times."
"I am not speaking that of war, Gamling. Life, life it is."
Éomer paced slowly around the room, hands behind his back. Heavy shadow deepened on his face.
Puzzle flashed across the face of the old rider. Life, yes, there were many mistakes too, some that he regretted and wished to he had to chance to correct them. And not all were mistakes. They were just situations that he handled poorly.
"We cannot undo mistakes but we can make an effort so that we don't repeat them in the future. But there are always times that are not necessary mistakes if corrections are made soon enough."
His last sentence earned Éomer's attention immediately. The young man lifted his gaze from the table to his adviser.
"What do you mean?"
Gamling had guessed something happened at the orphanage, something between his King and the Lady of Dol Amroth. The ambiguous air between them never actually left. It lingered. Sometimes it was lighter. Sometimes it deepened.
The unseen tension was almost visible to everyone in their close proximity when they were both present in the same place at the same time. Yes, nothing had actually left or eased. But that did not worry him. The only thing that worried him was what Éomer would do about it. Gamling knew he had no place to offer any advice; after all, this matter was becoming obviously, a personal issue of his King.
"May I speak frankly?"
"I never seem able to stop you, Gamling," his King grumbled slightly.
"Rules are dead but our hearts are alive. The harder you try to defy, the more resistance it brings, my Lord, for we cannot deny our own hearts."
He clapped Éomer's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Éomer remained in deep thought for a moment. A frown knit between his brows.
He finally asked, "How soon can our courier leave to Dol Amroth?"
Early March 3020 T.A.
The morning sun penetrated the mass of snowdrops that covered the green, and fell on her upturned face. Her fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the young leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the early of spring.
Since the incident more than 2 weeks, Lothíriel had not spoken to Éomer. She stopped attending his council entirely. She would only spend enough time in the kitchen to prepare food but she won't dine with him anymore. It was a change that everyone noticed. But nobody dared to ask.
The children were busy cutting out paper dolls. They soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up some fabrics and clipping all the leaves off the snowdrops that were within reach.
She felt she needed some breather. Sitting on her grey mare, Silverwing, she greeted the gate guard and acknowledged that she would be out for a short ride. The weather was now mild enough to stay out door for a good few hours. But little did she know that nothing had prepared her for the incident to come of which she nearly met her end.
Had it been a week? Or, longer? She could not recall. They travelled for long time. She was sure they had entered the Gap of Rohan, judging from the geographical features that she remembered from a map she found in the study of Meduseld.
She was sore everywhere. Every joint on her body complained of exhaustion and ache. Her feet blistered from the heavy walking. The blisters burst and new ones grew. Travel dirt and dust dug into her skin and hair. She had not had a wash for long time. She could even smell her own stench.
Would the riders come to save them? Did the news reach Edoras? She did not know. She was hopeful for the first few days but the hope grew tinier and almost extinguished as they crossed River Isen and went northwards.
"I hope these briars do not tear your skin too deeply," said one of the enslaved Rohirrim women as she lent Lothíriel a hand when she nearly tripped over a twig.
She shook her head. "I am fine," she replied with a weak smile.
The cuts and scratches were nothing compared to the cruelty that these men, women and children had endured since they were captured. Bruises of old and new patched the visible skin of a young woman walking next to her. The man in front bore numerous whipped scars and wounds.
Lothíriel clenched her jaws and cursed under her breaths. She wished she could have done something or anything to set these people free. She really wished she could but there was nothing she could do. The rattling of shackles reminded her that her situation was no better than any of the captives. The cold and sharp edges of the iron bands bit into her wrists. The needles of rust left marks of darkened shades on her pale skin. From time to time, the ruffians would check her shackles to make sure they remained secure. She raised her hands and looked bitterly at them. It was impossible to break free of these iron tendrils.
They were not allowed to talk to each other much. She had to keep her communication as little as possible otherwise the other party would get a whip and she stayed unspoiled. It was not because she was a woman. She knew well that the chief of the outlaws, Meriun, his name was, wanted to use her as bait. Having her as a hostage meant a winning edge to them. She told them she was an Ambassador from Gondor and although they were highly suspicious of her, at the end they bought it.
A small hill laid in front of them. She guessed it must be Heathfells.
They were urged to move quicker taking a right turn. A valley came into sight with an ancient black tower. They reached the mouth of Nan Curunír - Valley of Saruman. Unearthly torches on the left clift marked the path to an entrance. It was a cave. Some of the captives who understood Dunlendish and told her that it was called the Pit of Iron. It used to be a dwelling of Orcs of Saruman. Now it was the main nest of these villains.
Salty sweat stung her earlobes. She had pulled her earrings off and dropped them at the mouth of Gap of Rohan and the slope of Heathfells. They were very small pieces; perhaps, nobody would even notice them when riding pass. But she could only hope.
As they descended into the cave, Lothíriel found there were even more captives. All the ones she had seen had been Rohirrim. The Dunlendings seemed to have quartered the two groups of slaves down here - one to work in the lower mines to extract ores and another in the forge to make weapons and armour. Some crypts lined along the snaky path. They were dug as the grave for those would fell under the devilry in this pit.
She was pushed into a heavily guarded cell with the rest of the captives. Her presence earned some low muttering among the already present. She looked around and saw a group of banged-up peasants looking at her. She heard them questioning who she was. She replied quickly in Rohirric and found out they were captured when the outlaws raided their village. Some spoke with a hint of hope in their voice, thinking it was a chance that their King would finally come to rescue them. Some grew less hopeful and thought they would not survive very long down there before their saviour arrived.
The straw on the floor stank of urine. There were no beds, no furniture and not even a bucket for slop. If allowed to rest, they slept on the cold stone floor. The Rohirrim men still remembered their courtesy – they would lay next to the door of the cell to make room for the women and children to sleep further in and also to protect them from any uninvited beating. Getting any food was blessing. But there was never enough to go around. They had to take turn to starve so that everyone could live.
There was a man called Édhere among the captives. He wore strange raiments, marking him as a person of some station. He told her he was only remaining member of the Snowbourn éored for most of them were either killed during the nightly raid more than one year ago or beaten to death whenever one of them became too ill or exhausted to work. Every now and often, Lothíriel heard horrible bellowing roars ahead and could only guess at what danger lurked behind the next turn. The Dunlendings enjoyed sowing the seeds of fear.
Whipping was a common sight in this pit. It seemed to amuse the Dunlendings to kill their captives this way.
"Perhaps, there is no spark of hope down here after all," Édhere said to her one day, despair in his voice.
"No, your King will come. He will come to save us all," she corrected him hastily though she could not find her words convincing enough to believe even for herself.
"My Lady, my will and strength would be at an end anytime soon. If what you said was true, why did he not come when the Dunlendings raided my village a year ago? Why has he not come all this time while we are held captive here?"
She had no answer to that.
Every day seemed longer, or at least it felt like it. She could not tell if it was night or day in these stygian depths.
Today, Édhere was dragged out of the cell in front of her very eyes. He had collapsed from exhaustion the day before. But the Dunlendings showed no pity.
The cracking of a whip echoed across the pit. She could not bear it any longer.
"Stop! Stop it! That is enough! You will kill him, you scum!" She ran to the gate and shouted. Her knuckles on the iron bar whitened.
"Wat we have here?"
One of the torturers came cross to her, bearing his rotten teeth.
She turned her head away, disgusted by his breaths but his hand was swifter than her and it caught her by her chin and held her still.
"Gondor woman, I see," he surveyed her closely. He turned to his men and shouted at them in Dunlendish. One tall man came to gate. The rattling noise of the keys sent tides of fear down her spine.
"What are you doing? Where are you taking me?" She tried to shake off their hands.
"We are going to show you sum of our Dunlendish hospitality, woman!"
She tried to move away from the gate but the grip on her chin was solid. Her eyes followed them as they tossed Édhere into the cell and dragged her out. Her fingers coiled on the iron gate eventually unwrapped.
In vapid listlessness, Édhere fluttered his lashes and saw the hazy image of Lothíriel being pulled away. He wanted to beg them to leave her and take him instead.
"Take…..me…."
He opened his lips to deliver his plead, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. He choked and watched helplessly as the figure of the dark-haired women disappeared to whatever fate awaiting her.
Lothíriel learnt from the very early stage that struggling was useless. These monsters were fuelled by resistance of their victims. The stronger it was, the heavier the punishment came.
The strong arms around her shoulders went loose and she was thrown onto a stone platform. She heard cries. Raising her gaze, there were women and children in the caged cells surrounding her.
A heavy hand flew at her throat, bearing her down on the stone slab again. Damn, that hurts! She cursed under her breaths as the pain from the back of her head crawled through her skull.
"Wench!"
A sudden burning sensation scorched her face. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the grinning face of the wielder of the whip who cracked his toy on Édhere just before. She remembered his distorted face. They called him Tavu. He was the henchman of Meriun. If there was anything she could describe him - he was the emissary of evil of this pit. He would torture and abuse the poor souls and laughed his heart out until his victim was near death.
"T'is what Gondor woman makes of?"
She felt a copious bleeding from her nostril and corner of her lips. She raised her hand to stop the bleeding but the crimson liquid continued to flow down her arm, leaving a red trail from her palm to her sleeve.
He grinned at her, eyeing her from head to toe and back. There was a sinister look in his eyes that she did not like.
This time the hot burning landed on another side of her face.
"Truly a wench! Not a single hiss from your nose! I see why t'ey filt'y Horse-men agreed to keep you. T'ey like tough women, do t'ey not?"
He stared assessingly at her, which was somehow more disconcerting than his usual sneer.
"They will come and kill you. They will put a thousand spears through your wicked heart!"
She cursed at him.
"Will t'ey come? You t'ink t'ey would come to save you and t'ese pat'etic lot? Where were t'ey when we raided Snowbourn? Where were t'ey when we raped every woman, killed every child and burned every man to deat'h? And, if t'ey come, only deat'h awaits t'em."
"They will come and you will die horribly!"
"None can hope to stand against us!" he continued to vanquish her hope.
He licked the blade of his dagger and slid it on her swollen cheeks a few times, jerking it back and forth. The cold from the metal stung her reddened skin, sending waves of chill through her. A shrieking pain hit her scalp. He pulled her long braid up and sniffed it.
She felt sick at this disgusting sight.
His blade glided from her cheeks down to her neck, going along her shoulders and finally to the midsection of her braid, sawing through her mats with his dagger. A fistful of dark hair skittered across the paving stones.
Her long hair which extended below her waist moments ago, was now hanging loose just a less than a foot below her shoulders.
He picked up her cut braid and brushed it across her swollen face, wiping all the blood with it before passing it to one of his minions. He threw back his head and laughed, "I send t'is to t'e Horse-Lord. I sure it will please him."
Lothíriel felt rage tightened around her clamped jaw. Her eyes were hard and twitching.
"I would hate to leave you behind...alive but Chief said not to harm you."
He stepped forward and subjected her to close scrutiny.
"How shud I play t'is game? Blade or fire?"
One or the other, it was an unpleasant choice of evils – both blade and fire sounded a game of torment. Still, Lothíriel kept her lips tight only allowing her eyes to betray her rage.
"You don't seem to be afraid of blade. Fire t'en," he decided for her.
The watching women and children gaped in terror as they saw a red hot branding iron was lifted from a nearby brazier.
"Wulf, son of Freca, took t'is as a trophy when he claimed t'e throne in Edoras. His descendents never found a use for it….but I do."
At his words she suddenly felt as if a pint of dread washed down her neck. Her legs began trembling with wrath. Her grey pupils dilated and fear flooded every inch of her skin as she saw him lifting a glowing bright horseshoe and thrust it just a few inches away from her face back and forth, barely touching her. The warm air radiating from it was as malignant as its wielder.
"Turn her over!" He commanded.
His minions closed in and flipped her onto her stomach. They stretched her cuffed hands out.
From the corner of her eyes, she could see Tavu coming closer with the branding iron. Women and children began crying, screaming and shrieking, reaching their hands out, and begged to the Dunlendings for some mercy. A young girl fell on her knees and wept helplessly at the coming sight.
"Turn away! Turn the children away! Don't look! Turn away!"
For a moment she ceased to be sensible of the immediate danger as she continued to shout at the terrified Rohirrim in their tongue.
She felt a heavy load on her face. The unkempt and hairy face of her torturer came into sight.
He grabbed her loose locks and pulled her up.
"Wat a shame I could not mark t'is on your face or any visible parts. My Chief will not be happy. You are a token of worth but I will make sure to leave an unforgotten souvenir for t'e Horse-men."
His hoarse hand reached down to the collar behind her neck and pulled it down.
A chill of air met her exposed skin.
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, clenching her teeth so tight that it hurt her jaws. The smell of hot iron lingered and whirled around her. She prepared and waited in the dark abyss for the worst to come. Sweat of dread dampened her skin. She could feel the fluttering of her heart as it raced in her chest. Fear whistled in her breath. She was afraid. Very afraid.
She heard the distinct sizzling sound of flesh baking on flame. Her body shook violently at the heat tearing her skin. Smell of cooked meat filled the cell as her body quenched the flame of the metal. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away. She could feel her blood boil and turn to steam beneath the weight of the branding iron. The pain was indescribable. It gnawed at her, throbbing and pulsing, from her shoulder into her spine, creeping into every single nerve.
She became exceedingly dizzy and faint. She could hear the cries and screams of women and children. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. When she looked around her, the image in front was hazy and swirling. She needed air. She was so frightened that she held her breaths and forgot to breathe. The pain peaked with every mouth of breath she inhaled.
Whilst every nerve of her body twitched, she turned her eyes to look at her executor.
Tavu shambled backward, grinning victoriously through his rotten teeth and a trail of smoke was smouldering from his cruel toy.
"T'row her back t'ere! See t'at she does not die so easily. She still has some use to us."
His men pulled her rudely off the platform and threw her into the nearby cell where the rest of the women and children were kept.
As soon as the Wild Men had left, the women rushed around her to assess her injury. Her body experienced a sudden deprivation of energy. She heard the women talking to her but did not have the strength to listen to what they said. Her eyelids were heavy and she felt herself sinking in a sea of dark waters where there was some imaginary peace, away from the cruel reality.
But no, she must not die. What fate could possibly be worse than to die on this dark pit.
Helm's Deep.
They rode hastily to Helm's Deep when Erkenbrand sent news of sighting a large company of outlaws passing the Ford of Isen a few days ago.
Just a week after sending a letter to Imrahil, Éomer was not expecting any major surprises.
But he was wrong.
He was in the midst of a discussion of the rebuild of East-fold settlement with his council when Hannor came charging up the stairs of Meduseld, requesting to see him immediately. At the sight of Hannor's pale face, Éomer knew something had gone ill.
Silverwing, Lothíriel's horse, came back without her but a young injured boy. He bore a swan-embossed belt in his hands. Éomer immediately recognised it. It was hers, the heirloom of the House of Adrahil. She always bore it no matter where she went. The dry blood stains on the beaten gold surface seemed red as searing fire.
The young boy, Ælfgar, was from Snowbourn. Most of his kin were taken captive and forced into slavery when the Dunlending outlaws raided his village almost a year ago. The huts were burned and livestock were slaughtered. The Dunlendings butchered those who opposed them and fed them to their wolves. And they bound the Rohirrim who were least capable physically or ill and burnt them in front of the rest of the survivors. The boy wept as he recalled his younger brother and his grandparents were among those who screamed as the fire melted their fleshes.
He told Éomer of his escape from his captors. The Dunlending host were moving only at night, avoiding to be sighted by the Rohirrim scouts. They often hid in abandoned pits or mines. He managed to escape when they were descending from West Emnet. Lothíriel found him unconscious near a small bush. But before they could ride back to Edoras, they were surrounded by the Dunlendings. She bargained for his life, offering herself as a hostage instead. She tried to convince them she was a diplomat from Gondor and Rohan would bend to any requests to have her safe. Of course, it was not true. She knew it and Éomer knew it too. It was no more than a gamble to save the boy's life and an opportunity to bring the news to Edoras. The chance of success was slim but she took the risk.
The outlaw chief did not buy her words at first until she offered her belt carrying the emblem of her House. Ælfgar wept as he recalled the Dunlending slapped her across her face with the belt. There were drops of blood dripping from it. He dared not look. Lothíriel whispered to him, telling him to reach Edoras and inform the King of this. He rode hard and fast, tears did not stop gushing down his cheeks as he remembered shamefully how cowardly he was, leaving a lady to take his place.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Éomer let out a heavy sigh. It had been almost three weeks now. There was no news. None of the patrols dispatched had seen anything. He grew more and more reckless every day. He forced himself to eat when he had not appetite at all. He had troubles sleeping at night. Every morning he hoped for some news from the scouts but they brought none.
He rose from his bed. Grabbing Gúthwinë, he headed to the Sword Hall.
"My Lord? You should be resting," Éothain caught him in the corridor.
"Rest? How can I rest?"
He could not close his eyes without the images of his people being tortured flashing in front of him. He could not stop himself from a moment without thinking the perils Lothíriel had brought onto herself. Stupid woman! So foolish! He cursed within. His instinct told him that she was alive but where was she?
There was anger in Éomer's voice. Éothain knew it better not to defy his King when this wrath was in him.
"What do you wish, my Lord, at this hour?"
"I am going to the Sword Hall. I can't sleep." He found his tone softer now. He resolved to keep his temper. It was not Éothain's fault that the situation eventuated to this stage.
His young Marshal nodded and followed his steps to the training hall.
The air was chill tonight. Éothain brought his arms around himself. The Sword Hall was not a popular place at Helm's Deep. Helm Hammerhand built it to train his riders and soldiers. It stood high with red and green tapestries hanging from the stone pillars. Since the War of the Ring began, there was less use of it as there was hardly any time to spare training in it. Most training was conducted outdoor and the Rohirrim learnt as they progressed with the daily dealing of wars.
"Éothain, have some wine and stay over there. I will be fine."
He gestured at a wine flagon on a table. Éothain had not had much sleep lately either. Whenever Éomer was awake, the young rider would follow him around after all he was his bodyguard.
Éothain emptied a glass of wine and leaned against a stone pillar. He faced himself away from Éomer in the shadow. It was not the first time since they arrived in Helm's Deep that Éomer vented his frustration in the Sword Hall. Perhaps it was wiser to let his King had some breathing space.
Flickering light touched and brushed on the grey wall of solid rock. The sharp sound of Gúthwinë unsheathing echoed in the dim. The air whiffled as the long blade whipped freely, warming the muscles of its wielder. It glittered under the silver moonlight channelling from the high-raised windows. Up and down it went. With each stroke, each slash and each thrust, it picked up in speed. The air whistled louder with each fierce swing, breaking the invisible enemy apart. Stance renewed, offence and defence alternating. The sword howled like its infuriated wielder.
Éomer inhaled and exhaled greedily and heavily, replenishing every mouth of lost air consumed by his sword. His hair webbed around his sweat-dampened face. He felt moisture dripping from his thick brows, stinging his eyes. He cursed and sheared his sword through the unseen in front of him.
Before he could finish his move, his hands stopped abruptly.
He could see Éothain standing in the dark behind the pillar with his hand ready on his sword.
There was something approaching them. It came from the corridor. Light steps but not as swift and wary as those of a swordman. The air changed too. The trace of fragrance was very faint but it was there.
Both Rohirrim locked their eyes on the entrance, expecting the person to make an appearance very soon.
The footsteps were increasingly louder.
Éomer shook his head very slightly, gesturing at Éothain to cloak himself in the shadow. He had a feeling that whatever that marched through that door came for him.
Least he expected a woman sailing into the Sword Hall. She was dressed in a piece of very light night gown. The enlongated shadow emphasized her curvy figure. She smiled flirtatiously and winked at him as she entered – an act of coquetry that most men would fall for. He knew that smile – she offered it the first time they met in Minas Tirith.
"What are you doing here, Moriel?"
His voice carried an unwelcoming tone. His eyes locked on her every move.
He had allowed her to follow his company to Helm's Deep after she begged to tag along, claiming that she was worried about her Lady.
For a moment, disappointment flashed across her face but it disappeared quickly. She would have thought he would be excited to see her. To see her especially when she had prepared herself for him.
She looked at him with excessive admiration in her eyes. Her fingers slid across his chest, tingling his muscles. She knew she was an undeniable attraction. No man would be able to resist her when she made an effort. She tipped her toes, bringing herself high enough to survey his face, and blew her warm breaths on him.
"Lord Éomer," she whispered huskily in his ear, "can you not see why I am here?"
Éomer cast her with icy glare.
Unaware of the presence of Éothain behind the pillar, she continued her attempt at seducing his King. She brought her hands up to caress his unshaved face.
"You need to part from your sword from time to time, my Lord. There are other pleasures more exciting, more exhilarating than sword fighting."
"It is late. It is wise that you leave now and I can pardon your doing tonight," the Horse-Lord said with a downward twist at the corner of his lips.
"Don't be so cold, Éomer King. We are not strangers, are we?"
Éomer continued to observe her wordlessly. He had seen her manipulative nature when he was in Minas Tirith. It was not evitable for some but he noticed and so did most of his men. She had used her enticing appearance to gain advantages for herself. Since she arrived in Edoras with Lothíriel and Hannor, she tuned down her act significantly which he believed was mainly because his men were rather irresponsive to her.
"You have a body muscled like a maid's fantasy, my Lord. You are not only lickable, but also mountable. I can offer you anything you wish."
Éothain, hiding behind the pillar, felt his ears burning at those words. The woman made no attempt at all at hiding her lust.
"Leave now before I change my mind," he warned with rising irritation.
"I would love it if you change your mind."
Mistaking his meaning, she came in front of him and opened her sleeping silks and let them fall to the floor. She stepped closer and leaned herself completely onto him, coiling her hands around his neck like a snake.
"I can quench your flame and your thirst, my Lord."
Éomer let out a heavy and long breath.
Whilst Éothain, still cloaked in the shadow, knew that particular exhale was a warning before his King lost his last bit of patience but Moriel took it as an encouraging sign that he was losing his self-control.
She resumed her purpose. Her hands wandered on his body and crawled their way downwards along his abdomen. Before they could descend further, Moriel found both her hands in an iron grip.
Éomer's glare hardened. He pulled her hands up. His grip tightened enough to send a warning to her before he pushed her away. He should have read her thoughts given the casual concern she displayed over her missing Lady.
He turned around, grabbing an oil cloth and running it along the double-edged sword.
"Your presence is unwelcome here. What did you hope to accomplish, I wonder?"
She could not believe he rejected her. Pulling her gown around her, Moriel's face was a storm-cloud of embarrassment and consternation. She brought herself under control, but it was clearly an effort.
"Why? Why she? Not me? What does she have that I don't?"
Éomer slid Gúthwinë back into its red sheath.
"You imagine too much. Go back to your quarter."
"I am better than her! I know how to please you! I have everything that she cannot give you. She is nothing than a banished princess who spends her time rotting in the orphanage and knows little of men!"
Envious poison dripped from every corner of her mouth as she barked at him.
The Horse-Lord turned back to her. There was hard glittering in his eyes.
"Leave. Now!"
His loud words startled her.
She stared at him, her eyes incredulous. She opened her mouth, bearing her teeth before clasping her lips again. The taste of rejection was not something she was used to. Gathering the edge of her gown, she let out a disgusted snort and left.
Éothain emerged slowly from the shadow.
"Lord Éomer?"
Brushing the hair away from his face, he glimpsed at his young Marshal.
"Keep an eye on her."
After the unpleasant exchange with Moriel, the next day was another test for Éomer.
The gate guard reported a Dunlending messenger had been flagged down from the West. The Wild Man claimed he was there to deliver a message to the King of Rohan. He flagged at Gamling to bring the messenger forward. He thought he could handle the matter fairly without his emotions getting in the way but the effort was beyond him.
The rugged man carried a parcel in his hands.
Gamling, the only officer proficient in Dunlendish, stepped in as a translator.
"He says it is a gift from his Vice-Chief."
Gamling handed Éomer the rough-wrapped package.
"He also says….."
Gamling hesitated and exchanged a look with Éothain, who was standing next to him.
"He says what, Gamling?"
"….that you will find the gift…..pleasant."
He opened it and found a fistful tie of black hair, tangled with dry blood. It was her braid and was delivered as a sign of trophy. His green eyes widened. His face etched with rage. He rose from his seat and came in front of the messenger who grinned mockingly at him.
Without a word, he thrust, shovelling the messenger against a rock wall. He seized him by his neck. The poor soul let out a cry of pain but continued to babble in Dunlendish.
"My Lord!" Gamling jumped forward to calm his King. "If we kill him, we won't be able to save them. Spare this man and we could negotiate the lives of our people. "
"What is he saying, Gamling?"
"He is cursing us…that we will die miserably in the hands of his Lord…."
"This is a mocking challenge, not negotiation! These beasts do not negotiate!"
Éomer felt anger peaking inside him. His grip on the Dunlending messenger tightened. The shorter man, desperately gasping for air, scratched his hands around Éomer's arm trying to free himself.
"My Lord! You will kill him!"
Éomer let go off the choking man. He gestured at the guards, "Lock him in the underground prison."
Collecting his composure, he paced around the hall. Subconsciously his left hand went to rest on the hilt of Gúthwinë, images flashed fast like lightning in front of his eyes and there was a sharp pain in his head.
What was that? He wondered, frowning. His movement staggered for a few steps. The vision disappeared as quick as it came.
"Perhaps you should take some rest," Éothain offered. It was true. Éomer had not been resting much lately. And he slept really late last night.
"I am fine."
Éomer seated himself, trying to recall the momentary misfit in his mind just now. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. The images, first blurry now, were clear enough for him to remember. He saw a sparkling item among the grass, it might a stone or a gem but he was not sure. And there were mountains left and right. He knew those mountains well down to every peak and cliff.
"Gamling, did you say the messenger come from the West?"
"The scout said so. But the messenger said nothing when I asked him."
So that confirmed it.
"Send words to Marshal Erkenbrand. Have five hundred men ready. We ride out at first light tomorrow."
Éothain nodded and left to deliver the order.
Confused by Éomer's behaviour, Gamling eyed his King questioningly.
"Gamling, time to sharpen your sword."
"Where exactly are we heading, my Lord?"
That place brought back painful memories. His cousin and many of his countrymen fell there. Éomer turned to his adviser, placing a hand on Gamling's shoulder and said with a bitter twist.
"Gap of Rohan."
TBC
How does Éomer rescue his men and women? How does this lead to a sour turn between him and Lothíriel?
Footnotes:
Gap of Rohan map is based on the website: lotr(DOT)wikia(DOT)com(SLASH)wiki(SLASH)Gap_of_Rohan
Heathfells is based on the map above. Pit of Iron, located north-east of Healthfells and at the mouth of Nan Curunír, used to be the mining and armoury pits of the White-hand Orcs and Uruk-hais. Dunlending outlaws now claim lordship over it. (Please refer to the link above for the exact locations)
Ælfgar: (Old English name) Ælf means Elf; gar means spear. Originating from the burnt down village Snowbourn, He is a captive rescued by Lothíriel.
Édhere: (Old English name) Éd means blessed, also written as Éad; here means army. He is a rider of the éored of Snowbourn.
Moriel: Lothíriel's maid, her reaction to Éomer - refer to Chapter 2. Oh yeah, her role does not stop here.
Dunlending names (i.e. Meriun and Tavu) are borrowed from the MMORPG Lord of the Rings Online.
Dunlendish language: Tolkien has not mentioned much about it except they do speak common tongue but with poor pronounciation and structure.
Currency system of Middle-earth: smallest unit is copper and largest is gold. 100 copper is 1 silver. 1000 silver is 1 gold.
Branding: Used a tool to mark criminal or means of torture. The description of branding pain is based on observation of frying a piece of steak on a very hot frying pan. The first sense that hits is the sizzling sound, then the smell and of course the pains come together with everything. I actually dug into a medical paper of patients explaining the feeling of scorching their flesh.
Correction: It should be Erkenbrand (not Elfhelm) that is the Marshal of the West-mark. It has now been corrected accordingly.
Acknowledgement of reviews:
Once again, thank you to all the reviewers and readers. Without them I will not have the motivation to continue my story. A big embrace for all! I still welcome any sort of reviews, particularly on my grammatical mistakes!
angelic-bitch: What a pen name you have there! LOL! Thank you :)
b5delenn: Éomer is certainly making an effort. I mean sending a letter to Dol Amroth. Then again, I assumed that Éomer is literated. He is the nephew of Théoden after all. Théoden is brought up in Minas Tirith - he is proficient in both Westron and Sindarin. We will see if Éomer inherits any of that quality! (PS: Thank you! My interview went well, I got the offer!)
BrightWatcher: Cheese oh cheese! I usually think old cheese as if it has undergone a long period of maturing, giving it a hard crust outside. So when you cut it, it is still fresh within (not mouldy! =p)
C: Thank you! Consider signing up a Fanfic account? :D
Glory Bee: There will be some intimate moments after this chapter, I promise! Oh did that I say it out by accident?
LadyAvi: Speaking out is better than keeping silent about it! :)
Quills in blooed red ink: Thank you! I have been asking openly for someone to volunteer as a beta, but no luck, man! Perhaps you would like to offer your service?
Rogue's Queen: The bracelet removal would have to come after this chapter! She will be so cold and cruel once she is determined. The cheese, hmm, let's say 1 wheel is 1 kg. 1 kg costs 2 silver 12 copper, so your order of 5 kgs will cost 10 silver and 60 copper please!
Sic Vita Est: I hope you have enjoyed this chapter too! :)
solar1: Hope you like this update as well! :)
Talia119: I don't think he is that thick anymore after the last chapter! Like I mentioned before, positive emotions are not something he is used to. So we will see how he learns to deal with it.
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