A/N: This chapter isn't the best, but I think it does its duty. Just a heads up, the writing in this chapter may not be my best. I just got home for a long shift at work, but I HAD to write this. Enjoy!
Chapter 28: Undone
Éomer shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, the sky above them grey and bleak. They'd spent the first night in the stronghold of Dunharrow, the selfsame location his uncle had used to muster his forces before they marched to Minas Tirith. And Théoden's demise. The narrow valley held a clear memory, still so recent for the young King he could not help but recall the sight of tents dotting landscape.
The present company of men set forth before dawn broke on the road through the White Mountains, which would take them through the once forbidden Path of the Dead – a place Éomer wouldn't have dreamed of crossing before the War. Now all that remained was a cavernous tunnel beneath the mountain range ending in the Blackroot Vale, a valley of Gondor. From there it would be a lengthy ride east through Lamedon and Lebennin before they reached the Seat of the King. This leg of the journey, though short, seemed infinitely more perilous than trekking the highlands of Gondor's fiefdoms. Even within his company there was apprehension in crossing the Path of the Dead, a dread that existed in the hearts of Gondorian and Rohirrim men alike since the Second Age. And although Aragorn had released those that haunted the Path there was a lingering restlessness about the small party.
For his part Éomer maintained a confident visage, leading his group through the winding road cutting through the mountains. Firefoot seemed equally unperturbed by the undead forces who once claimed this pass. There was nothing to fear as far as he was concerned and this path was once a widely traveled passage between Rohan and Gondor. Urging the mearas into a trot, he encouraged his men to pick up their speed (as well as their spirits). Grey surrounded them on all sides, the scraggly edges of the mountains a darker shade than the spring sky overhead. What little vegetation survived in this alien land clustered near the base of stone walls. The horses did not appear all too enthusiastic to file through the narrow passage, tail-swishing and head tossing frequent.
"Who'd think the living would be traversing this pass," Gamling intoned quietly beside Éomer. The older man's helmet, tied to the rear of his saddle, bumped against Firefoot's flank as Gamling's mare sidestepped a crater in the path. With a sidelong glance to the warrior, Éomer took pause to observe him. He was so used to seeing the man who'd served his uncle for a lifetime that he rarely appreciated Gamling's age. Despite his sardonic, lighthearted persona he was getting on his years. Realizing that he'd likely served the Rohirric Kings beyond his call of duty, Éomer offered him a grin.
"Not I, certainly. But perhaps, old friend, this will be your last arduous journey on a King's behalf."
Gamling looked to him with raised eyebrows and Éomer feared he'd offended the battle-hardened soldier. But the older man chuckled after a moment of silence, nodding his head in agreement as his laughter echoed through the Pass. The pair fell quiet as they continue along the stone road, the sounds of hooves falling like the steady beat of raindrops. Éomer wished to get beyond the majority of the Path of the Dead before they established camp for the night. Perhaps, if they made good time, they could make it to Blackroot Vale before nightfall.
It was late afternoon when they paused for a break in the journey to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. The path had widened significantly, enough to accommodate four riders abreast comfortably. It seemed a decent location for a short stop, though there was something ominous about the place. The precipice of the mountains rose into the clouds, the jagged edges of the cliff faces staring down at them and giving the Path some dimension. It also offered protection to anyone tracking or ambushing the party. The soldier in Éomer told him to be wary of this place. If they could not make it to Blackroot Vale they would have to take cover beneath the rocky outcroppings – a prospect he did not wish to entertain.
Once they'd taken a quick moment of respite, the men mounted up, Éomer once again in the lead. As he stepped into the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle he caught the glance of Gamling. A worried if not suspicious expression had etched itself into the warrior's face, giving some credence to the King's feeling of uneasiness. He nodded his concurrence on the disquiet this place reeked of. Of course the most foreboding of threats, the Dead Army, was long since gone. But that didn't mean there weren't other evils prowling the caves and hidden paths of the White Mountains. Éomer gave the signal to move out, his eyes trained on the shadows lurking above them.
"Gárulf, ready your bow," Gamling whispered to the solider as they rode on. Though it was a precaution, something about the old warrior's demeanor indicated to Éomer they must be on edge. No sooner had Gárulf notched an arrow to the string did a man in the back of the company cry out. Whipping around, Éomer sought the owner of the pained yelp, a young man leaning over his horse's neck, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Éomer's sword was already claimed by a swift hand as Gamling called out in Rohirric:
"We're ambushed!"
-o-
Lothíriel sat in the Golden Hall, book in hand, accompanied by the King's great wolfhounds. Normally the large beasts spent their nights in stable but the Queen had become fond of their company, especially in her husband's absence. This night they lay at her feet as she reclined in a chair near the hearth, a low fire crackling against the spring chill. Unable to sleep Lothíriel vacated her lonely bedchambers for the warmth of the Hall some hours prior.
She'd lost track of the time, having become so engrossed in the tale within her book that she barely noticed the occasional servant and guard checking on her. The two wolfhounds snoozed contentedly below her, clearly grateful of their mistress' affections. Dressed in a burgundy robe, beige night dress and calf-length sheepskin boots to keep her feet warm, the woman looked the perfect image of a lounging Queen. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a dark braid; shorter wispy strands avoided the plait and framed her pale face, her fingers occasionally reaching up to secure the errant locks behind an ear until they escaped once more. This was a far more suitable alternative to sleepless hours in a cold bed until exhaustion took over. Her husband's absence seemed more bearable when she could lose herself in a book.
The first night of the King's journey she'd found herself unable to slumber so she took up a book and relocated to the Great Hall. With equal measures of surprise and concern the attendants of the royal couple inquired after her health and welfare given the late hour. She assured them she was perfectly alright, this habit of reading late into the night stemming from childhood. Indeed, as a young girl she would sneak out of bed and bee-line to the vast Dol Amroth library in search of a new tale. Once an interesting story was in her hands, young Lothíriel made herself comfortable in a spot she could read and often didn't leave until she was woken by her brothers or maids in the morning.
After the first night of this practice, the household didn't seemed bothered when the Queen departed her chamber late in the evening of the second night, book in hand. She permitted the night guard at the stables to let the two wolfhounds in and they immediately took a seat at her chair, falling asleep in the heat of the fire without much prompting. She liked having the dogs near her as they reminded her of Imrahil's pair of sight hounds from home, silent (albeit sleepy) guardians. She'd lost track of the hours she'd been sitting there, her eyes passing over each word with a hunger, the tale unfolding before her without distraction.
Lothíriel barely heard the sound of approaching feet until they were almost ten paces from her, their sound breaking her concentration. Looking up from her book she was met with the trained visage of Haleth, Doorward of Edoras and two soldiers. Raised eyebrows met the men as she sat up straight, awaiting Haleth's briefing.
"Hail Lothíriel Queen," he greeted, voice tinged with uneasiness. She nodded for him to continue, maintaining a steady gaze despite the fear growing in her stomach. Had something happened to Éomer? "Forgive this intrusion at such an hour but I must bear you news."
"What has happened?" Lothíriel asked with a note of apprehension. She stood slowly, the lengths of burgundy fabric falling in rivers to cover her nightdress. It was a magnificently made garment that, when secured at the waist with ties, looked more like a dress than a robe, allowing her both modesty and warmth. The rich thread of the robe caught the fire's flickering light as the Queen moved to stand. The dogs at her feet had been roused long before her, one already standing at her side, the other gazing intently at the Doorward, tail thumping on the stone.
"Lord Leod, Marshal of the West-mark, has brought grave tidings, Majesty. He would seek council with you."
A lump began to grow in Lothíriel's throat as she nodded, following behind Haleth and his men. They quitted the Hall and followed a corridor into the meeting hall, footsteps falling monotonously. Wall sconces lit the smaller room, chairs still arranged from the previous convergence of King's advisers. Standing near the tapestry of Brego was a very tired and muddy-splattered Leod, a bow for the Queen occurring before she could address him. He must've ridden through the night to bring her this news.
"What tidings do you bring so late, Marshal?" Lothíriel inquired, hoping to keep the anxiety from her voice. For all she knew, this could have nothing to do with Éomer, though the pit in her stomach suggested otherwise.
"Majesty, my men were performing routine patrol of the Westfold when they came upon Dunlendings raiding Derin. The village itself was unoccupied, the herders moving along the fields to follow their horses. The company of men was small and unprepared. After a minor altercation, a Dunlending came into our custody. They have been keeping to the Mountains it seem. The prisoner has been secured in a cell."
"Is he of any importance among them?" the Queen asked almost as an afterthought, relief washing through her. Éomer was not the cause of this untoward meeting. The Marshal was shaking his head, indicating that they make their way to the location of the captive. Lothíriel followed with Haleth and guards in tow. She wasn't sure if it was appropriate for the Queen to deal with prisoners, but she was standing in for Éomer and the men must've felt it was important enough to alert her without tarry. She tried to focus on Leod's explanation of the detainee, who he believed to be an accomplice of a Dunlending leader. The man was abandoned by his kinsmen when it was clear the Rohirrim would prevail so he must not have had much standing with the Dunlending band.
"He's not much to look at, poor wretch," Leod put in as they exited Meduseld from the back.
Edoras was not known for its prison; in fact Lothíriel wasn't even aware the city had one until a few months ago. It was a narrow structure sitting on the downward slope of the hill, poorly lit but well guarded. It mostly housed the town's ne'er-do-wells and the occasional offender of the King but of late it'd been an empty building. Wrapping the robe further around herself and securing it with the tie, Lothíriel nodded her acquiescence when inquired if she wished to see the prisoner. Part of her hoped it was not the young Eofor, whose existence was likely not any easier, if he'd survived this long.
As they neared the dark building, Lothíriel realized this was a strong advantage that Éomer would want to capitalize on. Their prisoner could give Rohan information about the Dunlendings' movements and perhaps some insight into the rumors whispered in the Wold. It was a stroke of luck that Leod's men managed to take captive a Dunlending, even if he was of no political importance.
"You and your men have done fine work," she commended the Marshal quietly as they waited for door to be opened. Already two guards flanked the entrance, a candlelit glow emanating from within. Leod offered an appreciative bow as the door opened for them. Stepping into the prison, Lothíriel was met with a narrow vestibule facing three iron-gated cells. Leod indicated that the furthest cell from the door held the prisoner, his eyes on the Queen. It seemed they were all waiting to see what she might do or say.
Stepping forward and summoning as much fortitude as she could, Lothíriel nodded to the guard who raised the candle sending shadows skittering across the dirt floor. The small cell was bathed in low light, the captive sitting with his back against the stone wall, head bowed in supplication. When the light touched his dark hair and familiar frame, Lothíriel's heart sank. To her deep regret the younger brother, Eofor, had become a prisoner in her husband's city. This did not bode well for the boy, especially since it was she who would have to face him first. But when the Dunlending raised his head Lothíriel's breath hitched in her throat as his cornflower eyes met hers, the whisper falling unbidden from her lips.
"Beorn."