Chapter 16: Questions, Concerns and Headaches
Lothíriel's awakening was anything but glorious. Her head felt twice its size and her muscles ached from unidentified strain. The ground against her cheek was frozen and rough, stone she guessed. She lay on her side, trying to get a sense of where the rest of her body was. Though it was cold, she was not chilled to the bone and no wind assaulted her skin. her eyesight was fogged, though she couldn't tell if that was because she was in a dark place or if she was going blind. She felt utterly helpless.
It's your own damn fault, she reminded herself. If she hadn't run away like such a coward, she wouldn't be in this predicament, whatever predicament that was. She wiggled her fingers and realized her hands were bound behind her back. Her ankles were bound as well, her legs curled slightly beneath her. It was the most uncomfortable position and she could barely breathe without setting her muscles aflame.
She recalled the midnight attackers and the dying screams of her guards. She prayed some had escaped, Elfhelm as well. She couldn't imagine the horrors of the actual event and struggled to remember her part in it. Her skull felt cracked and her hair was in disarray. She could hear quiet murmurings far from her, but no immediate sound near her. She knew they knew she wasn't dead, so the element of surprise was futile. Not that there was much she could do in her present state.
Compelling her body to obey her, Lothíriel bent and bowed silently, finding a bit of leverage in her position to force her torso up. Though her hands were bound behind her, she was able to support herself on her forearms (though she was sure her shoulder had dislocated itself in the process) and get a better view of her surroundings.
Other than a faint glow far off, she couldn't see much. Wherever it was, it was enclosed by stone. The wind whistled softly beyond the covering of rock and the dankness of the fissure made Lothíriel's head ache further. At least she wasn't dead. But she may as well be since she wasn't entirely sure she'd make it out of this predicament alive. Shifting to the side, she heard a loud groan further in the depths of the fissure. The faraway voices became farther as they followed the sounds of unease. Lothíriel was positive she didn't want to know the origin of those groans. Stretching her legs out, she felt a bulk against her calf. Retracting her appendages in fear, she listened. No movement or growling. Either it was a sleeping creature or a dead one.
She found a bit more courage to extend her bound legs toward the form, touching it gingerly. It breathed heavily, moving, groping and squirming in the darkness. She could hear its labored breathing and deduced it was in pain. It was clearly in no better shape than she. Scooting slowly to it, Lothíriel tried to nudge it gently with her shoulder. It moaned. She recognized the noise from within its throat.
"Elfhelm," she whispered, shocked at the degraded quality of her voice. In the dimness, she could see its head rise until she was met with the shadowed eyes of the Marshall. Before she could offer him any comfort, she heard footsteps. Two men lumbered toward them, bearing torches. They were dirty, dark haired fiends who looked like they'd traveled the Gorgoroth plains of Mordor with naught but the skin on their backs.
As the light fell on Elfhelm, Lothíriel repressed a horrified gasp. A cut the size of man's finger was etched deeply into the skin of the Marshall's left temple, dried blood a testament to its pain. One eyes was swollen shut and his lip bled fresh, staining the his fair beard. His other eye squinted against the light as he mumbled something of a threat to these men, who sneered at his bound body. They turned to Lothíriel, mocking expressions faded.
"You are the healer Queen?" the bigger of the men asked in halting Rohirric. He kicked her leg gently as he spoke. Lothíriel lifted her chin, grey eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?" she inquired with what little dignity she could salvage, given her state. The other man smirked and looked at her.
"You have no leverage with which to ask questions, my lady," he said, his Rohirric far better than his companion's.
"You have kept me alive for a reason," she countered with a frown. The larger man reached down and hauled her to her feet, which were unsteady in their captivity. He had to hold her up, which made her scowl with displeasure. Elfhelm protested, trying to kick out with his equally bound legs, which got him a threatening glare from both men.
"You know who we are, Gondorian Queen," the larger man hissed in his faltering Rohirric. His breath smelled of meat and sweat as he leaned her close to him. "We are Dunlendings, the bane of your husband-king. Your questions are pointless."
"Then I assume you know who I am, or I wouldn't be alive." Lothíriel shocked herself with her audacity. She had no idea where this defiant nature was coming from and frankly, it worried her. Her captors obviously shared her surprise as they snorted and the man who supported her let her go. Without balance, Lothíriel toppled to the ground, sitting up immediately and moving closer to Elfhelm, a meager attempt to protect him.
"Just answer the question," the other man said. Her silence made the large man fidget and he said something in a harsh quick language. His companion quieted him, staring at Lothíriel. Before she could speak, another man came behind them.
"Queen of Rohan, I apologize for the discourtesy of my men," a smooth voice said from the shadow. She could see the vague outline of the voice's owner beyond the flame light. He was of average height, not nearly as bulky as the man who'd held her up. He stepped into the light, crouching down to her. He was young, Éomer's age. His dark shoulder length hair was pulled away from his face, his bright almost sickly blue eyes staring at her. There was coarse, short hair on his chin and upper lip, his jaw dusted with stubble. For his all his manners, he seemed well groomed.
"My name is Beorn," he said with a smile. His teeth were white and straight and she realized that he wasn't all together hideous to look at, unlike his men. He wore dark clothes of heavy material and his hands, she saw, were rough from years of work. He took a knife from his belt and her breath hitched in her throat. He grinned and cut the ropes around her ankles and reached around her to do the same with the bonds on her wrists. He was unbelievably close, his eyes watching her always. His fingers brushed her skin as he move away from her, a smile pulling at his lips.
"There now," he said as if proud of himself. Lothíriel couldn't help but wince as she brought her arms from behind her. Her skin was chaffed from the ropes, but she preferred it to being killed, though that was still a possibility.
"Can I get you something?" Beorn asked with another smile, standing up. Lothíriel stood unsteadily, positioning herself in front of Elfhelm.
"What do you want with me?" she asked hoarsely. Beorn's men shifted uncomfortably behind him, but he never dropped his expression. Returning the knife to his belt, the Dunlending crossed his arms over his broad chest.
"Your help."
----
Éomer felt like kicking something. All day he'd been in council meetings and he felt as though nothing had been accomplished. Aragorn and Faramir sent viceroys each to discuss with the King of Rohan trading possibilities, but both seemed to be missing the larger picture.
"How do you expect Rohan to trade if there are no crops?" the blonde King asked in an exasperated tone. The thin man that represented Ithilien shrank under the younger man's glare and shrugged his ungainly shoulders in response. Éomer turned away from the group and stalked the floor.
"My King has suggested –"
"I know what he's suggested," Éomer snapped at representative from Minas Tirith. "But I can do nothing until spring. My concern is with the people of Rohan and their survival."
"Lord Faramir hoped you might take his offer and allow Ithilien to send grain and seeds."
"We don't need seeds," the King muttered, rubbing his temples. He knew Faramir and Aragorn meant well. "Return to your respective lords and tell them Rohan appreciates their generosity, but we can do nothing until after winter."
"As you wish, my lord," the Ithilien viceroy murmured. "But there is also the matter of the orcs."
He paused, anticipating a sardonic remark from the King, and when none came he continued. "They have been clever enough to avoid detection and there has been no formal encounter. Lord Faramir and King Elessar do not believe they would seek to hassle Gondor. Not now. But Rohan, my lord, is vulnerable."
"You are telling me things I already know," Éomer grumbled impatiently. "What would your lords have me do? Send the Riddermark to destroy them?"
"It was a warning, my lord."
"And a well informed one, I'm sure. Now, Lord Gamling will show you back to your quarters. You have a long ride home tomorrow and I have letters to bear to your lords." He dismissed him, slumping into the seemingly grand chair. The Golden Hall was cold, despite the large fires that burned and the warmth of his clothes. Éomer couldn't shake this feeling of utter helplessness. He knew well his own stubbornness. And while he longed to ask his uncle what to do, he wasn't going to give Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing it.
Éomer sighed, shielding his eyes with one hand and leaning back against the chair. What satisfaction? They were only trying to help. And Rohan needed it. Éomer needed it. But what did a Steward's son, a Shield Maiden, and Ranger know of these things? It had been Theodred who'd been groomed for monarchy, not Éomer. How could Théoden ever think he could handle the weight of this responsibility?
He felt pressure behind his eyes and longed to see his wife again. He'd grown fond of their quiet evenings, both reading, her in bed, him sitting at his desk. He wished to see her dark hair, beautifully luminescent in the low light and grey eyes. Éomer knew tales of the Elf, Mithrellas who came to Gondor and bore the first Prince of Dol Amroth. Her blood coursed through Lothíriel's veins and Éomer knew his wife's beauty was evidence of that lineage.
He hoped she was alright. He found himself wondering if she was uncomfortable on the cold hard ground, or if all those hours in the saddle exhausted her. But he remembered, with certain comfort, that she grew up with three brothers. She was not as delicate as he sometimes thought she was and he liked that. He was attracted to her quiet strength and occasional boldness. Everything about Lothíriel made him want her.
Glancing up, Éomer saw the Lady Ivriel clearing the wine glasses and plates from the table. The King of Rohan stood and walked toward the woman, who curtsied when she noticed his approach. Sitting down in the chair the representative of Ithilien had recently vacated, Éomer indicated for Ivriel to sit as well, which she did with a curious expression.
"Tell me about my wife. Tell me about Lothíriel."
A/N: So it's not direct communication, but he's trying! He wants to love her pretty. Oh, and (being the nerd I am), I did a wee bit of research and it turns out Lothy was twenty-one and Éomer was twenty-nine when they got married. Oh well. We'll pretend she's a little older and he's a little younger. Creative license and all that.