Chapter 30: The Games We Play
Surely this was some trick of the light for Beorn would never allow himself to be left behind while his men fled. Her eyes strained in the darkness to search for the handless arm to verify her mistake but the familiarity of his face and those brilliantly blue eyes did not lie. Blue eyes that bore into her with a luminosity that didn't seem entirely natural. Though his visage revealed no indication of recognition his gaze betrayed him, watching her with unabashed interest. He sat with knees drawn up, back straight against the stone wall. His hands were manacled behind his back, an iron encircling one foot and connected by a chain to the wall. The stubble that had dusted his chin and jaw during their previous encounter had grown into a short beard, several shades lighter than his hair. A jagged cut traced his length of his right cheekbone and his bottom lip appeared split.
"He's a bit rough for wear," Marshal Leod intoned in Rohirric, Lothíriel's verbal identification of the man clearly unheard by her party. "Not sure how much he'll know. Two guards will remain here on watch at all times."
"Lord Elfhelm will wish to speak to him in the King's stead," Haleth put in from behind them. She'd almost forgotten he'd accompanied them. The Marshal nodded his agreement before taking a quick glance at the Queen.
"Majesty, I realize this might be somewhat unsavory for you. Perhaps I should escort you - "
"No," she answered, pulling her eyes from the silent Beorn. "I am alright. It is fortunate your men came upon him. He may be able to answer for the rumors spread across Rohan."
"More likely he'll spit at your feet, my Queen," Haleth murmured before casting a glower at the Dunlending. "Look at him, sitting there like a caged beast."
Lothíriel said nothing, her attention turned from the prisoner so she would not have to stare into his unrelenting gaze. Of all the Dunlendings marauding around Rohan it seemed particularly peculiar that Beorn's company would be discovered, much less that the man himself would become a prisoner. She wasn't sure what to make of his all too curious presence but knew she must interrogate him without raising eyebrows. Realizing the men were waiting for her to make a decision the Queen cleared her throat and chanced a glance at the Dunlending. He hadn't moved nor made any indication he was concerned about his present situation.
"It is too late for questioning," she stated decisively. "What information he possesses he will likely not give up tonight. I will return in the morning and we may begin the matter of interrogation."
The men dipped their heads respectively and began to file out, but not without leaving strict orders to the two guards remaining within to keep a wary eye on the prisoner. Once they'd vacated the building the Marshal turned to address Lothíriel as they made their way back to Meduseld.
"In circumstances such as these the King and his men would question the Dunlending," he announced, his breath coming in smoky wisps. "They might have to resort to rather unpleasant methods of interrogations, if you understand my meaning."
"I do," she affirmed as they walked, her eyes on the ground ahead. "Elfhelm and I will discuss how we shall proceed. I realize this is a responsibility of the King, but our Lord is not here. And I wish to do right by him."
"As you wish, my lady." Lothíriel wasn't sure if she detected a note of skepticism in the warrior's voice but she refrained from remarking upon it. Truthfully she wasn't entirely confident she could perform an interrogation, especially given the relationship between herself and the prisoner. Obviously no one but herself and Elfhelm knew the identity of the captive, which did not make things any easier. Once Elfhelm saw the man he'd surely recognize him and use all manner of loathsome techniques to extract answers. Lothíriel made the immediate decision she did not wish to be present for that.
She bid the men goodnight, retiring to her chambers and bringing the wolfhounds with her. She was glad her windows did not face the south for she'd have a direct view of the prison. Questions swirled tirelessly in her mind, divided between her present state of affairs and concern for her husband's safety. He and his retinue still had a long road of them and would be in Gondor for some time before making the lengthy ride home. She wondered what their council would discuss and if Éomer would be hounded (kindly) by King Elessar and others for not accepting Gondor's assistance. She hoped for the sake of her husband's ire no one would broach the subject. As much as she trusted he could keep his anger in check such a confrontation would leave a bitter taste in his mouth for the duration of his stay in the White City.
Crawling into the cold bed and patting the empty mattress beside her, she waited for both great dogs to join her. Éomer would not be pleased to have two outdoor hounds sleeping on his bed but she would make sure the linens were changed before he arrived. Lothíriel wasn't fond of sleeping alone in the chamber and, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, having the dogs there gave her some level of security. She knew Meduseld was well guarded and no harm would come to her people but without her husband and the fear of another miscarriage the Queen allowed herself to indulge in this. The dogs settled comfortably on the large bed, tails wagging appreciatively. They were asleep almost immediately, gentle canine snores lulling her to sleep soon after.
Lothíriel slept later than she intended, meaning to be up by dawn to discuss the Dunlending with Elfhelm. But it was three hours after sunrise when she finally roused, the sound of the wolfhounds nails clicking against the stone bringing her from sleep. Cursing herself for staying up so late the night before, she pulled herself from the bed and yawned widely. Sitting at the edge of the bed she redressed her hair into a loose braid and pinned it into a coronet. After washing her face and changing into a shift the Queen admitted a maid to assist her in securing the ties of her dress. She dressed warmly today, aware of the challenges before her in dealing with Beorn. Letting the dogs out, Lothíriel made her way to the Great Hall, greeted by an equally tired Haleth.
"Good morning, my Queen," he greeted in a low bow. She nodded to him as she took her seat, porridge and fruit set before her. She indicated for him to take a seat at the table as well, gesturing for a plate of bread and cheese for the Doorward of Edoras.
"And to you, Master Haleth. Is Lord Elfhelm about?"
"I am sorry, Majesty, but Lord Elfhelm took his leave an hour prior. His éored departed for Helms Deep for a routine inspection."
"Does he know of the prisoner?" she inquired between apple bites. She was surprised the Marshal had left without interrogating Beorn.
"He does," Haleth returned, declining the food. "He did not visit the captive himself but he will return in the evening to begin interrogations."
At first Lothíriel found this somewhat dubious. If Elfhelm was aware Beorn was under their command, why would he leave? But it dawned on her none of the Rohirrim knew who the captive was. To them he was just another Dunlending and almost certainly informed the Marshal thusly. Elfhelm probably saw no reason to stay for questioning when he could just as easily come back after he finished his daily agenda. What a surprise he would receive upon his return to Edoras.
"My Queen?" Lothíriel glanced at the Doorward, eyebrows raised. "Would you have us wait until Lord Elfhelm arrived before the prisoner is examined?"
"No," she shook her head slowly and set the mug down. "I will see him. At least we might determine what his disposition is."
The Door ward said nothing but canted his head in agreement. Lothíriel could see from the expression he wore that he wasn't expecting her to do much with the prisoner. Honestly, she wasn't anticipating getting very far. She didn't want Beorn to make his identity known to the Rohirrim until Elfhelm arrived. But she couldn't leave him sitting there without getting answers. Besides, if Éomer were here he would conduct an interrogation with or without the Marshal. Upon finishing her breakfast, the Queen departed the hall and donned an intricately stitched cloak of forest green to keep her warm. After taking care of a few domestic matters Lothíriel alerted Haleth and the head of staff that she was going to see the Dunlending. She brought a guard with her and made her way behind the Meduseld.
The jail looked a lot less drab in the morning light, the thatched roof and narrow construction hardly indicated a prison. It was set back some, the path to the building littered with rocks and newly sprouted grass. Greeting the two soldiers who'd spent the night watching the captive, the Queen went inside. Her own guard followed her in but at her command lingered near the door, a hand on his sword. It was significantly colder in the prison than it was in Meduseld, the lack of a hearth meant the only warmth came from the insulation of the building. Sitting as he had been the night before, the Dunlending barely raised his eyes to look at the Queen. Although he was bound she stood several paces from the bars of his cell, unsure what action (if any) he might take.
"Looting an unoccupied village does not seem an act of necessity," she surmised with an even tone. She waited patiently for a response, though Beorn scarcely acknowledged her presence, head hung as he slumped slightly against the pressure of his bonds. When he said nothing she resolved to vex him into speaking. "Was it your intention to be caught?"
The Dunlending snorted petulantly, her question affecting him enough that he shifted slightly, pulling his head up to meet her gaze. His cerulean eyes glared at her with an intensity that shocked her. Their color was both incandescent and ill. Aside from the jagged abrasion to his cheek, Beorn suffered a thin gash to his forehead that she hadn't seen before, the blood on his lips dried since the night before. His tunic was sullied with dirt and blood, whose blood it was remained unknown. She observed him with what she hoped appeared to be cool appraisal. She didn't wish to inform anyone that this was the man who'd abducted Elfhelm and herself and killed her men. Not until she had questions of her own answered.
"It must've been," she continued with her prodding intending to aggravate him further. "My men said you were abandoned by your company and didn't put up much of a fight." A stretch, but she didn't care. Beorn stared icily at her but she could tell he was catching on to her game. "As if you were asking to be captured."
"And if that was my intention?" his voice was coarse and mocking as leaned back against his bound hands to look at her fully. Lothíriel resisted the urge to back away, lifting her chin and clasping her hands before her hips.
"There must be some reason for it," she answered steadily. "Only a fool comes to his enemy without intention."
"Perhaps I am a fool."
"Perhaps," she agreed, not allowing him to manipulate the conversation. "But I would like to believe you are here with an objective in mind. Surrender of your people and agreement that the violence will end?"
He grunted his disapproval and leaned his head back against the wall, dark matted hair falling away from his face. She waited with baited breath, unsure how this complicated man might react. She knew very well he was not about to surrender to Éomer or any Rohirrim but his capture was not a trifle. He was very obviously the leader of his band.
"To what end, Horsequeen?" he mumbled gloomily. "Your men will descend upon this shit of a prison and beat the answers from me or leave me to die. Even if by some miracle of the Valar I escape, you know as well as I these wounds will fester and infect my blood. I am a dead man."
This was not the Beorn she'd encountered in the highlands of Rohan. This was not the man who was so unflappable in his distinction as leader and in complete control of his environment. Even when things turned bad he never once gave up the sense of nonchalant power. He was no longer in his element but there was something degraded about him. Something that gave Lothíriel pause in her questioning. When she didn't speak the Dunlending forced his head upright with some labor, his eyes finding hers once more.
"Where is your King?"
"Away," she answered with stupid honesty. Taking a moment to regain a confident tone, the Queen swallowed before continuing. "His Marshals and I act in his stead."
"What questions would you have me answer," Beorn inquired with ingenuous geniality as he leveled his gaze, the hint of his old self glinting in narrowed eyes.
"Why you are here."
"Your men bested me. Is that not clear to you, Queen of Rohan?"
"You do not appear a man easily bested."
"And what would you know of the man I appear to be?"
Curse him, she thought crossly. He was turning her interrogation upon her. He wasn't going to answer her questions until she played by his rules. It would be over when Elfhelm returned and likely sentenced him to a torturous death. There'd be no answering her less pertinent queries, though she found she desperately wished he would tell her.
"Very well," she conceded tightly, stepping closer to the cell. "I know enough of your character to know you would not be here without a significant struggle resulting in the death of Rohirrim and Dunlending, Beorn."
Now she felt like the fool for letting him get to her but she wanted answers before he was silenced by her husband's men. He's punishment was death, undoubtedly. The guard behind her hadn't made a sound but she imagined his interest (or suspicion) was piqued by her identification. Beorn was not a Rohirric name to her knowledge and the wry smile it elicited from the Dunlending made her insides turn.
"If you tend to my injuries, I will tell you what you wish to know, my lady."
"I will send for a healer to -"
"No," he stopped her with a brusque rebuff, directing a jerk of the head toward her. "You."
"Surely you cannot expect me to step into your cell and treat your wounds as if you were an ailing calf!"
Once again, Beorn had managed to shock her with the superciliousness of his demands and he knew it. She didn't even wish to know what the guard was thinking now. She glared at the captive, unable to hide her incredulity at his ridiculous request.
"I will either die by your husband's hand or from these cuts. I'd prefer to do what I can about the latter, since there is no calling off your King's rabid ire. It is up to you, Horsequeen. You held me to my word once and I did not disappoint."
Lothíriel stared at him with unmasked suspicion and disquiet. She hadn't held him to his word - she'd had no choice. Of course, she didn't have to know these things. She wanted to. She wanted to know what'd become of Eofor, Beorn's unfortunate brother. And she wished to know why his men were plundering empty villages and haunting Rohan without any direction to their pillaging. Were they the ones who sparked the rumor that the Dunlendings were moving on? Was it true? And while, for the love of Adrahil, did Beorn simply allow himself to end up captured while his men fled?
But in the grand scheme of things these curiosities did not seem worth the humiliation of helping a Dunlending just to soothe his pride. With a frown, the Queen of Rohan stared at the man before breathing an irritated sigh. Turning on her heel she left the prisoner without a single glance behind her, barely hearing Beorn's satisfied galling snigger as she passed the threshold, the door closing firmly in her wake.
A/N: Oh that Beorn! He's such a charmer! More from him soon. Thoughts on this chapter? Should Lothy help the poor Dunlending?
Also, Adrahil was the first Prince of Dol Amroth so I thought it fitting that he be referenced by his successors the way Bema is by Rohirrim.