Chapter 50
Edoras, June the 13th, FO 4
A nightmare startled Aldwyn awake. The light cotton blanket lied crumpled on the floor, her hair was a sweaty mess plastered across her face and glued to the damp skin of her neck. She grasped a cup from her nightstand but it was empty, not a single drop of water to quench the dryness in her throat and the cramps of a stomach who had never known hunger before.
She could play tough all she wanted, it did not change the fact she had been raised a spoiled noble lady.
Her steps light and swift, she left her bedroom and descended to the ground floor. Cook, maids and the rest of the staff had been sent home to their families the day the siege had started. The house was empty and unpleasantly quiet, save for the distant snoring of Elfda who had fallen asleep on a couch in the main hall. Aldwyn picked from the kitchen cabinet the tallest mug she could find and filled it with water to the brim. Down in one go and then repeat, bloat yourself until the hunger is soothed. Not a trick she had known, but one her grizzled friend had shared with her - he and his six siblings had grown up in abject poverty and he had gone many a night to bed without a morsel of food in his stomach.
Back in her chamber, sprawled over the mattress, Aldwyn felt her eyelids grow heavy and huffed in frustration. She'd need to use the privy soon, no point falling asleep now.
She rolled to one side, the water in her belly shifting and gurgling.
Five days. It had been only five days and already she couldn't take it anymore! It was the stillness what she hated the most, the fact that life in the city had come to a sudden halt. Taverns and shops were closed, all activities that could be considered even remotely gruelling had been suspended because after you strain yourself you need to eat, and food was a precious commodity those days. A light breakfast in the morning and an early supper in the afternoon were their only meals. All stocks of ale had been taken to Meduseld's cellars because not only they could not afford some inebriated fool to unwittingly start something potentially catastrophic, but that too was indeed precious food.
Liquid bread Elfda had called it.
There wasn't much to do to fill your days and for someone like her, who was used to be always busy, always on the move, it was tremendously suffocating but also weirdly enlightening at the same time. Aldwyn had always considered herself a shieldmaiden but, in the suspended slowness of those days, she had come to realize she wasn't - not in the way she had intended at least.
Before the Ring War, when she had served among Prince Théodred's scouts, she had been involved in a few clashes with orcs and uruks. But even the worse of those encounters – the one that had seen her thrown off her horse to remedy a broken leg, hadn't been nearly as horrifying as the battle in the mountains a week earlier. Killing an orc was easy, there was no thought of morality involved. They were evil, foul creatures. A menace to be exterminated. But to witness men being burned alive in a trap you helped set up, was something entirely else. A terror only surpassed by the realization your plan isn't working as expected and your unit is being surrounded and decimated by the fleeing enemy. The battle had been brutal, mist and smoke had enveloped them until they could barely see past their noses. Horns had rung calling for help. All that had mattered was to survive the moment and so she had fought and killed and then killed some more, the sound of her heavy breathing slowly drowning out everything else. Reinforcements had eventually come, Amrothos had materialized by her side, a barrage of parries and dodges and strikes that was frighteningly beautiful to watch.
After the battle had ended, he had asked her whether she was all right. Her answer had been to vomit on his feet.
He had assured her it was normal, that he had done the same after his first battle, like most do. And perhaps it was true but even so, Aldwyn didn't think she had what it takes to be a shieldmaiden.
She wasn't like Ealith and Lady Éowyn. And she wasn't like her grandmother either. Seven years earlier, such realization would have frightened her because becoming a shieldmaiden was all she had ever wanted – to be strong and fierce and fearless. Now, it only caused her a mild sense of bewilderment to realize that not only she wasn't cut out for the battlefield, but she did not wish to be either.
There were more important things in life to cherish than glory and besides, the strongest person she knew had never wielded a sword in her life.
For over a month now the Queen had borne the weight of the country on her shoulders, humiliated Wídca at his own game, kept the people safe in spite of the scant resources at her disposal. Aldwyn didn't think anyone could have handled the crisis better than her: some would have given in the temptation of arresting the Council, others would have met Wídca in Wolford, others yet wouldn't have dared an ambush in the mountains.
But not the Queen.
She had been cautious when possible and bold when needed, a bright light for the people to follow. Days earlier, as she had watched her address Wídca, she had thought the setting of their conversation a perfect fit for their stations: he on the ground, neck craned to look up; her up on the walls, so unreachably higher. Wídca had tried to bait her, dared saying Éomer King would have been ashamed by her actions. She had ignored him and made him look like a petulant child while she guided the eyes and the hearts of the people towards something so gut wrenchingly obvious: Wídca had planned to kill the King and take the throne.
The whole city had been abuzz and once allowed to leave Meduseld, Saehild and the young hunter from Hadleigh had been questioned a hundred times by curious citizens. The timelines had been dissected, the answer obvious.
The Queen was right and Edoras would rather go down with her than surrender to the traitor.
A strict regime of food rationing had been enforced, one the Queen hoped would allow them to last up to three weeks if they were lucky. Additional measures had been taken: the neighbourhoods that bordered the walls had been evacuated, their inhabitants relocated in either Meduseld or elsewhere within the city; large tanks of water had been placed across the entire capital; all the gates had been heavily barred to make it practically impossible for a single person to open them from the inside.
Aldwyn had considered enrolling in the city guard - a daily shift on the walls might have given her purpose. But in the end, she had chosen to stay by the Queen's side - even if there wasn't much she could do for her. She seemed so lonely those days. And Bema, she was! Never before had she understood it with so much clarity - the burden, the solitude of ruling a country, especially now that the King was gone. The Queen didn't seem to mind having her around and if twelve hours of tedious silence were the price to pay to relieve her every now and then of some trivial duty or just snatch a tiny smile out of her, then it was worth the effort.
At first light that morning, as usual, Aldwyn took the long way to Meduseld. Instead of cutting through the Markthalle, she reached the closest tower and watched out. Out there, not five hundred feet from the wall, a brownish, anonymous-looking tent. A tall figure stood by. She couldn't make his features from that distance, but she didn't need to. Anger and a mocking sneer would be painted over his face, the promise that she might have managed to trick him once, but never again. It suited her just fine because, shieldmaiden or not, the next time they met she'd let her sword do the talk.
Amrothos stood in line to get his portion of porridge. There was no preferential treatment, nobles and commoners waited together for their turn – as it should be.
Once served, he took his bowl and went seating next to his sister. She had lined too, like everybody else. Exchanged a few words with the people around before taking a seat at one of the long tables to eat her breakfast. She did it every morning and it was easy to see why: the people were reassured by her presence, their trust cemented by witnessing how she was making the exact same sacrifices as everybody else.
But she wasn't everybody else. She was what kept Rohan united and her condition was unlike that of any man and most women.
In one swift movement, Amrothos spilled half of the content of his bowl into that of his sister.
"You need to eat too", she protested.
"I have enough".
"Then you should share with Ealith and your daughters".
"Haleth, Elfda and Aldwyn are already taking care of that. Besides, Ealith is pregnant and is thus given larger portions".
Lothíriel said nothing. Her expression didn't betray anything of what was going on inside her head.
"Did you manage to sleep last night?".
"Yes".
An excellent liar, but a liar nonetheless, Amrothos knew. She was well over four months into her pregnancy and not nearly as rounded as she should be. Moreover, she had never seen a midwife. He understood why she still insisted in keeping it a secret – a pregnancy always takes a toll on a woman's body and, in her case, her strength and judgment could not be doubted. But it angered him nonetheless.
"I'm going to check on the men on the walls. Would you like to accompany me?", Lothíriel offered after they had finished their meal.
"Gladly".
From the Eastern tower, they observed Wídca's camp. Amrothos had hoped his sister's powerful speech from days earlier might create dissent within the traitor's forces, but his men had stayed loyal. Dernwine and Elfere were there too, their tents by far the largest of the entire encampment – to host their flaccid enormous bellies, he mused drily.
Every day, the sieging army had something staged to taunt the morale of those barricaded inside the walls. The day before, several pigs had been brought in, likely seized from a nearby farm. Big fires had roared to life and the smell of roasted pork had saturated the entire city. Today, it seemed it was the chickens' turn. Scraps of the carcasses were being piled by the Western walls and Amrothos was weary of what that meant, "I fear they might attempt to toss the rotten corps inside the city".
"I thought the same. The guards have been instructed to seize and burn them. Nobody is to touch the flesh".
"Our water supplies?".
"Safe. The spring below Meduseld is fed by underground water. They won't be able to spoil it".
Amrothos scanned the encampment searching for signs of Wídca's presence. A few times the traitor had gathered his men at a safe distance from the walls and bestowed upon them a grandiose speech about how what they were doing was in Rohan's best interest, how they were the real patriots, how the people of Edoras were but victims of the Queen's greed and would thank them once liberated.
On one of such occasions, Elfda had happened to be on duty on the walls and like the cunning old fox that he was, he hadn't wasted a chance to interfere. Perched on a pole, bare chested and with one hand resting over his heart, he had sung at the top of his lungs one of the most well-known songs in Rohan's folklore, one celebrating the deeds of Helm Hammerhand during the Súthburg's siege and the subsequent defeat of the traitor Wulf. It was an evocative, powerful song. More and more guards had joined him, until their voices had grown loud enough to obliterate Wídca's.
The Wolford lord had tried again the next day. This time, the sound of drums and horns had joined that of the guards' voices and after a third failed attempt, Wídca had given up altogether his efforts to play with the people's mind in the foolish hope he could weaken their resolve and loyalty to the Queen.
Amrothos walked a half-step behind his sister as they headed from one tower to the next. She greeted every guard they met, knew their names, that of their spouses and children. Every person she spoke to, looked after their conversation like he had received a booster in both strength and faith. He could see those men and women going home that evening to tell their loved ones the Queen herself had inquired about their wellbeing!
His sister was proving herself a mighty ruler and perhaps for the first time in many years, hiding behind the mask of the monarch Amrothos could no longer spot a glimpse of the little girl he had grown up with - something that had him feel reassured they'd make it, but also terribly sad at the same time.
When he returned home later that day, he joined Ealith in bed for an afternoon nap. It was unusual for them, for they were normally too busy to afford the luxury of sleeping at day, but the siege had turned their lives upside down. "You and the girls should have left", he told her when they awoke an hour later.
"You had yet to tell me today. I was starting to think you'd forget".
"Do not mock me. You should have gone to the manor".
"We are not the only family left in Edoras, Amrothos. There are dozens of women and children. If there was no time to evacuate them, there was no time to evacuate us".
"If our supplies are depleted before the army returns, things will turn ugly and the city might fall".
Ealith drew breath to speak but he silenced her, the tip of his finger resting to her lips. "Hear me out, please. Should that happen, should the city falls, I need to know you, Eadhild and Maerwyn are safe. There's a spot along the walls on the western side of the city that is decently concealed by the adjacent watch tower. Nearby, Elfda has hidden everything he needs to lower you and girls on the other side and rappel down himself. In the mayhem of the surrender, you may have a chance to go unnoticed and make a run for the mountains. Elfda will take you to the manor and from there, he'll escort you to Dol Amroth through the Dimholt".
Ealith bolted upright. "What about you?".
"I won't abandon the Queen to her fate. But none of you can stay with me. Wídca was ready to take Elfwine hostage to force my sister to surrender Rohan. What do you think he'll do to us? He'll tear Eadhild and Maerwyn from our arms", he spoke harsh and at the same time, his hand reached for Ealith's belly, "he'll take her too, the exact moment she's born, and force us to do Valar knows what. Should the city fall, you must flee. Worry not about me: I'm far more valuable alive than dead. Wídca will need Gondor to recognize him as rightful King of Rohan and a hostage who happens to be the son of the Prince of Dol Amroth and cousin of that of Ithilien, isn't easy to come by".
Most women would argue, beg their husband and father to their children to flee with them, to choose family over duty. And the guilt Amrothos felt over the possibility of being separated from his wife and daughters was already devastating as it was. But Ealith wasn't like others. Had they not been parents, had she not been pregnant, she'd have chosen to stay with him and he'd have respected that. But as it was, she knew they had little choice and spoke not against his decision.
Rhûn, June the 14th, FO 4
Right from the start, the ride to Rohan proved one the most arduous quests Háca had ever undertaken. They needed to make haste but, at the same time, the distance to cover was such that they couldn't just ride through the night and keep going until they were arrived at destination.
No.
They needed to stop every evening, let their horses rest lest they'd collapse long before they had come in sight of their homeland. And the hours spent recuperating, as short as they tried to keep them, were simply atrocious.
Háca had quickly developed the unhealthy habit of spending hours staring at the map of the road ahead. Dissecting it, breaking it into small segments for each day of travel. Sometimes, exhilaration took over when he thought they had covered more distance than planned. Others it was the blackest anger if he thought they had been too slow. But one way or the other, he was always wrong: they were right on schedule.
Seventeen more days until they reached Edoras.
At day, it was easy enough to keep his mind blank. At night, not quite so.
If Wídca managed to capture the capital, what would happen to her people? He didn't think he would order their slaughter, why would he? But Háca knew Aldwyn's heart: she'd chose to share the Queen's fate and whether that meant death or imprisonment, she would be made to suffer.
Every night he wrote her a letter. And every morning at dawn he burned it. If they were reunited, he'd tell her in person. And if not, it wouldn't matter anyway.
That last thought left him staring into the black night with petrified eyes. His mother had been the only family he had ever known. For so long he had been alone, able to rely on himself and himself alone because everybody else was either enemy or stranger.
Moving to Aldburg had been a fresh start. There nobody knew him nor his past and he could be whoever he wanted. But you can't change who you are and there was no easy spell to get rid of one's flaws.
In his first weeks in Aldburg, he had almost managed to get himself kicked out of the Eored, what with his arrogant, ever ready for a challenge stance. In the end, somehow, things had worked out: the city had become the closest thing to home he could remember in a very long time and he had even made some good friends, people with whom he had shared details of his past.
But not all. Never all.
Aldwyn had been the first to whom he had told of his childhood's darkest memories. He hadn't even planned on doing it. It had simply happened. She hadn't looked at him in pity – the sentiment that above all he detested the most, only sadness and anger, and for the very first time in twenty-four years he had not felt inexorably alone. Aldwyn was his family and he was hers – a trade in which she had gotten the short end of the bargain, he reckoned.
Háca had always felt like a misfit. An imposter. Always dreading the moment those around him would realize he wasn't half as good as they thought and decided to kick him out. Aldwyn on the other hand, had the uncanny ability to fit right in. And of course, being part of one of Rohan's most prominent families, meant her upbringing had been radically different from his. But she wasn't one to look down on people, quite the opposite: he had never seen a noble lady mingle so effortlessly with a crowd of inebriated commoners one day, and attend a banquet with the highest royalty in attendance the next. Her sparkle was infectious and her heart good, but that didn't mean she was meak: indeed, she wasn't the type of person you wanted to anger, for she could be a force of nature! Above all, for Aldwyn love – in all its forms, was very much a black and white type of thing. It mattered not whether it was about her country, her friends or her family, she wasn't one to hesitate to sacrifice everything without second thought.
To know that he was her husband and she his wife, always caused Háca a thrill of joy and a rush of possessiveness. Not in the sense of jealousy, for he trusted her with his life, but rather in feeling the luckiest man on earth. He was the one she had chosen, the one to whom she gifted those roguish smiles of her, the one whose name she screamed.
Háca fiddled with the rock in his hand. He had collected it in the early days of the campaign, layers of brown and red and yellow, as big as his palm. Aldwyn liked minerals – something she had inherited from her grandmother, and he had thought it would make for a nice addition to her collection. We'll reach Edoras in time, he told himself over and over again and, for a marvellous brief instant, he even managed to believe it.
Rhûn, June the 15th, FO 4
Something was brewing, Éomer knew - small, minute changes to their routine he had observed since two days already. Like the guards being in a grave but also weirdly excited mood, their shifts becoming more punctual than usual, the prisoners' meals more meagre. When, after weeks of neglect, they had them bathing and scrapped clean, he knew with absolute certainty something was deeply wrong.
Early that morning he, Distal and a few others were supposed to start their shift in the tunnels. But when the guards came, only the Easterlings were taken away. As he was led out from his cell, Distal mouthed one word at his direction.
Arena.
A sense of dread spread rapidly amongst those who had caught his message, all shades of misery surfaced - panic, anger, desperation. Why was the tournament starting already? Why was Gorgan back so early? How many fights per day was he going to host?
Assuming the names of the fighters would be randomly drawn as it had happened the first time around, Éomer could only think of one way to delay the death of one of his men for as long as possible: "Whoever is chosen will approach the guards and offer a better pair of candidates for the fight, one that will ensure a greater entertainment for our spectators. Tell them my younger brother is held with the other group of prisoners, and that there would be nothing crueller than forcing two siblings to fight".
Not one hour later, heavily armed guards barged into their cells, shackled their wrists and ankles and led them outside. Éomer tried his best to make himself invisible: bent legs to look shorter, shoulders hunched and head hung low so his hairs would curtain his face. His men understood his intent and placed him at the centre of the group, shielding him from view. He did not risk looking up towards the other group of prisoners lest he might be recognized, and when an eerie silence poured over the place, he knew Gorgon had made his entrance. After he had addressed the silent crowd, tar was used to draw numbers on their tunics. Two bowls were filled with numbered stones and within moments, the pair of prisoners who would be fighting each other had been determined.
Léod for his group, and a man named Fulman for the other.
His squire put up a credible performance as he flanked the nearest guard and spoke frantically, pointing at his direction and then at the other group. The guard listened attentively and dutifully reported what he had learned to Gorgan. The man's interest was picked and just as he had hoped, Léod and Fulman were reunited with their groups and, at the same time, he and Balca were freed of their restrains and ushered inside the arena. At first, Wídca's son shuttered and begged. But after he had taken a good look at him and noticed his limping gait, the way he moved like he could barely stand, he seemed to find courage in the prospect of an easy win.
Two rusty swords were tossed at their feet, the crowd erupted in a round of maniac wagering. Gorgan stood and the moment he uttered the fatidic word, Balca had already collected his weapon and was advancing on him. "I'll make it easy and quick", he sneered, and it took Éomer a considerable amount of self-control to maintain his battered, crooked appearance.
He just stood there, his body slightly twisted sideways, his hair still veiling his features. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted many spectators jumping to their feet, yelling at him to grab his blade and kill. Kill!
Fret not, you'll get your money's worth, he silently promise.
Balca's sword hissed as it cut through the air, his dodge fast and unexpected. Before his opponent could try again, Éomer grabbed his right forearm and head butted him with all the strength he could muster, breaking his nose and leaving him momentarily stunned. A flash of surprise crossed the bastard's eyes when he finally recognized him. He dealt him a punch at the base of the throat – not strong enough to kill him, but plenty to leave him gasping and unable to speak and spill the truth about his real identity.
Éomer had been a warrior his whole life. He had killed many men before and learned long ago not to feel remorse - they were enemies that threatened the survival of his people and he did what had to be done. But he had never enjoyed taking a life, except perhaps for Cedarn, the Dunlending maggot who he had caught trying to choke Lothíriel - he couldn't be certain though, for he had no memory of killing him.
With Balca, it was different.
The young lord had plotted to kill him, his father was not only threatening the survival of his country, but that of his family too. People – good people, were going to die in the wake of their betrayal, many had likely perished already. And for what? Wealth and power? No: greed. People like them never stopped, never content with what they have, always coveting for more.
Gorgan and his people wanted a good show and Bema, he gave them one.
He didn't rush, he didn't end it quickly. Bones were crushed and tendons tore. And when he reckoned Balca's vital sap had almost depleted, he knocked him down and straddled his broken body, his fingers curling around his neck – slowly, for he wanted him to know what was going to happen. Éomer bent over and spoke in his ear, "The night before the battle you poisoned me, didn't you?".
Balca only gurgled, but in his eyes was the confirmation he had been looking for. And then, the traitor surprised him with a sudden horrendous, bloody smile, "My father is King. Your queen is dead. Your son belongs to us. May this knowledge accompany you until the day you die in this forsaken place".
Balca truly believed what he had just said, Éomer saw. He was trying to butcher what hope he had left but, as a smile of his own spread across his face, he discovered he had failed miserably: "People like you never learn. Grima, Trewyn, the Dunlendings. And now you and your father. I may still die in this place, but my Queen's not dead. My Queen will crush your father's rebellion under her heel and eradicate all traces of your family like an infesting weed. May this be your last thought, Balca".
His grip tightened. Balca's tried to break free, his bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets, his body twisted and then it convulsed and faded into ever weaker spasms. Even after he had stopped moving and breathing, Éomer kept his hold on him for several minutes, until he heard the sound of footsteps approaching and looked up to see Gorgan standing in front of him. The Easterling's eyes glinted with a mix of both amusement and disappointment. He nodded at Balca's lifeless body, one corner of his mouth crooked in an evil grin, "Not young brother".
Éomer held his gaze. "No", he just said.
Strong arms grabbed him from behind. He and Léod were dragged to the centre of the arena and tied each to a pole. They got twenty lashes for their deception. His squire yelled and cried. Éomer took them with a smile on his face until finally he passed out.
Edoras, June the 16th, FO 4
Like every other afternoon, Amrothos, his sister and her inner circle of advisors and confidants had gathered in Meduseld's solar. There were no pastries or sweets on the table, but they would always sip on a cup of tea while they went through an update of their current status. Ides and Léored spoke of the state of their supplies. He and Haleth of the situation on and outside the walls. Ealith, Aldwyn and Elfda of the mood of the people. Lothíriel would normally take an active role in the discussion, inquiring and giving instructions to address or prevent issues from arising.
That day however, she was unusually quiet.
Seated between Léored and Haleth, she seemed to be barely following what they were talking about and answered all questions with a scant nod or shake of her head. Soon enough, Amrothos wasn't following the discussion either, his eyes trained on his sister. She was a little too pale and behind the stern façade she always wore those days, he could see signs of discomfort. He knew she wouldn't want him to inquire about her well-being in front of the others, so he tried to expedite the discussion - the sooner he could get everybody out of the room, the better.
"If you'll excuse me for a moment", Lothíriel suddenly asked.
She pushed back her chair and tried to stand, her movements not as fluid, her arms taking much of the effort to bring her to an upright position. For a brief instant, the room went silent. Everyone's eyes were fixed on her. Then, abruptly, Léored jumped to his feet and caught her just in time as she collapsed on the floor.
"Your Grace!", he cried alarmed and as he lied her down, the large red stain on her gown became visible to all in the room.
Amrothos vaulted over the table and was instantly by her side. He took her hand and touched her face. She was warm but not burning. When he looked into her eyes and saw the tears and the panic and the heartbreak, he almost came undone.
"Is she…", Ealith stuttered.
"Someone fetch the midwife!", he barked.
Ides was already running, had almost made it to the door before Lothíriel stopped her. "No!", she yelled, then spoke to him in a much weaker voice, "Nobody shall know, Amrothos. Nobody shall know I am ill. Nobody!".
He wanted to scream at her to stop being so pig-headed, that there's a point when it doesn't matter anymore and they had definitely crossed that line! Fortunately, Ealith came to his aid, "I will go to the midwife and take her here. In my state, nobody will find it suspicious".
As they waited for her to return, Amrothos could feel the people in the room looming over him and his sister and tried to shield her, knowing she wouldn't want to be seen in such vulnerable state. "I've lost him, I've lost him", she chanted.
He leaned closer and slid an arm behind her head, another under her legs, "I must get you to your rooms. I will always be by your side, sister mine". In a stronger voice, he addressed the people in the room, "Ides, clear the way to the Royal Apartments. Eofor and Balláf need to be informed, but nobody else. Elfda and Léored, invent something to keep the people from worrying about the Queen's absence from the hall. Haleth, when Ealith returns, escort her back home immediately, no matter how hard she insists about staying", he ordered in a stern voice, for it would do his wife no good to be there, and he feared it would not help his sister to have her around while heavily pregnant.
Aldwyn kneeled by Lothíriel's side and pressed a cloth to her damp forehead. "Allow me to help you, please", she pleaded.
He nodded and picked up his sister. Once in her bedroom, he laid her on the mattress and had everyone but them leave. The blood stain on her skirt was growing larger and darker, Lothíriel's strength was fading. "Stay with me", he tried to keep her awake and for the first time since the nightmare rebellion had started, he wasn't sure she had the will and the strength to keep fighting.
Aldwyn started unfastening her dress and removing her underwear. He averted his eyes and kept them on his sister's face, "The siege will soon be over. Elfwine will come back and can you imagine all the wild stories he'll have to tell you about his time on the road with Théocanstan and Beyrith?".
Lothíriel turned her head away. The words had become undiscernible, but he knew them anyway.
I've lost him.
It felt like hours before the midwife finally arrived. Right away, she asked, "How far along is she?".
"Five months".
What took place in the hours that followed, was something that would haunt Amrothos for the rest of his days. Every bit of hope was rapidly crushed as the midwife confirmed the miscarriage and gave Lothíriel a concoction of juniper berries to induce labour. Not long afterwards, the contractions started and that she'd have to give birth to a still child, was the cruellest form of torture. While Aldwyn boiled linens and helped the midwife, he held his sister's hand, his words of support and encouragement slowly drowned by despair and agony.
Lothíriel didn't utter a scream. Not a single moan.
Was it because she felt too broken, or was it to avoid anyone in the household to hear her and suspect something was amiss?
Probably both.
By the time the ordeal was over, it was well past midnight. The midwife gave his sister a strong dose of poppy milk to ensure she would rest and assured them the worse was behind. They helped her clean up the room and once outside, he and Aldwyn leaned back on the door, both physically exhausted and emotionally drained, only the sound of their uneven breathing disturbing the silent alley. Aldwyn's became more and more laboured, until she broke in tears, her body shaking in anger, "It is not fair. How much more does she have to endure? How much more can she…".
Amrothos locked his arms around her and for several minutes, they could do little but cry together. "Go home", she told him eventually, "Ealith is surely waiting for you to return and it does her no good to worry. I will stay. Should something happen, I'll send for you. You have my word".
"Are you sure?".
"Yes. I'll be all right. We'll all be", she said with little conviction and sat on the floor, back to the wall, legs crossed in front of her, eyes fixed on the Royal Bedchamber's door.
Amrothos left the hall in great haste, concerned someone might stop him and see in his eyes something horrible had just happened. Back at Haleth's house, he and Ealith were waiting for him. "She will recover, but she lost the child", he answered their unspoken question, and headed straight for the room he and Ealith shared. She joined him almost immediately, helped him out of his stained clothes and lied in bed with him.
"You knew?", she asked after some time.
"She told me when the King died. At first, she was not ready to tell anyone. Then the rebellion started and the timing couldn't have been any more wrong. I should have made sure she properly rested and took care of herself, but…".
"It's not your fault, and it isn't hers either. So much heartache and worries, and now the food restrictions too! There was no shield that could protect her from all the pain and the sorrow, not as long as she chose to defend Rohan from Wídca's ambitions".
"I fear what this will do to her. Since Elfwine left, she's already drifted further and further away. It's like she became one with the mask she dons in front of others. Hard and controlled, never showing any out-of-place emotion".
"Can you blame her?".
"She needs not pretend when it's only us, Ealith".
"Perhaps dropping the mask would make it harder to put it back on. Perhaps this is the only way she can cope with losing the King and being forced to send her child away while she fights for our country's survival".
Amrothos smiled bitterly. "You speak as if you're certain she'll return to her usual self once this is all over. But after what happened today, I'm not sure we'll ever see that person again".
"Do not despair…".
"I don't", he snapped angrily, "I'm just mourning the loss of a nephew. And that of another piece of my sister's heart". Immediately he regretted his harsh tone and held Ealith closer, "Forgive me. I shouldn't vent my anger on you. Are you all right?".
"I am - we all are. Elfda let out a rumour about the Queen twisting her ankle during a sparring lesson. Léored spoke with a few nobles about how angry he was for the small incident and that he managed to convince the Queen to rest for a couple of days and suspend their training sessions until the siege is over. The whole city likely knows by now".
Lothíriel slept through most of the following day.
The few hours she was awake, she refused to take visits and spoke not a word with anybody. Amrothos and Aldwyn spent the entire day in the library, occasionally strolling through the Golden Hall, where they were mindful show themselves as unconcerned as the situation allowed. When someone inquired about the Queen, they recalled amusing details about the accident – how Léored had been livid with Elfda and nearly hit him for causing the injury, how the Queen had treated their quarrel as if they were children arguing over some toy and sent them both away. Amrothos returned home for supper, while Aldwyn spent again the night sitting in front of the Royal's Bedchamber - though this time she was upgraded to a cushioned chair instead of the cold hard floor.
The next morning, he was awoken by a loud knock at the door. Haleth called him to the dining room, where Ides awaited. "The Queen is well and recovering. However, Lady Aldwyn asked me to come here and inform you that, against the midwife's advice, she has decided to leave her apartments and resume her normal schedule for the day".
"She's up and about?", Ealith asked incredulous.
"Yes, Lady Ealith. She went to the Golden Hall to break the morning fast".
Amrothos had already barged out of the building before Ides could finish the sentence. He entered the hall like a fury and the only thing that kept him from bursting was to see that in her foolishness, his sister had at least compromised and allowed Aldwyn to fetch her a portion of porridge instead of lining herself.
He sat by her side, practically seething, and whispered, "What do you think you're doing?".
"Having breakfast, obviously".
He took a good look at her. She was wearing some powder on her face - maybe something on her lips too, to hide the paleness and give her a healthier appearance. Her hair had been nicely braided, the plain dress she wore was spotless albeit a little loose. He had to give it to her: she looked like nothing had happened. But it had, and the midwife had been clear it would take her weeks to fully recover.
"We had a cover-up story for your absence, you needed not be here".
"I know about my twisted ankle, which is why I entered the room on Aldwyn's arm and leaning on a walking stick. But that's hardly the type of injury that would keep me locked in my rooms for more than a day. Of course, I won't be able to check on the men on the walls in my condition, hence after breakfast I'll head straight back to my study".
"This is not the time to play the stubborn one. You need rest and…".
"Amrothos", she spoke his name. Calmly, but there was an edge to her voice that had him shut up instantly. He had the weird thought that, had he been a dog, he'd have yelped and tucked his tail between his legs. "For every day that I am not seen around, firmly holding the reins of the city in my hand, fear and doubts will spread. The more the people are starved and beaten in spirit by the siege, the quicker it will happen - like a spark setting a granary ablaze before you've had the time to reach for a bucket. I must be here and if you're not able to understand or accept that, if you have so little control over your emotions that you feel the need to storm into my hall and criticize me in a place where other people might overhear your words, then I want you to leave immediately".
Lothíriel's words felt like a slap to his face. Because she was right but so was he, and there was no way on earth to reconcile the two. To follow the midwife's directions meant risking the city, and to attempt save it meant further jeopardizing his sister's health. Amrothos tried to find the words to apologize for his actions but as more and more folks filled in the empty chairs around them, he found it was not the right time. From under the table, he took his sister's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She returned his gesture but for an instant before pulling her fingers away from his grasp.
Rhûn, June the 18th, FO 4
The days were a blur of endless pain. Amidst his delirious state, Éomer had moments of lucidity that afforded him to know what had happened: in the filth of their cells and deprived of any healing remedy, his and Léod's wounds had gotten badly infected. His throat was dry – nay, burning, the fever so high they were continuously slipping in and out of consciousness.
There were times when hopelessness grasped him in its deadly embrace and all he could do was turning to a picture in his head of Lothíriel and Elfwine asleep on the solar's couch, Endien weirdly stretched across their legs in one of those awkward positions only a cat could find comfortable. It always lent him a flicker of strength but the more time passed, the more veiled the picture and the dimmer the light.
Eventually, three days after they had been tied to a pole and flogged, another prisoner was allowed into their cell. He was one of them – a Rohirric, but for the life of him he couldn't remember his name. Untrained hands cleaned the gashes on his back and applied cold ointments and bandages, the pain so searing he thankfully passed out once more. It took another four days for his mind to tie up all the loose scattered thoughts in his head and finally allow him to put together something coherent. Éomer looked up at the man who had been tending to their wounds and spoke with great effort, "Léod. I-I cannot hear him anymore".
"He no longer suffers, Eorl".
Edoras, July the 1st, FO 4
It was day twenty-two of the siege. Two days prior, their provisions had run dry. The city had since been feeding on old scraps, mice and squirrels. Time was ticking. Lothíriel knew she couldn't hold the city for much longer, that there comes a time when, between witnessing your loved ones starve to death and yield to the traitor, the latter becomes the wiser choice. She didn't blame the people for considering the option, even if she was to pay with her life for their salvation.
Hidden beneath the floor of Elfwine's room, inside a secret compartment he had unwittingly created one day when he had dropped his rocking horse and caused one of the slabs to come loose, she had hidden some letters. One day, her son would recapture Edoras and find them. And hopefully, he was going to forgive her.
Strolling along the walls, she noticed only a few of the guards were standing by their posts. Most were slumped on the ground, too exhausted and malnourished to do their job. They leaped to their feet when they saw her approaching, their gaze apologetic but also resigned. Lothíriel estimated she'd be allowed to take that same walk another three times at best, before the city finally collapsed and the gate opened to let their tormentor in.
But the day proved her wrong.
Shortly before noon, a small flock of ten carrier pigeons approached from the South. Wídca's men shot them all but one, the only to actually carry a small paper secured to his its foot, who came flying from the mountains and managed to make it unnoticed to Meduseld. It carried a short, simple message, signed by Marshall Elfhelm.
By nightfall, Edoras shall be free.
Lothíriel decided to be prudent and kept knowledge of the message confidential. She took a spyglass and reached Meduseld's highest window to scout the plains. Not two hours later, she spotted something. A rider, followed by many, many more. She recognized Edoras and Aldburg's banners and she knew it to be the army returning from the East.
Lothíriel put away the spyglass and walked into a buzzing hall to instruct the guards: she wanted no amount of euphoria to compromise what the army could easily achieve on their own. But then, Amrothos and Léored approached her and pleaded, "Allow us to lead a sortie from the Northern gate. We'll block Widca's men retreat and spare ourselves weeks of men hunting".
She hesitated, for it was a sensible but also unnecessary move. Looking into her brother's eyes - and those of every other armed man and woman who had come with him, she understood however that they needed it like a breath of fresh air. A siege was a cowardly way to wage war, the heroic fighting replaced by portioning every crust of bread and enduring long nights of bitter hunger. Now, it was their chance to finally take up their swords and face the enemy on the battleground. "You may only take seventy volunteers with you. I want every other warrior and shieldmaiden to take position on the walls and follow Haleth's orders".
Amrothos nodded. His eyes were the darkest shade of gray - like the fiercest, most vicious storms out at sea. She observed him walk away and waited for the request she knew was coming.
"Your Grace".
"You may go with him, Aldwyn. Seek your justice, but do not let your heart's desire for vengeance cloud your actions".
The enemy army was already in disarray when they materialized in front of them, their hearts trembling in fear at the rolling thunder of over a thousand mounted warriors rapidly closing in. With his unit now blocking the northern escape route, the Wolford army tried to turn around and flee East, but it was already too late. The sea of horses advancing towards them broke in two: one half drew nearer and nearer, another spread to completely cage the traitors. Up until the moment the two armies came in contact, arrows rained down from the city walls, killing men and horses alike. And then they clashed and the grotesque noises of war and death obliterated that of the whooshing bolts and ringing horns.
Amrothos advanced through the enemy lines, Aldwyn at his side, killing traitor after traitor but only wishing to cut down one in particular. Wídca was a vile man but not a coward and unlike Dernwine and Elfere, who were nowhere to be seen, he chose to fight side by side with his men. He wasn't far – maybe thirty feet, and Amrothos tried to push towards him while at the same time parrying the strokes of those who stood in is way.
But someone beat him to his target.
Two figures run past him, heedless of their surroundings, as if the blades clashing around them and threatening to take their lives were but a nuisance. They pounced on Wídca together, did not care for giving the enemy leader the privilege of a fair fight. The Wolford lord was a skilled fighter, but could do nothing to fend off Léored and Elfda's combined attack and his end was quicker than Amrothos would have liked – a thought that he fully acknowledged while feeling at the same time repulsed by it. Léored run his sword through Wídca's heart and, as he breathed his last breaths, he pulled him closer and twisted the blade. Amrothos could not say whether he heard the words or just read them over his lips, but he'd never forget them.
For the Queen, and for the Prince who'll never be.
Léored stood unmoving, his body exuding rage, his eyes betraying deeper and more conflicted emotions. He was soon shoved away by Elfda, who didn't shy away from taking things a further step down gruesome lane and decapitated the enemy's body. Holding the severed head by the hair, he mounted his horse and held it high, "The traitor is dead! Long live the Queen!".
A portion of Wídca's army dropped their swords and surrendered, but many chose to make their deceased leader proud and fought to the bitter end. They were vicious, ferocious, and Amrothos called for caution, "Do not let your guard down until the very last of them has been dealt with!", he shouted, and realized only then he had lost sight of Aldwyn. He looked around for signs of her and was shocked to see her leaping on one of the enemy's horses and galloping away from the battlefield at breakneck speed. "Aldwyn!", he called, but she was already too far to hear him.
His focus shifted back to the battle. Just like Wídca, his army too met a quick, grisly end. The Rohirrim riders returning from the East crunched through their rear guard and did not stop until they had reached the forefront. Small skirmishes endured and it was while Amrothos was taking care of one of them that a hand suddenly grasped his shoulder. He turned, ready to strike, and stopped as he recognized a friendly face.
"Aldwyn. Where is she?", Háca asked, his eyes scanning the dead bodies in the ground.
"She was with me until not long ago, then grabbed a horse and rode away". Amrothos nodded his head at the direction he had seen her taking. He could still see her in the distance and further away, ahead of her, he noticed there was a second rider. Was she pursuing him? Who was he?
The exact same questions were mirrored in Háca's eyes.
"I don't know, but we have this under control. Just go!", he told him, a sinking feeling that what was to be a joyful day may still be stained by tragedy taking hold of him.
Not long after had Háca left, he met Éothain and Marshall Elfhelm. Within one hour from its start, the battle was over. Hundreds of bodies littered the fields – mostly foes, and hundreds more surrendered and were taken prisoners.
The rebellion had been defeated.
They had victory.
But just like with the Ring War, Amrothos found its taste far too bitter.
She knew he'd try to flee. He was, after all, the type of man who beats his wife. A coward.
And cowards run.
Fastfa managed a head start, but she was lighter and her horse faster. She gained ground on him, her eyes fixed on his back like predator with pray. All that mattered was to catch up with him and put an end to his betrayals. Plural, for there were many who had suffered at his hand and this was the day they were to be given justice – in which form, that depended entirely on Fastfa himself. She wasn't going to murder a man who surrenders, but she would happily take his life if he gave her no choice.
Perhaps, she hoped for the latter.
Aldwyn briefly lost sight of him as he rode past the treeline and into the woods. Prudence demanded she slowed down but he was close and she didn't want to risk losing him.
She should have known better.
The moment the forest closed around her, she spotted him to the side, a few meters up the mountain slope, spear at the ready. It happened so fast she could do nothing but stare at him as he threw his weapon with unerring precision. An instant later, her horse shuddered and she was tossed from the saddle. Grass and leaves cushioned the fall, but tree roots and rocks caused an explosion of pain in her side. She managed to stay sharp and there was but one thought in her head: if Fastfa takes off now, you'll never find him again and his ghost will forever loom over you and Háca.
Aldwyn forced her body to go limp, didn't shield herself in any way and instead let her body roll and twist until it finally came to a halt. Everything went quiet and then, she heard it.
A thud. Followed by footsteps.
She bided her time, waited until the sound was close but not too much so. As fast as a bolt, she rolled away and leaped on her feet, unsheathing her sword in one fluid movement. Everything hurt but she didn't think she had broken anything. The horse she had stolen wheezed in agony.
Fastfa snorted in displeasure. On his face was a mocking grin, like dispensing of her would be child's play. It made her blood boil. "Did you and Wídca really think I'd fall for your farce? That I'd whisper secrets of the Crown to a stranger, just because of his presumed blood ties to my husband?".
"They are not presumed. And you fell for my son's farce. So why shouldn't you fall for mine?".
"Shut up!", she shrieked, "Háca may have withheld details of his family's history and for that he shall answer. But our marriage is no farce!".
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. There's much my son hasn't told you, just so he could marry you, just so he could keep you. And when I say you, I mean your wealth and your wealth only. Though, you're not too bad on the eye, so I guess you have proven entertaining in the bedroom too".
Aldwyn pounced on him but her stroke missed its target. Fastfa's fist connected with her face, his blade cut a deep gash in her left arm. She wanted to kick herself for letting him provoke her and act out on her anger. Elfda had warned her countless times that her temperament would be her downfall, that she needed to be more collected and less impulsive. It had always been Ealith's greatest strength: her ability to stock all the darkest emotions deep inside and use them when the time was right, as opposed to let them use you. It was the reason why her friend was a respected shieldmaiden and she wasn't.
Aldwyn took a step back. She drew a deep breath and then another. Fastfa was a vermin who'd say anything to hurt her and turn the tides of the fight to his advantage. He had gained weight in the past month and no longer looked like skin stretched over bones. But he was still far from his optimal physical condition and as far as she knew, he had never been a valiant fighter to begin with.
"By order of the Queen, all those who have joined the rebellion must be arrested and tried for treason".
Fastfa spat at her feet. "Curse the Gondorian whore. You think I'll let you take me to a cell, to spend the rest of my days lying in my own piss?".
Aldwyn stayed her blade and smiled. "It must be hard to accept. To acknowledge that she who you enjoy insulting and diminishing for her heritage and gender, outsmarted you and your wise leader so damn easily. You started this rebellion with almost a thousand man against her two hundred, and yet you've lost everything. Every little word I whispered in your ear was her doing and like a good dog, you sent it back to your owner. Did he pat your head, I wonder?".
Fastfa threw himself at her, a barrage of strikes that were all met by the steel of her sword. She had hit a nerve, it appeared. "If Wídca were here, I bet he'd put you on short leash and muzzle for the rest of your days. There's nothing you can do right, is there? You're a lousy husband and a terrible father, you're not that good of a warrior and don't have enough brain to win the gambling game. You're a half-decent actor, I'll give you that. Ah, perhaps that was a career for you: the jester!".
He attacked her again, just as blindly as the first time. His breath became laboured. He tripped and fell but was promptly back on his feet.
"Surrender or pay your betrayal with your life. Choose wisely, father", she issued her last warning.
His strokes fell upon her again. His left arm arched towards her and suddenly, Aldwyn found herself blinded by a handful of dirt. She threw herself down and away from him and rubbed frantically her eyes. She sensed him approaching, miraculously parried his blow but never saw the kick coming and flew backwards. By a stroke of luck, she landed in a puddle and didn't give it a second thought, scooping the water in her hand to wash her face. Fastfa was on her again but this time, she could see from one eye and felt the other gradually opening too.
Aldwyn could hear Elfda's voice in her head. Always end a fight at the first opportunity, do not let it drag on.
The dagger she kept hidden in her boot twirled towards Fastfa. He side-stepped and dodged it, raised his blade over his head but before he could let it come down, the tip of her sword had already pierced his chest. For an instant, everything went silent and still. Aldwyn pulled her blade free and he staggered back, landed hard on his back. He struggled to breathe, a thin rivulet of dark blood poured out of his mouth. The anger still burnt in his eyes, so similar to Háca's and yet so different in their malevolence, until he drew his last breath.
Aldwyn stood over him, her chest heaving.
It was over. The rebellion had been crushed. Wídca and his accomplices were dead. Fastfa would not harm anyone ever again.
She tore her eyes from her father-in-law's lifeless body and stumbled to the nearby creek. There, she collapsed on her knees: never had she felt so weak, so utterly exhausted that even something as simple as standing on your feet or forming a thought in your head feels like an impossible deed. She felt scattered, all over the place, what bit of strength she had managed to conjure to deal with Fastfa now totally dissipated. It had been three days since she had something solid to eat, much longer since she had a proper meal. When was the last time she had had a good night sleep, she couldn't even remember. She dipped a hand in the water, the tremor in her arm allowing but a few drops to make it to her cracked lips.
"Aldwyn?".
She looked up, felt a smile coming up her face. "Hello handsome".
Háca dismounted and advanced towards her. Suddenly, he stopped. The look on his face changed, anger warring with concern. His eyes shifted from her to the body slumped on the ground and there, she saw the recognition, felt the sharp pain of Fastfa's words proving true when she had so blindly denied them.
"You know him".
"What is he doing here?". He sprinted to her side, looked her over for injuries, gritted his teeth when he saw her wincing in pain and noticed the bleeding cuts. "Did he do this to you?", he roared in anger.
Aldwyn felt her own rage mount. For weeks now she had tortured herself, spent entire nights staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, dreading the moment she'd have to tell him that his father was alive and a monster. And he had known about it all along, obviously! "You both did!", she shrieked and recoiled from his touch, "You never were truthful to me! Your mother was a prostitute, your father alive. How many more lies did you tell me? Did you even marry me out of love, or was I merely your grand chance to secure a comfortable life?".
Háca flinched, like she had physically struck him. The hurt she read in his eyes only fuelled her anger and she just couldn't stand the sight of him. She turned around and walked towards his horse. When he grabbed her arm and begged, "Wait, please!", she reacted instinctively and punched him squarely on the side of his face.
Too stunned to do anything, Háca mutely observed her ride back to the city.
Author's notes: I had given you a heads-up about this update needing a while to come out, but I hadn't expected it to take me this long. After three perfect weeks in Australia, we flew back home in Switzerland (yes, we're back here!) and I was caught in between job interviews (starting a new one in February) and a feline emergency – one of my cats needed eye surgery and while it went well, we are still dealing with recovery and cats' bane: the cone of shame. Will try my best for the next one but can't make any promise!
As for this chapter and despite depicting the much anticipated liberation, I know it was a dark one and the limited use of Lothíriel's POV was a deliberate choice for what her state of mind currently is. Wídca has been the great villain so far and while his end might seem too quick, it couldn't really be otherwise. Not with him being vastly outnumbered, not with someone like Elfda and Léored, whose sense of honour is perhaps not as spotless as that of the great heroes, determined to make him pay for his betrayal no matter what.
Lisa Jones: you are so right about the language patterns! I'm not sure how prominent the differences are between Dutch and English, but I'm guessing it's probably similar to German vs. English? Italian tends to go for winding patterns and very long sentences, which I know I tend to carry in English as well. Don't give up on your worldbuilding, I'm sure you'll find your inspiration and finish your own saga!
Catspector: you saw it coming with Balca :) Unfortunately Éomer's plan didn't fully work as expected and while he managed to spare his men from having to fight and kill one another, Léod did die anyway. In Edoras it all came down to a matter of days if not hours, but the city did hold long enough for the army to liberate it. Much was lost during the siege though and while to most the hardship seem over, to some is not and healing will be un upward struggle.
tgo62: very naughty of me, I know! It may console you to know that on one occasion Australia exerted revenge in the form of a gigantic spider intruding in our room, which in turns caused a scene right out of Lord of the Rings in which I played the Frodo and my husband the Sam :) Balca proved useful at least in the sense of allowing Éomer to spare his men from fighting each other, even though his squire died anyway in the end.
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: thank you, hope you enjoyed this one too!