A/N: Warning – vulgar language ahead, but hopefully deliciously angsty for all you Beorn-lovers!
Chapter 33: Interrogation
"You will speak your intentions, Dunlending." Elfhelm's words were decisively clipped as he stood before Beorn, his glare fixated on the prisoner. Beside him Lothíriel trained her expression to grim calmness that belied none of her anxiety over the situation.
The Marshal's reaction to the captor's identity was expected. It took some convincing on the Queen's part to ensure he didn't behead the Dunlending on sight. After a lengthy discussion the man agreed to speak with Beorn and hold off on maiming him until the King returned. For all Lothíriel's persuading, Elfhelm did not attempt any measure of civility as they stared warily at the prisoner. A torch cast wavering shadows across the cell floor, Beorn resting with his back against the wall, blue eyes obstructed by a mop of dark hair. He had yet to acknowledge their presence, which only served to incense the Marshal further.
"I may not have permission to kill you, wretch, but I do not expect the King will be displeased if you are without an ear," the man barked while taking a step toward the barred door. Lothíriel remained silent, hoping Beorn would speak up before Elfhelm made good on his threat. Although she'd shared his information with the Marshal it would be in Beorn's best interests to corroborate her story. Truthfully she had no desire to witness this discourse but royal duty and concern for Elfhelm's wrath kept her in place. She had never seen the man so livid, though she could hardly blame him. A part of her was equally embittered by Beorn's presence and demeanor.
"Open the door," came Elfhelm's brusque response to the Dunlending's silence. With a jingle of keys a guard hopped to action, pulling the creaking door aside enough for the Marshal to pass through. Though he was still chained Beorn was not without some defenses and as such a soldier accompanied Elfhelm, his hand trained on a sword. Standing several feet from the shadowed prisoner the Rohirric man made a snort of displeasure.
"Perhaps the loss of an appendage will loosen your tongue."
"A pity you do not possess the compassion of your Queen." His voice cut through the evening with unexpected clarity. After making his statement Beorn raised his eyes to stare with wolfish menace at the Marshal. "You strike first and ask later."
"The same could be said for you," Elfhelm retorted, his tone suggesting he wasn't nearly as surprised by the Dunlending's comment as Lothíriel. Beorn's blue gaze shifted from the Marshal to the Queen, his expression softening only slightly.
"Did your Queen not relay the subject of our conversation to you, horselord?" he asked without bothering to look at Elfhelm.
"She did and I am here for further explanation. Her Majesty does not need the burden of your presence on her mind."
"And yet she came to patch me up of her own volition."
"You are here for a purpose," Elfhelm reminded him threateningly, taking a step toward Beorn to block his view of the Queen. "By whom were you contacted?"
"I'm not your dog to be beaten into submission," Beorn hissed his voice dangerously low, eyes narrowed. "I am here to seek your King's assistance, not to be interrogated by a horse-fucking simpleton."
The guard at Elfhelm's side moved before Beorn completed his response, a swift kick to the man's ribcage doubling him over against the iron fetters. He rasped heavily as the assailant stepped back. Lothíriel steeled herself not to look away in repugnance, her expression faltering for but a moment. Violence was not something she could watch idly but it was not her place to reprimand the man. She hoped Beorn would cease his caustic obstinacy and just explain himself. But Lothíriel was no fool to this man's demeanor.
Heaving a single bitter cough, the Dunlending raised his eyes to Elfhelm and she could see the irate fire burning behind his glare. She had no doubt Elfhelm returned the glower with equal intensity. If Beorn wasn't careful he'd end up dying from the wounds inflicted by an infuriated Marshal before he ever saw Éomer.
"Do not speak to me of what you are," Elfhelm replied with measured scorn in his voice. "For I have witnessed the type of man you are, Beorn. And you will not arouse my sympathies after the atrocities you wrought upon Rohan's people."
"Always the victim," the Dunlending rasped, his breathing subdued and expression hostile. "Never considering the other side."
"Other side?" Lothíriel flinched as the Marshal cried out incredulously, the growl in his voice causing a rumbling echo about the narrow cell. "There is no other side to your thoughtless violence!"
"You dare not talk to me of violence. What of the burning of the eastern villages?" Beorn's tone adopted an equally brutal quality as he snarled out a response. "Your men devastated a Dunlending camp of women and children! And you think to reproach me with tales of Rohan's misfortune while my people struggle to scrape out a living in the slovenly furrows of this land. I was mistaken to think I could seek an alliance with your kind. For all your finery and gold, you wallow in the shit of your pigs and horses like vermin –"
His words were drowned by the drawing of blades, Beorn's voice quickly succumbing to violent coughing and choking as two guards beat him into silence. Lothíriel could not manage to stay composed with this manner of brutality, her stomach churning at Beorn's distressing groans. Turning from the scene she held a hand to her mouth, hoping to overcome the nausea roiling in the pit of her stomach. She barely noticed an arm escorting her from the prison and into the night air. Once she was under control and her breathing steady the Queen closed her eyes. She was not naïve to the interrogations of soldiers but never had she been present at one so brutal.
It was evident neither Beorn nor Elfhelm would see eye to eye. Both were deeply embroiled in their own view of the past – so much so that any new threat to both Rohan and Dunlendings could not give them pause. She wasn't sure even Éomer could get beyond his hatred and disgust to distinguish the danger. She'd never seen Elfhelm, who'd always appeared jovial and level-headed to her, so blinded and violent. But she reminded herself grimly that he was a warrior, just like her husband. And he'd moved up the ranks to attain an honorable position among the Rohirric elite. It was not simply his sense of humor and equable nature that got him there.
"I am sorry, Lothíriel Queen." Elfhelm's voice was soft and contrite behind her. She turned to face him after composing herself. The anger had left his visage, though his complexion was warm from the temper he'd unleashed. "I should not have allowed myself to act so rashly."
"It is alright."
"May I accompany you back to Meduseld?" Lothíriel nodded as the rest of the guards filed out of the prison and the door was secured. They began a slow walk up the hill, Elfhelm's gaze trained on the ground. Light from the torches lit their way as the Queen voiced a pressing question.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes," he answered haltingly with a glance to her. She couldn't tell if embarrassment or guilt flashed within his dark eyes but he offered her a slight shrug nonetheless. "Perhaps it would be best to wait for Éomer King to return before we interrogate him further. He has the uncanny ability to inspire fury."
"That could be days," she replied with uncertainty. "If what he told me is true should there be some preventative measures?"
"How can we be assured he is here in earnest? Long have his ilk sought to ruin us."
"I cannot imagine a man as proud as he would allow this amount of humiliation just to plant false information."
"I am not Rohan's King so I cannot pass final judgment on him," Elfhelm remarked with a note of bitterness. "I cannot guess the man he is, my lady, for he seems no tamer than a wild beast. No doubt he'd bite off his own hand to escape."
"But he came here of his own choice," she pushed, hoping to encourage him to think beyond the prejudice that pervaded both sides. Elfhelm stopped just short of the door to regard her with a curious gaze.
"What would you have me do, my lady?"
"Look into his claims. Gather what information we can before the King returns so we can present a reasonable answer for Beorn's statements. If it is evident that he is conjuring this tale then let Éomer deal with him as he may. But if what he says is true then should we not prepare ourselves?"
"My lady I respect your insight and intellect. But there is a deep-seated hatred between our people that I do not think you realize. You are astute to suggest further inquiry and I shall make sure it happens but there is more to this than you see. And there are many obstacles to navigate if we were to even considering allying ourselves with the Dunlendings. It could prove disastrous."
Lothíriel sighed with a slow nod, her expression crestfallen. Here she was ready to champion her theory and ride into battle against the unknown enemy without any foresight into the matter. She'd been so dogged about the situation that it took a moment before Elfhelm's gentle criticism gave her pause to consider her words. This was an affair for warlords and captains, not Queens.
"I am not on a war campaign," she murmured with a frown as the door to Meduseld opened for them. They passed through the entry and stood in the long Hall opposite one another. "You understand this problem better than I, Elfhelm and I am sorry for my imprudent remarks."
"My Queen, Rohan maintains a legacy of wise and fair sovereigns. You showed your mettle tonight and Éomer will be glad to hear of your compassion and forethought."
"Thank you."
"What would you have me do with the prisoner? I do not suppose he'd be willing to divulge his secrets to me now, the dog."
"I will tend to his injuries tomorrow," she replied with a thoughtful frown. "Perhaps he will reveal more information when his wounds are cared for."
"I realize I cannot convince you not to look after him but your husband would never forgive me if I did not solicit you to bring a guard."
"I have no intention of seeing him alone," Lothíriel assured the man with a kind smile. Elfhelm returned it with one of his familiar grins, an expression that seemed so vastly detached from the man he was in the jail. With a deep bow the Marshal caught her gaze with a final nod.
"May your patience be rewarded, Majesty. I bid you goodnight."