Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 30: Metal and Mettle
She felt his large hand stroking her back. His scent swirled around her. There was no place safer than being in his arms.
"Don't shut me out, let me help, let me be the shoulders that you need to cry on. Let me be the person that hears your silent sobs."
She lifted her head and looked up at him. Tenderness pooled in his eyes.
Her nose wrinkled and red from the emotions, her chin quivering, she put a hand on his chest underneath which his heart beat.
She swallowed to gather her wit and asked in Westron. "Is it because of my father that you are obligated to take me as your wife?"
Not seemed to have been bothered by her change of speech, his hand reached on hers resting on his chest and clamped it tight. He looked at her, green flames that pierced through her soul.
"No. I made the proposal. Imrahil said only you could decide if you wanted to give your consent."
She continued to behold him, compassion and love overflowing from her eyes.
"You never truly smile. Can you smile for me?"
A moment of bewilderment made a quick landing on his bearded face but the corners of his lips soon curled up, dimples flashing beneath the hilled up cheekbones. If look could kill, she believed many ladies present tonight would have swooned upon seeing his brightened up expression.
"Do you know I've always adored you?" she ran an index finger along his bearded jaw line.
"Yes."
Of course, he knew.
He had always known.
He felt her smaller hands cupping his face, and saw his own reflection in her glittering grey eyes. He only detected that his guards had obstructed the entrance to the balcony where they were standing now for some time, probably to shield them both from the curious crowd who had been peeking, but he was not bothered.
Her red lips carried a dark shade of crimson under the warm dim.
"Ic lufie þe, Éomer."
His eyes widened.
This woman whom drove him mad.
This woman whom had gone against his will more than once.
This woman whom was as stubborn as a donkey and would not bow even when threatened with death.
This woman whom he had used to see every morning, every day and who had carved her existence into every nerve in his body.
This woman whom his people had regarded as their queen.
This woman who held no reservation at all when declaring her love for him.
This woman whom would be his Queen.
He pulled her close and completely against his huge frame. Holding her chin up, he leaned forward and kissed her.
She furled her arms around his neck and replied with an equal response.
Their kiss was different this time. It was more than passion that it sang. There was love and there was devotion.
Just a few moments earlier.
Éothain signalled at his knights - The Royal Guards at the entrance stepped at the door and formed a wall, blocking the view of the guests from inside the hall.
Their King and future Queen indulged in their own world.
The trio and not really surprisingly Hereswið as well, became overly concerned with the well-being of their King, had snuggled up at a corner at the end of the terrace. It was not hard to read their animated faces which were drowned in the sea of joy and anticipation when they saw their King finally making his move.
All three pairs of eyes were darting between their King and the Lady of Dol Amroth.
"You know, we should not be doing this. This is not right," Édhere remained hesitant with their action.
"What is not right?" Asked Éothain whose eyes had not left his King for a single second.
"Peeking! We are peeking King Éomer, my dear Captain! This can't be right!"
"It is not a crime to look at and check on your King, may I remind you!" The former handmaiden of Éowyn tried to justify their action. And, of course, her opinion was quickly seconded by the Captain.
"We are not peeking! We are just ensuring the future of the Riddermark and -!" Éothain failed to finish his sentence when he saw the first subject of interest took the hands of the second subject of interest, he exclaimed, grabbing the shoulders of one of his comrades and shaking them, "He is taking her hands! What is he saying to her? Quick! Tell us!"
The poor shaken comrade, which happened to be Stán, frowned and was a little annoyed by his impatience demonstrated by his superior. Despite the most timid among all three, Stán exhibited a superior skill that proved very useful at odd occasions, one such as this. "Stop, I am trying here! If you keep pushing, I cannot concentrate enough to read their lips!"
But his friends took no notice of his complaints. With their heads tilted at the direction at which their King was standing, instead they went on.
"Is he going to ask her?"
"Is he asking her?"
"Has he asked her?"
"Tell us!" Éothain gave his man another elbow rub at his rib.
"Hold on, would you three please? I only managed to catch a few words…" Stán finally understood why his King sometimes described them as a hopeless bunch of under-grown adults.
"What words? What did he say?"
"Last three words from Éomer King. Something about 'as my wife'…"
"Hurray! He has asked her! He has asked her!" The Captain's face brightened up immediately. His King was not so gormless after all.
"And what did she say?" Came the demand for the most important answer.
"Well hmmm..."
"What did she say?"
"I think she said..."
"Said what?"
"I think she said 'yes'...I suppose, I could not catch it, she was kind of sobbing, you know..."
"What do you mean 'I suppose'? Did you know read what she said?"
"She has half of her face buried in his chest. If you think I could read what she was saying, you seriously need another lip-reader, Captain!"
"Shhh, both of you! The most exciting part is coming," Hereswið waved in front of the two riders and returned their attention to the subjects of interest. "He is going to...KISS HER! He is KISSING her!"
The three men watched with overwhelming shock, sharing their silence with opened mouth and widened eyes - their King had never ever kissed any woman in public.
"The future of our people is secured. Our land is so blessed. How touching! I want to cry!" said the Captain, wiping off an imaginary tear off the corner of his eyes.
"How pretentious!" Their female companion teased.
"Listen, woman! I am not pretentious! And, where are you going, Stán?"
The young man stopped, turned around and sighed. "I am going to write a letter to Lord Gamling. I thought he ought to know about the news."
"Oh yes! Of course! Can you perhaps add another agenda in your letter as well?"
"What do you wish to tell him, Captain?"
"Wedding dress, Stán. A wedding dress for The Queen!"
Any news, either good or bad, spread like wildfire. Before midnight, all the Riders knew the Riddermark would soon have a queen.
The morning came. The air was misty but the ray of lights began seeping through the breaking clouds.
Lothíriel sat in front of a mirror. She was still trying to comprehend and digest the event last night. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, Éomer showed no strong emotion toward their relationship and that he suddenly proposed and that she had accepted without any second thought. But she felt it was too soon. There was an uneasy and unexplained feeling that had been haunting her since last night. A coil of shadow was lurking from somewhere and spreading its claws quickly. There would still be a battle awaiting her before everything was done and dusted.
Nothing came too easily for both of them.
It never had.
She was welcomed with the surprise appearance of Éomer, standing among the attendees at the breakfast table. Laughter and giggles rang in the hall. Her sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews and aunts were sharing a laugh with her betrothed. More precisely, Éomer was going to have breakfast with her family. To her best knowledge and as far as she could remember her father was yet to make an official announcement of her betrothal to Éomer, which by principle, should have happened last night before the party ended but it did not, but instead being invited to have breakfast with her immediate family. Her father was a man known to keeping family matters very private. The fact that she was seeing Éomer among the standing crowd could only mean one thing: Her father had already accepted Éomer as a member of their family regardless.
Breakfast proceeded as usual as it could possibly be but Lothíriel did get a few funny and teasing looks from her sisters-in-law, her elderly aunts and Amrothos' bride-to-be. By the time they all finished, her father had already left the table. Knowing that she could not hold herself under the questioning of her aunts, she quickly excused herself after making sure that Éomer was kept occupied with a three year old Alphos who suddenly became very interested in horses.
She went out to the garden searching for her father.
There he was, standing in front of her mother's statue. His wrinkled fingers on her ever smooth, cold marble white cheek.
She hurried toward him and called out, "Ada!"
He turned around to greet her, giving the most gentle smile she could remember.
"I..." Then her tongue was tied. Head lowered, she did not know how to begin.
Imrahil arched a questioning eyebrow at his youngest.
Struggling to push the sour sting in her throat down, she began slowly, "...I just want to say thank you...for everything..."
A large hand wrapped over her smaller one. It was warm and still strong.
"You made the decision, Lothíriel, not me. There is nothing you need to thank me for."
No. That was not true. She had more than a thousand reasons to thank him. Her father had always been there for her. And soon this role would be replaced by another man. The feeling of loss was indescrible. It was painful. It arched her to think she was walking away from her family. She was leaving them. It felt like a betrayal.
"I...I am so sorry, Ada. So sorry to have brought all these troubles onto you, onto our family...I am so sorry that I have been such a wilful child, that I never obey your wish..."
"Lothíriel, listen..." The large hands that once held her in the frightening thundery nights were now on her shoulders. "Éomer will be your husband and you will be his wife but nothing will change the bond we have. You will always be my child. You will always be Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Imrahil. I am and will always be your father, my love."
Her eyes started stinging with tears, even before her father opened his mouth. His words just burst the dam of emotion she was trying hard to hold back. Drips of moist glid down her cheeks.
"Please forgive me, Ada! Forgive me for being rude to you, for shouting at you, for disobeying you, for questioning your decisions, for..." Sobs choked her throat and she lost her voice, sobbing in the arms of the man who swore to protect her from the moment she was born.
"Sor...ry and...th..ank..you, Ada..." It was all she could repeat.
By the time she recovered from her emotional morning, it was already after lunch. She did not join the company at the dining table but chose to stay in her chamber to calm herself. There was other matter that she needed to see to.
The tournament would begin in less than in an hour.
She must see Éomer. The worry inside her deepened as she quickened her steps down the corridor leading to his quarter. The door was left ajar. As she approached, she could hear Éomer talking to his captain whilst in the background the sound of chinking rang.
"Good afternoon, my Lords," she knocked lightly at the door and bowed.
They both turned to her. It seemed Éothain was helping Éomer with his armour.
"Good afternoon, my Lady," Éothain returned her greeting with a wide grin.
"Good afternoon, Lothíriel."
Even though they were now betrothed to each other, sometimes she still found herself shying away from his piercing glare. She responded with an embarrassed smile and walked toward them.
She needed to do something. She could not just stand there and speak to Éomer with nothing to occupy herself. Armour! The armour!
"I could help you with your armour, if you don't mind, my Lord," she offered.
The young captain stepped aside and bowed, "Thank you, my Lady. I shall leave this task with you."
She replied with another embarrassed smile. If it was anyone else other than Éothain, it would have been very rude to interrupt.
Still smiling, the younger rider gave a wink before taking his leave. "I shall see you later, my King and...my Queen." And he shot off like a horse with a whip behind.
She tried to retrain herself from laughing whereas her betrothed just sighed.
"He is always full of energy, isn't he?" She found herself smiling as she lifted the chest plate from the wooden armour stand nearby.
"He is more than a handful. Sometimes I wonder if he had too much horse pucky when he was young."
"Don't say that. He is one fine horselord and captain." Her fingers busied with the buckles on the side of his chestplate. She pulled the leather straps and ran them through the buckles, and pulled them again to tighten them before finally tucking them back beneath the buckles to secure the loose ends.
"I know."
She sensed the change in his mood. She looked up and saw the green shade in his eyes darkened.
"Fear the goat from the front, the horse from the back and man from all sides. Be careful of their dirty tricks." Staring into his eyes, she warned in a stern voice.
"They cannot harm me."
There was hint arrogance in his over confident tone that she did not like.
"They will and they will keep trying! They are cunning and calculative!"
Slight anger flickered in her voice as she tried to convince him not to underestimate their opponents.
"I understand why you are worried but I will not let that happen, Lothiriel. They will not be able to harm me!"
Annoyance began to seep into his voice.
"I trust you, Éomer but I don't trust them! I"
He suddenly grabbed her arms and locked his eyes with hers. It was enough to shock her, to wake her up from the troubling worry, to remind her again that he was not only her betrothed but also an experienced and seasoned warrior.
"Lothíriel, I promise every man, woman and child that there will not be another fatherless child or widow in the Riddermark after Sauron was defeated. I have and will always keep that promise. Have faith in me."
Her widened pupils returned to their normal form. The pre-cast fear began ebbing away.
"Trust your man, Lothíriel. Trust me," his tone softened.
Her pre-cast fear began ebbing away. It was all she needed. A promise.
"Just be careful, Éomer," she said softly as she finished fastening the last buckle on his gauntlet.
"You too. Carry your weapon and take Édhere with you to the balcony."
His gloved thumb brushed her lower lip lightly. His gaze lingered on her face for a short moment before turning around to pick his sword.
As advised by her betrothed, she went back to her chamber to pick up a weapon. Édhere kindly offered to carry the items for her after he managed to convince her that it would look less suspicious if it were a guard who bore all the weapons. By the time they arrived at the balcony, it was only a quarter of an hour before the tournament and the seat the lower circle were already filled. Lothíriel signalled at Édhere to move to the upper circle. The lower circle was less than three feet higher than the tournament field but did not provide a good view as the upper circle did. The height of the upper circle would certainly give her the advantage in case anything unexpected happened.
She picked a seat closest to the edge which overlooked a fire-pit sitting in the centre of the tournament field. She smiled, knowing this was just enough to bring everything or everyone into her sight.
She scanned among the crowd looking for the man in the brownish red armour. It did not take long before she saw him. There was hard glitter in his eyes. He too was eyeing at their opponent cautiously.
There were many people, perhaps too many. Mostly whom she did not know or recognise. Strangers that stood around Saewon were particularly different. Their clothes were rough and stained with sot. Their faces were pierced with studs and rings. They all had strange weapons in their hands. The blades looked heavier than normal short swords, making the centre of percussion further forward in the handle. The blades were also beveled in a more obtuse fashion. Her heart leaped while her eyes were fixed on these weapons. She knew why the blades were forged this way.
These blades were designed to deliver a fatal blow.
Even from the first attack.
But something was amiss here. Glavror was not among the crowd. There was a sudden sting within her that he must be up to something and she was right.
"Lady Lothíriel!" A shout from behind brought no surprises. It was spoken in a Belfalasian accent and who else could it be.
Glavror.
She bit her tongue, cursing within that her wishful thinking just came true. Not in the most pleasant manner.
"What are you doing here?" Her tone was colder than she thought. She regarded the short grinning man at the entrance of the upper circle with great caution; her eyes never left him especially when she saw he had a sword in his right hand. Sheathed but she did not trust him.
Édhere immediately gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it if the dark-haired man stepped a little too close to them.
"Leave it with me, Édhere," she spoke in Rohirric, extending her arm to stop the young Rohir.
"But, my Lady-"
"I can handle him. He is nothing but a sabertooth without teeth."
She took a few steps ahead, greeting the uninvited guest, "What a surprise to see you, Glavror!"
"What? No warm greetings to welcome an old friend? I'd missed you every day and was so heartbroken when you refused to see me after you returned from Rohan! I still think about you! I still want you to be my wife so much, Lothíriel, don't you know? Come back to me and I will forgive everything that has happened between us. Things will be better Dol Amroth! I meant only good, my beauty. You have to trust me. My heart is yours and we belong to each other."
Unaffected by his eloquence, she smirked at him, "the great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink." She paused and stared at him, "You ARE disgusting."
"You have become very rude, Lothíriel, ever since you returned from that land of barbarians! "He laughed and walked toward her, throwing a disdainful look at her bodyguard and murmuring something in Sindarin not very loud but she was close enough to catch it.
"Who are you calling filthy dog, Glavror!"
"Oh, I am sorry! I thought you did not understand Sindarin, Lothíriel!" He faked a surprised face, with his fat hand almost covering his mouth.
"You thought, that is why. You assumed too much, too. That is not very good to your tiny little brain."
"It is still better than living with a bunch of barbigerous, equivorous, and uncivilised bots."
"Living with them is better than living with a witticaster who does nothing useful other than gadding around idly and picking on those he thought were weaker than him."
"Ah, I see your tongue is still as sharp as ever."
Another attempt to disparage her.
She kept her eyes on him as he circled around in front of her.
"I am sure you are hoping your horse friends would win the tournament, Lothíriel."
She just looked at him silently, lips shut.
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Lothíriel. Your friends are nothing but brutes with swords and empty heads; they could never win the mighty warriors of my father's!"
"Warriors? I thought they were given a better name: Mercenaries. Oh, maybe, wait, aren't they better known as pirates? Your family never fails to surprise me, Glavror. I did not expect you would get so low to hire the criminals who robbed your ships to compete in this tournament. You truly have no pride."
Her tone was absessive of her usual temper and was shockingly calm.
"You-!" Not expecting such an insult, the man's face flashed red. Her words had left him embarrassingly speechless and of course, angry.
Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword out. The tip of the blade was just a few inches from her face.
Bright and new. Probably never been used before.
"My Lady!"
"Step back, Edhere!" She shouted in Rohirric. She could see the sword in the Rohir's hand was unsheathed half its length. If Edhere had drawn his sword, she was certain that Glavror would have twisted the encounter to his advantage, not by combat but by that deceitful mouth of his.
She took another few steps ahead, forcing the shaky sword tip to retreat a few paces.
"I will kill you, swine!"
It should have sounded like a threat but it did not. It came out as a weak bark.
Knowing his cowardly nature, she braved herself to take another step closer.
His hands were shaking even more violently.
She would never back down from facing Saewon and his sons now. The fear was no longer haunting her. She needed to be strong. For herself. For her family. For the people of Dol Amroth and Rohan.
"The next time you raise your sword at me or my people, will be the last time you could lift anything, Glavror. Remember that."
"You! You will pay, Lothíriel! You will pay, I swear!"
Mortified by his spineless display, panic crept out of his squeaky tone. He moved backward, threw her another furious looking before curling up his tail, and left.
"My Lady, we can't just let him off! He was threatening you!" The young rider had been growing impatient from the beginning. "I have to get him-"
"Edhere, let him be. He is just a puppet of his father's."
Over at the patio, flying ashes from the fire pit swirled and lost their spark. Cracking noises of the woods deepened the invisible tension hanging in the air.
Éomer and his Riders stood at one end of the field. Saewon sat in his fur arm chair, sipping some kir from a gem-embossed wine glass in his right hand.
Imrahil positioned himself between the two parties. He too noticed the huge group of foreigners around Saewoon. They were not Belfalasians. They were too rough and muscular. Their dark skin was good evidence that these people probably spent most of their time outdoor, perhaps in the sea. He shifted uncomfortably and shot Éomer a look. The King of Rohan seemed not at all agitated. His posture was calm and confident. Occasionally he would exchange a few words with his Riders but that was all.
The Master of Ceremony stepped in and announced the start of tournament with a loud whistle.
There it drew the curtains - the prologue of a battle that ultimately led to a painful defeat of one party.
Normally the heat would only build up after a few rounds but loud cheering from the overly excited crowd drowned even the sound of the whipping ocean. The participants in the field grew more impatient with each clash of weapons. There were winners and of course losers but the battle as one might call it, was too close to call. It was a draw. It was not a result that everyone had hoped for.
Both leaders eyed the match closely. Smile faded from the face of one of the taller men. He stood up abruptly. Wine still dripping from the corner of his mouth, he unsheathed a strange weapon and strode purposefully up to the middle of the field. He inspected the crowd with his squeezed eyes. It was the eyes of a predator. In the mid of his stare, children stopped cheering and hid behind the adults. Some crowd, turning their faces aside, avoided looking at him.
The studs and jewelry on his painted bare chest clanked as he walked. He took another few steps and came in front of Éomer. Pointing his weapon at the Horse-lord, in a loud and clear voice, he spoke in a demanding but confident tone, "I, Breged, Lord of the Sea, of Belfalas, challenge you to a duel!
There were some instant gasps from the crowd. To openly challenge a leader of another country was not a custom in Dol Amroth.
Imrahil almost stood up. His gesture was disapproving but before he could stop it, the King of Rohan had accepted the changelle.
"Challenge accepted." Éomer's clear voice echoed in the deafening silence.
Éomer lifted his head and stared up at the nose-flaring man in front of him. He had anticipated this moment would come. Taking his helmet, he rose to his full height. Another series of gasps followed. The foreign warrior who seemingly appeared taller than anyone else was in fact a few inches shorter than the Horse-lord.
The Riders noticed a distinct disadvantage at this instance. The foreign warrior was very broad and he looked at least ten stones heavier than their King.
At a distance, in the upper circle of the balcony, a slender figure dashed forward.
Bow in her hand, Lothíriel found herself teetering on the precipitous edge between sanity and hysteria.
AN:
Gosh, my last update was April 2012! 14 months ago! I hope the majority of my readers have not forgotten this story!
First, please accept my sincere apology for such a long delay. Much has happened since April 2012:
1. Submitted my thesis in June, passed my Viva in October, waited for the correct for 4 months, finally submitted the corrected thesis in March 2013 - this was such a painful process!
2. Started my new job in July 2012, was sent to attend various training courses for a few times, started to work on my own projects since.
3. Family issue in October but could not go home, crashed our car in an accident just before Christmas and all those legal stuff that followed after! And finally visited my parents in Jan/Feb 2013.
4. Will be graduating this July :D
But I am glad that I now find the time to complete this chapter. There will be more to follow!
PLUS, a big thank you and hug to cCeret, BrightWatcher and b5delenn who continue to show me their support during my absence from FF. I hope this chapter has quenched your 1-year old thirst!
Note:
Breged means violence in Sindarin.