Chapter 6
Aldburg, April the 19th, 3018
Lothíriel closed the door behind her and after a quick glance at the sky, wrapped a scarf around her head and hurried up the street: a light drizzle had settled on the city since the early morning, but the days were getting longer and the arrival of spring was definitely in the air.
Round the corner, she crossed her way with the young guard who was always doing the night shift at the hall's entrance. He was about her same age, with a smile always on his face: "Good morning, my Lady".
"Morning Eofor".
"Are you coming from Runhild's house? How is she doing?".
"Much better. A couple more days' rest and she'll be as good as new", she reassured him, trying her best to keep a straight face: the boy had an obvious crush on her handmaid but alas, she did not seem to care in the slightest about him.
"That's great news!", he declared with a beaming smile before heading towards the stables.
Lothíriel chuckled at his hopeless optimism: Eofor was a fine boy but she just could not see him ever getting a chance with Runhild. Actually, she could not see anybody ever getting a chance with her for despite having had a few dalliances, her maid simply did not seem to care about the idea of settling down with anybody. Not yet at least.
The rain slowly eased and by the time she was in sight of the hall, Lothíriel was finally able to get rid of her scarf and better enjoy her morning stroll through Aldburg's busy streets. The Gondorian merchants whose arrival had caused such a sensation the previous week, had returned to the city on the day before and while Lothíriel ensured that she walked wide around the stall of the one who had tried to flirt her, she gladly stopped by Harn's one: "Good morning, Princess", the man greeted her with a smile as he folded some fabrics and loaded them into his cart.
"Good morning, Harn. Making ready to leave?".
"Yes, I'm afraid our time in Rohan has come to an end. I'd have gladly stayed a bit longer but alas, the others are eager to return to Minas Tirith".
"Why is that?".
"Trading has been profitable, but not equally so: I sold most of what I had brought with me and secured a few months' worth of trading, but others haven't been so lucky and only barely managed to get even with the expenses of travelling this far".
"That's too bad. Does that mean we won't see you again?", Lothíriel inquired him: aside from Runhild's bracelet she hadn't bought anything else but still, the merchants' arrival had felt like a breath of fresh air and she'd be disappointed to see them gone for good.
"I don't know, Princess. I'd like to return but if I can't find other merchants willing to come with me, I won't be making the journey all by my own".
"Maybe next time you could make a stop at the Hornburg. I've been told the city is big enough and what is more, the Prince is stationed there: surely it must offer good trading opportunities".
Harn grew serious, the dimples on his full cheeks quickly vanishing: "Actually, we wanted to go there as well. But when we reached Edoras, we were…how can I put it…strongly advised to rethink our plan".
Lothíriel frowned: "Why is that?".
"They say the way can be dangerous and besides, we heard rumours of the city being overcrowded with refugees and short on food supplies. People with hardly enough food to put on their plate are highly unlikely to spend money on fancy clothing and jewelleries".
Lothíriel clasped her hands together and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Those were things she should have probably known but truth to be told, she wouldn't even be able to place the Hornburg on a map: "Do you expect to encounter troubles going back home?".
"I hope not! Our way here was as smooth as silk: we hired four guards just in case, but the most dangerous thing we encountered was a rabid dog! Whatever troubles are brewing in Rohan, the Great West Road appears to be safe".
"That's good. When will you leave?".
"Around noon today. Even if the road is safe, we'd still rather be spending the night in a settlement than in the wilderness. There's a village half-day from here: we'll stop there and continue our journey tomorrow early morning".
"Sounds like a good plan", she agreed before a loud noise of crashing wood had them both snapping around.
"What are they doing?", Harn asked as he stared at the charred remains of an abandoned building being finally torn down.
"Last winter a lightning struck that house and set it on fire. Luckily, it had been abandoned for years and nobody was hurt: Lord Eom… my husband", she corrected herself, "decided they could use the plot to build a new orphanage".
Harn looked incredulous, shocked almost as he stared at her husband clearing the area of the rubble: "And he is doing it…by himself?!".
"No, but when he's in town he likes to get involved", she explained and could perfectly understand the man's bewilderment.
"That's not something you're likely to witness in Gondor: a local ruler rolling up his sleeves and doing the dirty job alongside his men". Then, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he tried to remedy his words: "I did not mean disrespect, Princess. Of course, your father and your uncle…".
"My father and my uncle would never do such thing, I know. A few years back my father ordered the House of Healing of Dol Amroth to be thoroughly renovated: he closely followed the whole project, visited regularly the place, ensured the workers were well paid and had all they needed. He cared deeply, but surely enough I've never seen him hammer in hand, working at their side!".
"Yes, that's what I meant of course!", Harn rushed to agree.
"In Gondor there's a clear distinction between nobility and commoners. Here, boundaries are blurred…".
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?".
Lothíriel thought about it for a moment: "Sometimes is bad. But it's mostly good", she admitted.
Harn smiled and probably trying not to shoot himself in the foot a second time, disappeared behind his cart. He re-emerged a few moments later, holding a pile of scarlet, green and lilac fabrics: "Shall I wrap them for you?".
Lothíriel arched an eyebrow: "Why for me?".
"It's the fabrics you requested: for your summer gowns, you know?".
Lothíriel stared at them, then at the man: "Me?".
"Why, yes! Your friend came by yesterday, asked me to prepare them. Did she not come on your account?".
"My friend? You mean the one with ginger hair?", she asked, though it was improbable that Runhild had found the strength to visit the market: a terrible flue with high fever had forced her in bed since the beginning of the week and her father had watched closely that she did not strain herself.
"No, the taller one. Wilrun I think is her name. She mentioned you needed new dresses and spent a long time going through all the fabrics I had: finally, she settled on these three which, I agree with her, will match perfectly your complexion. She was supposed to pick them up today and you know, blurred boundaries and all, I assumed you came in her place".
"I…yes, yes of course. How silly of me to forget", she lied: she had no idea why Wilrun had claimed the fabrics to be for her, but it was probably for the best to go along with it.
"Sure you don't need any help?".
"Yes, don't worry: I'll take them straight to the hall".
"Alright then: I suppose I shall bid you farewell, Princess".
"Goodbye Harn. Ride safe home and hopefully, we shall meet again".
Harn bowed, more elegantly than one would have thought possible for a man of his size, and took his leave: "Until the next time, Princess".
Holding carefully the fabrics in her arms¸ Lothíriel considered heading for Wilrun's house but immediately changed her mind: the girl lived at the other side of the town and even though the rain had now stopped, she did not wish to try her luck and risk getting the cloths wet and dirty. So instead, she made her way towards the hall and after some struggle to climb the stairs, what with her hands busy and her skirt continuously getting in the way, she finally reached her room. She pushed the handle with her elbow and kicked the door open, only to find herself staring at the last person she wished to see there: "Meregith", she greeted the housekeeper.
The woman observed her sternly and Lothíriel knew what she was about to say even before she opened her mouth: "I see my Lady found the time for some shopping".
"And? Something wrong with it?".
"No, of course not. Though from someone who refuses taking any of the responsibilities that come with her role, decency would dictate to at least avoid spending a fortune in clothes you clearly do not need".
Lothíriel rolled her eyes: she could have told her that it was none of her business; she could have told her that those fabrics were not hers; she could have told her that with only five gowns in her closet, the average Aldburg's maid probably possessed more clothing than her. But it wouldn't have changed a damn thing so instead, she turned around and left the room.
With Runhild sick, Meregith had been taking care of her room in the past few days. A duty that any other maids could have performed but naturally, the housekeeper had not passed on the chance of being more around her than ever: what better opportunity to stick her nose into her business and find everyday something new to complain about?
Ah well, at least Runhild was doing better and would soon be back…
A curse escaped him as a thorn of epic proportions snuck its way under the nail of his thumb. Then, suddenly remembering the little girl who had just brought him lunch, he turned around just to find her staring at him, wide eyed.
"…and that my dear child is something you should never consider saying. Now come, let's go distribute the lunch to the other men", the orphanage's caregiver explained, pulling the little girl away and throwing him a murderous glance at the same time.
"Really, Eomer? Cursing at the presence of a child?", Gram teased him as he passed him the last set of nails.
Holding on a pole for support, Torfrith stretched an arm and held the beam in place: "Just imagine if Éothain had been here: by the end of the day, the girl would have had a richer cursing vocabulary than the three of us together".
"That's why I sent him helping the loggers instead: had he been here, not only the orphans' vocabulary would have been enriched with words they do not need to know, but sure as the day we'd have all been drunk and on our way to the tavern by now!", he explained with a grin as he hammered the plank in place.
"Meaning we now have a bunch of drunk lumberjacks swinging their axes in the woods? I'm not sure how reassuring that is…".
"Nobody – not even Éothain, can mess with the loggers".
"That's somewhat of a disappointment. Would have loved to see him gagged and tied to a tree".
Éomer chuckled and stepped down the ladder: the project for the new orphanage was coming about just fine and if all went according to plan, by the summer solstice the children should be finally able to leave behind that old, crappy building they were living and move to a much more appropriate construction.
By his side, Torfrith looked just as satisfied with their job: "By the way, you never told us how you managed to break the deadlock with the King's Council".
"The merit is not mine: had it been for me, I was ready to ride to Edoras and knock some sense into their heads. Luckily, Éowyn managed to turn the tables and got the King's approval before Grima and the others could do anything".
"I can't believe they opposed so fiercely the construction of an orphanage", Torfrith bitterly admitted. "Even before the fire, this plot had been abandoned for what…ten years? Nobody ever claimed it and then all of a sudden, the moment you decide to make good use of it, they swarm around it like bees on honey".
"At this stage, I don't even think it's about the orphanage".
"Then what is it about?", Torfrith asked and immediately, Éomer bit his tongue: even though he trusted his men with his life, he was also very well aware that the only way for Grima to react to swiftly to his plans was to have an informant in his own city. As such, he could simply not afford anymore to speak so openly about his discontent with the King's Council.
He tried to think of something to say that would move the discussion to more harmless topics, but was saved the effort by the arrival of his friends' daughters: "Good morning, my Lord", Godliss greeted him.
By her side, Trewyn passed her father a luncheon snack and then held one in front of him: "You've all been working since the early morn, so we thought about bringing you something to eat".
Leaning with his back against the fence, Éomer showed the package the orphan had just delivered him: "You shouldn't have bothered: the kitchen already saw that we are all well fed", he declined her offer, taking a bite from his bread.
"Maybe you can keep it for later?", Godliss suggested with a smile that looked sweet enough, but that only managed to further sour his mood.
He stuffed his mouth the rest of his lunch, then collected his hammer: "No, but thank you. Gram, Torfrith, let's get going: I want this side of the groundwork to be finished by today".
Fathers and daughters exchanged a hesitant look and after a moment of embarrassed silence, the girls were left with little choice but leaving. "Is everything alright?", Gram asked him with a frown as they resumed their work.
"Nothing against the two of you, but your daughters should learn some respect", he hissed back in response.
Both Gram and Torfrith looked absolutely clueless: "Why? What have they done?".
Éomer rubbed his face. He had not meant to bring the topic up, but he just couldn't help himself: "Mocking someone in her face is already despicable enough. Doing so in a language you think the person won't understand, is even worse. Last week I invited you for dinner because aside from being riders in my Éored, you are my friends and I respect you. But I expect the same type respect to be extended not only to me and my household, but especially to my wife".
Both men looked visibly abashed: "I'm sorry, Éomer. Whatever they did, please accept my apologies on their behalf: I…we", Torfrith corrected himself glancing towards Gram, "will speak to them".
"Of course", the other man agreed. "Had we noticed something, we would have told them to behave. But we'll ensure they'll do it from now on".
"I hadn't noticed it either, if that can make you feel any better. Gárwine did though".
"I see. I take it your wife understands our language and that when Gárwine mentioned someone being jealous and stupid, he was speaking of our daughters?".
He nodded and didn't even bother justifying Gárwine's words, for they were clearly accurate.
"Can't really fault him for saying so: Godliss and Trewyn always had a soft spot for you and yes, mocking your wife was definitely stupid. We'll see that they apologize to her as well", Gram reassured him but to be honest, Éomer wasn't sure that was a good idea: he had never cared for gossip and rumours, and yet even he knew that his friends' daughters had a reputation for bullying anyone who wasn't part of their closest acquaintances and in fact, it was no surprise there had always been bad blood between them and Runhild, who had a completely different - and much gentler, personality. However, he could hardly tell two proud fathers that their daughters were nothing short of harpies and that he'd rather have them as far as possible from his wife, especially now that he was trying to set things right with her!
"Éomer!", Torfrith suddenly called him, pointing with his arm towards the city's entrance.
He turned just in time to see someone galloping at full speed through the gates: a sure omen of bad news those days. He laid down his tools and signalled Gram and Torfrith to follow him.
They met the rider nearby the hall's entrance, where the man jumped down his saddle and rushed towards them: "Lord Éomer?", he asked staring at Gram.
"That would be me".
"Oh, I-I'm sorry…".
"Don't be. What news do you bring?".
"T'is the Holbeck, milord. T'was attacked and burned to the ground!", the man explained, his voice shaky.
A burned farm was always bad news, yet Éomer allowed himself to feel relieved: "We knew it could happen: I'm glad we had Cenulf and his family to leave the place and move to Caerdydd". However, seeing how the man paled visibly at his words, Éomer started to get a bad feeling: "Because the farm was deserted, am I not right…".
"Edbert, milord".
"Am I not right, Edbert?".
"It was, m-milord. Until last week".
"What does it mean until last week?! I had given a clear order: the place was to be abandoned, the people relocated!".
Erdbert's hands were visibly trembling, sweat trickled down his temples: "Y-yes, milord. But last week a fight broke out between Cenulf and the local ealdorman, after which Cenulf decided to move back to his farm together with his family…".
Éomer grabbed the man by the shirt, their faces now only inches away: "And nobody thought about stopping the fool? Nobody thought about informing me?", he cried and for each word coming out of his mouth, Erdbert seemed to shrink a little further.
"The ealdormen said we could not stop him, said the man is as stubborn as a mule and that if he wanted to go back to his farm, then we had to let him go. Please, milord: I am but a shepherd, I did what I was told to do!".
Torfrith place a hand on his shoulder and Éomer let go of the man, who staggered back and then collapsed on his knees: "Go to the hall and see that you are given a warm meal and a place to stay, Erdbert", he growled, trying to contain his rage.
He needed to thing straight.
"Gram, Torfrith: ready half of my men. Send someone for Éothain and call Gárwine as well: we might need his tracking skills. And send a few men ahead: I want them to ride to Caerdydd and wait there for me. Once we have disposed of those who attacked the farm, someone will have to answer for all of this".
The two men nodded and without any further delay, they were already on their way. As for him, he only quickly glanced at Erdbert, who was still on his knees and shaking like a leave, before heading towards his study. He dressed himself as fast as he could and after a frantic search among the many papers scattered around, he retrieved a map of the area where the Holbeck farm was located: a half a day's ride from Aldburg, the region had little more than a few rolling hills, vast pastures and a stream fed by the melting snow of the White Mountains. The farm itself was known for making some of the best cheese the Eastmark had to offer and for generations, it had belonged to Cenulf's family: the man liked to claim his ancestors could be traced back to the time of Aldor the Old and such was his pride, that it wasn't with a light heart that he had taken the decision to order him and his family to abandon their home. But Orcs' presence in the area had been steadily increasing and to him, it was clearly only a matter of time before they would turn their attention to such an easy, tempting target.
Shortly after Yule he had ridden personally to the farm and together with his men, they had helped Cenulf, his wife and their three sons to move to the closest fortified settlement: Caerdydd. There, he had ensured they – and their animals, had a decent accommodation and could continue producing their famous goat cheese to sustain the family in the months ahead.
To him, the problem had been solved. Sure, he knew Cenulf wasn't happy, but not in a thousand years would have he imagined the man would disobey his orders and move back to his farm, exposing his family to a danger against which they had no defence.
His armour now fully buckled, Éomer took a moment to seat back and calm his nerves, but apparently even that was a luxury he could not afford: "My Lord?", a voice called him and judging by the accent, he already knew what to expect.
He opened the door and found himself staring at the umpteenth Gondorian messenger: "I am Ohtar, my Lord. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth sends me".
Éomer expected him to give him the usual two letters – one for him and one for his wife, but this time the letter was only one, addressed to his name. He dismissed the man and sighed in frustration: he had no time to waste but it could be days before he came back, so he better checked the content of the letter before leaving.
He scrolled quickly through the lines, his anger quickly mounting: now this as well!
He left his study like a fury and headed straight towards his mother's solar, where he found his wife sitting comfortably by the fire, a book in her lap and a cup of tea in her hand: "Is it asking too much that you answer your father every once in a while?", he hissed holding the letter in front of her nose.
Lothíriel stared at him, surprised at first, upset then. She leant back in her chair and sipped on her tea: "Yes", she just said, staring at the fireplace.
"Yes?".
"Yes, it is asking too much. Had I wanted to have any sort of communication with my father, I would have written him long ago. But I'm not interested in anything he has to say", she drily rebutted him while pretending to read her book.
He grabbed it and threw it away: "It's been months since our marriage! How long do you want hold this grudge against him?".
Lothíriel snapped up from her chair and faced him with a stance he had not expected by someone like her: "For as long as I wish! And to be honest this is none of your business, husband".
"It becomes my business the moment two messengers a month ride into my town. It becomes my business the moment twice a month I have to read and answer the concerns of your father, who doesn't even know if his daughter is dead or alive, for she stubbornly refuses to answer any of his letters!".
Lothíriel torn the letter from his hands, crumpled it and then threw it into the fire: "It's a bit too late to be concerned for my well-being. He did not care when he sold me to you like a piece of meat, he should not pretend to care now!".
"You are such a spoiled child…".
"And you are a barbarian with the manners of an orc!", she shrieked back.
"Maybe I really am: less than three months we've been married and already I'm starting to think that even an orc would have made for a better wife than you do!", he yelled to her face and this time she backed off, stared at him wide eyed and then turned around and left the room.
Lothíriel stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her. She paced furiously up and down, tears streaming down her cheeks and feeling such a blind rage that she thought she might have burst any moment.
Wilrun's fabrics were where she had left them, on top of her desk: she grabbed them one by one and tossed them around. Next, she snapped the wooden box where she kept her correspondence and threw it against the wall: it crashed with a bang, the lid came off and rolled under her bed, a dozen letters glided to the ground, one landing on the candle on her nightstand where the fire quickly consumed it. Her hands closed in tight fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms, she kicked the empty chest she had carried with her from Dol Amroth: once, twice, and then again until it bumped against the wall.
How could she be that stupid? How could she ever think she could have a decent relationship with her husband? He was but a brute. And a boor! There was no fixing in their marriage because she could never have anything to do with a man like him and it had been a waste of time to think otherwise!
Feeling like she was burning from the inside, she rushed to the window and opened it: holding tight on the sill, she took a deep breath, then a second one.
I can't go on like this anymore.
Breath in, breath out.
Curse Rohan. Curse Gondor. Curse them all!
She opened her eyes: her hands were shaking, her knees also. She leant on the wall for support and stared out at the city: she had made some good friends there, had even come to like a few things of that place.
But that was not enough to endure it all.
That was not enough to call it home.
Far down, she spotted a small cart passing through the gates and venturing South on the planes: atop was a couple with a young boy. They advanced slowly, their two horses looking more like dray ones, their backs broad and short, their lower legs feathered. She followed them until they had become but an indistinguishable dot on the horizon and then, it struck her.
She closed the window and turn around: that was one crazy plan. So crazy, that it might have just worked!
She searched for a blank paper, fetched quill and inkwell and sat at her desk: To my dear friend Runhild…
Later that afternoon, on plains battered by the wind and with the sun already setting behind the White Mountains, Gárwine looked with some concern at his Marshall.
Éomer looked restless in his saddle: he kept shifting around, sometimes he would glance back to the direction where Aldburg - now long disappeared from sight, stood and then he would rub his face and grip angrily on his reins. Sensing his master's mood, Firefoot looked just as nervous, tossing his head up and down, snorting.
Mindful to keep some distance between their horses, Gárwine approached him: "Are you alright, Éomer?".
"No".
"What's wrong?".
"I'm a moron, that's what's wrong!".
"Why? What happened?".
"Nothing that I can fix now", Éomer growled back, punching angrily his thigh.
"Shall we stop?".
But he leant forward instead, pushing Firefoot to a faster pace: "No. We ride: the sooner I'm back, the better".
Author's notes.
rossiu: a few baby steps forwards, one giant step back!
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: yeah, rather short lived unfortunately!
pzacharatos: you're welcome. And this time, a faster update!
Tibblets: thank you. During such times, I guess we all need some good luck!