Chapter 13: Hostilities
Entering Meduseld, one could most certainly hear there was a commotion going on in the Golden Hall. Picking up her skirts, Lothíriel hurried to the small crowd of people. She could hear a man's angry voice and the gasps of people as she pushed her way through. Two guards were holding a disheveled man, who was struggling vehemently against their arms. On the ground lay a form, cowering beneath its arms.
"What is happening?" the Queen demanded of the guards.
"Hallas here has had a bit too much to drink, my lady," one man said apprehensively. She frowned and stepped in front of him. The form on the ground was none other than Cellwyn. Lothíriel's heart sank as she saw her friend quivering behind her own hands. It had only been a day and a half since they'd spoken in the storeroom, and already the brute found it fit to touch her.
"Is this Lady Cellwyn's husband?" The man in question looked at her, his eyes bloodshot and his expression cruel. The guards nodded in affirmation.
"Lord Hallas, your wife has been released from your command," she said tightly. He sneered at her, the scent of stale alcohol assaulting her senses.
"Who are you to make that decision? Cellwyn is my wife."
"I am your Queen."
"You, Gondorian bitch, are not my queen," he rasped. The two men holding him tightened their grip as he fought against them. Another guard leapt forward at his words, the point of his sword against Hallas' neck. Despite her displeasure and growing fear, Lothíriel stepped toward Hallas, her grey eyes watching him.
"You may think so, but that does not give you the power to mistreat your wife," she hissed. Lothíriel was surprising herself with this display, certain she appeared barbaric before these people. Hallas spit at her, his foul saliva landing shy of her face. Her disgust notwithstanding, the young Queen stood her ground, staring him in the eye until he looked away, the blade against his neck slackening.
"Cellwyn is my wife," he mumbled.
"That is no longer so, Lord Hallas," Lothíriel murmured. He looked up and made one last attempt to lunge at her, his teeth bared like an animal.
"You are not welcomed here, you Gondorian whore. Go back to your land and ranger king -" His words were caught in his mouth as he was dealt a blow to the head.
"Hold your tongue, Hallas son of Fréalaf," a voice cut through the air. Lothíriel tried to find its source through the crowd of people. They parted, revealing Éomer. He stormed toward the man in arms, his expression thunderous. At first, Lothíriel thought his anger was with her, but that fear died as her husband grabbed Hallas by his hair, forcing his head up.
"You are dismissed from my éored and expelled from Edoras," the King said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Leave now." The men released him and he fell in a pile of limbs at his King's feet. Staggering to his feet, Hallas stumbled through the group of people, muttering inebriated nonsense.
Lothíriel didn't trouble herself with his exit as she knelt beside Cellwyn, who'd lowered her hands to look at her monarch. Her left eye was terribly swollen and turning a rainbow of angry colors. But other than that, she appeared alright. Holding on to her arm gently, Lothíriel guided her to her feet as Lady Berewyn curtly sent the onlookers back to their business.
"Are you hurt elsewhere?" Lothíriel murmured to the woman. She shook her head slowly, wincing with effort. The Queen called for a servant, placing Cellwyn in the girl's care. "Bring her to the Healing House and notify Master Falas. Take a guard with you." The servant nodded and led Cellwyn away. By the time Lothíriel could let out a sigh, the Golden Hall had cleared of the crowd. She was impressed with Lady Berewyn's ability to command obedience and wished she could do the same.
"Are you alright?" she turned to see Éomer looking at her. By the door hovered his men, Gamling and Elfhelm already making their way toward the two.
"Other than being spit upon, yes," she smiled slightly. Éomer did not. His expression had only softened slightly since he cast Hallas away. Lothíriel sighed and accepted Elfhelm's offering of a handkerchief to wipe the saliva off her shoulder.
"Luckily his aim isn't so decent when intoxicated," the man quipped as Lothíriel smiled at him. Éomer ignored the Marshall and turned to stare at his wife.
"What possessed you to take this into your own hands?" The Queen stared at her husband, astonished. "He could've done worse than spit on you!"
"Well someone had to," she retorted indignantly. "Seeing as the rest of the court was standing about watching."
"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I just…" He looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. Lothíriel felt her irritation cool as she shook her head.
"It's done for, now," she said calmly. "I'm sorry you and your men were disturbed by this."
"It's quite alright," Gamling assured her. "Never did like that fellow. Suppose you did us a favor. He was always getting boisterous, that Hallas. A shame to his namesake."
"What do you mean?" Lothíriel asked, vaguely recalling a similar title from her books.
"Hallas is a Gondorian name, my lady," he explained. "Hallas son of Cirion was a ruling Steward in the White City. He created the land of Rohan and the name of its people."
"Strange I am not familiar with him," she mused. "But then, Gondorian history rarely piqued my interest."
"Nothing but wars and dissatisfied Stewards," Elfhelm teased. Lothíriel laughed, which allowed Gamling to relax. She could tell he was worried how the Queen might take to jokes of her country by a Rohirrim man.
"Quite true, my lord. Now, if you will allow me leave, I should see to Lady Cellwyn."
"Give our regards," Elfhelm called after her as she walked away. She nodded and left their company to check upon her friend.
-o-
"Calls to mind the willful nature of your sister, my lord," Gamling said as they watched the retreating form of the Queen.
"Don't remind me," Éomer muttered. "The last thing I need is another Eowyn running about, sword raised, hacking Ring Wraiths apart like they were straw."
"You do seem to attract those kind of women," Elfhelm smirked. Despite his mood, Éomer grinned and nudged his friend in the elbow. A wave of nostalgia flooded him with memories of the two of them as lads. Although he'd lived in Aldburg much of his adolescence, Éomer and Elfhelm were always creating mischief when the latter would visit him. He fondly remembered how little Eowyn would dash after them, trying to take part in the fun. He missed her.
"My lord?" Gamling was giving him a quizzical look, and for good reason probably.
"Staring into the Grey Havens, are you?" Elfhelm asked with a chuckle. "Pretty soon your wife will be ruling Rohan and you'll be knitting with the spinsters."
"If my life should take such a fall, I'll bring you down with me," the King answered smugly.
"Someone ought to keep you in line while you're making blankets with the womenfolk," his friend countered with a smirk.
"Enough you two," Gambling shook his head with a good-natured sigh. "I don't know how your highness' sister or wife puts up with this."
"They don't," Éomer answered with a snort. "Come then. We need to get back to the éored before they leave without us."
The three men left the Golden Hall in better spirits than they'd arrived. The midday sun was bright in the winter sky. Firefoot awaited his master's hand, his gossamer coat vibrant in the light. Éomer, Gamling and Elfhelm mounted their respective horses and led the éored down the main street of Edoras. For the first moment in his kingship, Éomer considered the possibility of his people surviving the cruel winter. Once that season was behind them, measure could be taken to rebuild and revitalize the land.
But, of course, there was the problem of the Dunlendings. As much as he detested thinking about them, he knew it was an issue that had to be faced head on. If their violent acts of vandalism were more than tomfoolery, Éomer had to be ready for anything. Especially with the bands of orcs roaming the land. Faramir sent his wife's brother a letter voicing his deep concern regarding the renegade fiends. While their master was destroyed, they were still a threat and a dangerous one at that. Bema forbid the Dunlendings join forces with the orcs…
"My lord!" Éomer glanced up. He'd lost complete awareness while in thought. Already they'd ridden across the plains and covered much land. The King wheeled Firefoot around to look at the man who addressed him.
"What is it, Folcred?"
"A Dunlending!" Following the soldier, Éomer frowned, seeing a grounded man, huddled to the cold ground. Dismounting, the King of Rohan removed his helmet, glaring at the pitiful creature.
"Speak your business, Dunlending," he said curtly. The man glanced up, his dark hair covering most of his face. Éomer could see the filminess of one eye, marking blindness.
"This frozen winter will kill your people," the man rasped in labored Rohirric. "You, Éomer King, are doomed."
"Mind your words," Gamling snarled, raising his spear. But there was no need, for the ailing man sneered severely before succumbing to his body's pleas. He dropped to the ground and lay motionless.
"This is a fair warning," Éomer murmured, more to himself than his men. "I doubt strongly the frozen winter he speaks of is the weather." He remounted Firefoot, steering the horse back to the direction of Edoras. "We return. I will write to my sister and her husband of this danger, for it may affect them as well."
A/N: "Staring off into the Grey Havens" is my made-up phrase, which would be like saying "staring off into space" or what have you, if you didn't catch it.