For Author's Note and Disclaimer, see chapter 1

Additional Author's note: The method of Nalbinding is an old Viking craft. As the Rohirrim are basically Vikings with horses, I felt it fitting to use.

Chapter 15

Their encampment was filled with the low hum and bustle of movement. Unavoidable as it was filled with nearly two hundred men, and at least fifty women. Servants were tending to huge pots and spits over a fire, something for which Aragorn was grateful. While he found the large party with the many nobles irksome in their demands and sometimes lack of manners and common sense, there were advantages to having some of the servant staff with them.

Anything that kept Éowyn, the wife of his Steward and sister of his friend, Éomer, king of Rohan away from the preparation of food was in his mind a good thing. Which was another reason why he at the moment considered himself indebted to Lothíriel. The flower of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil and cousin of Faramir had wed Éomer not a year before. She was a gentile Gondorian female with elven heritage and many noble born of Gondor would have paid much for to make her their wife, or the wife of their sons. Imrahil however, while recognizing the political gain would not promise his only daughter to anyone for that reason alone, and unlikely as it may seem, she had been a good match for the young and sometimes rash king of Rohan. While slender and petite, of gentile uprising in a land where bluntness was more common and her new husband was truthful to a fault, she strove to fit into her place.

She was at times confused by the straightforward manner of her husband, but had taken the point that he meant no ill even if his words were not prone to flowery exaggeration. Instead she took it to mean that indeed he meant what he said and there was never a reason to doubt his honesty or his devotion to her.

Éomer was someone Aragorn counted as a true and close friend, but he was not blind to the younger man's flaws. He was rash, sometimes insecure and prone to thoughtless acts when left to his own device. He would never risk his men by acting without thinking, but when he was alone he had little regard for his own safety and it irked Aragorn that he would take his own worth so lightly. With an Eored of fifty men facing thrice that number of Orcs, he would lay out a cunning plan, keep the men where they did the most good and lay waste to the enemy with minimal losses.

Should he alone be faced with a dozen of the foul creatures he would like as not give in to his temper and charge into their midst without a thought.

Lothíriel had tempered that thoughtlessness to some extent, even if she had not been able to quench it fully. Given more time, Aragorn expected that she would do better, if her husband kept himself alive that long.

Intentionally angering his sister to keep her from cooking was not advisable in order to achieve this. Lothíriel had a much better way, pleading for the other woman's help in order to learn one of the more traditional arts of Rohan. Lothíriel had watched how some of the women sat with needles and skeins of wool, turning the rough spun yarn into mittens, socks and scarves for their men. It was something she had never seen before. While she was familiar with the knitted scarves, she had never before seen it done with a needle and she had been intrigued. Éowyn while certainly not skilled in the art of cooking was much better at needlework Aragorn knew. He had known her to take needle and thread to mend one of her brother's tunics, as he seemed to tear them more often than did Faramir. Her stitches were always neat, even and closed the tears to be almost invisible. Though he rather believed that Éowyn cared more about this than did her brother. After all, he had never known him to request the service of his sister, instead it was always Éowyn who seemed to hunt him down and make him surrender the torn garment with threats of violence if so was needed.

In truth, Aragorn at times would be minded to side with the young King of Rohan, a small tear in a tunic was not a disaster. Though if her insistence of mending the garment ensured that she was too busy to mind the preparation of food, then he would with gladness aid her in her pursuit and hold her brother down for her if it was needed…

He might even consider accidentally manage to ensure her brother got snared in the thorn bush if it kept the princess of Ithilien away from the fowl….

It was bad enough what she would do with a trout, but with a single quail she could lay waste to an entire company of the army. Simply aiding her sister in law in the learning of a new skill however was much preferably, and far less likely to cause an enraged regient who might not see why he should be the one ensnared in the thornbush for all of their sakes.

As Lothíriel had expressed a desire to learn the skill of nalbindning, Éomer had made her a finely carved needle from a piece of antler.

Aragorn who had seen the finished works many times, and even owned a garment or two made this way during his time in Rohan had to admit he had no real concept of how it was actually done. Filling his pipe he settled down to watch, as Lothíriel accepted a skein of fine green wool from her sister by law. It was not the rough sometimes even lumpy material that some of the lower peasants used, but a fine soft wool that was evenly spun and soft to touch.

Upon Éowyn's instructions she tore a piece of it lose, sitting with a bowl of water in front of her on the ground.

"I have to admit that I find this soothing," Éowyn mused as she sat with a skein of wool dyed a shade of blue in front of her. "When my mother insisted I learned this, I was not happy as I felt it was just one more thing where I would be forced to sit still indoors for hours while my brother had all the fun, riding horses and learning the sword. I enjoy it though, it's soothing in itself, and the wool is pleasant to touch. The lady who taught me wished me to make a scarf for my mother, but I was still cross with her for forcing me to learn so I made it for Éomer instead. I had not expected him to be so appreciative of it, as it was much uneven and not very fine. However he was surprisingly considerate and even made me my first own needle. If it was not much better crafted than was my scarf…"

"He seems to be adapt in the skill now," Lothíriel regarded the delicate needle she held in her hand.

"Long nights on patrol," Éowyn gave a slightly amused smile. "My brother told me that it was either crafting something like a needle, or sharpen his sword until it was naught more left of the blade than to use as such. Éomer made me a very fine hilt for a knife he had forged for me as a gift. I think I shall suggest to him he do the same for you."

"I would not wish to trouble him with such trivial things," she mused but Éowyn shook her head.

"You're his wife, he should be troubled with all kinds of trivial things for you, and gladly at that. Or I shall be glad to trouble him…" Her words drew a light if slightly worried giggle from the other woman as she knew well what kind of trouble Éowyn might give her brother.

"My brother loves you," Éowyn smiled softly. "But he is sometimes a little thoughtless. He shall be glad for the suggestion I am certain. Now, loop the yarn firmly around your smallest finger of your left hand, you need to make sure the end stays firmly in place as you start. Then let it come behind your thumb, there needs to be a string across your palm for to make the first loop."

"A loop does not sound overly complicated," Lothíriel mused. Indeed, she soon had the loop of wool resting around her thumb. "There, I believe that qualifies," she studied the strand of green wool. "And now that I have it, what am I to do with it?"

"Make sure the yarn lays over your hand, and slip the needle under the loop, twist it just enough you form a second one, and make sure you let it lie under the one you have," Éowyn instructed her, demonstrating each step. "You need allow the first loop to slide off now."

"All the trouble I had making it, and I shan't even keep it," Lothíriel gave a dramatic sigh, giggling a little as she did as instructed.

"Oh, but you will," Éowyn smiled. The lighthearted conversation most pleasant for her. "Now you will ensnare it with your needle, and use it to engage the one still on your thumb. Make certain the yarn will still lay over your hand."

"To rid oneself of a nice loop, only to use it to make another, one would wonder what was wrong with the first one," again Lothíriel allowed herself to giggle. "But they do join themselves nicely," she mused as she continued to create a string of loops." It does remind me of Éomer's mail shirt."

"I would say the principle is the same," Éowyn mused as she studied her own chain. She was working much more swiftly than her sister by law, and her chain was even where Lothíriel's rather looked as if the young woman had attempted to make it with a broad sword instead of a needle. It was uneven, some of the loops were so small she could hardly force the needle through, others were so large she could pass a finger through. Much like the first one that Éowyn had made herself as a little girl.

"There are other stitches I can teach you once you are more comfortable with that," Èowyn promised her as Lothíriel valiantly struggled on.

"First, I beg you teach me what to do now?" her sister by law held up the short end of the yarn she had left.

"Tear another piece, about as long as the first one, then ensure the ends are frayed and open, lay them across one another and rub them with a drop or two of the water," Éowyn told her. "They'll join together as a single thread once more, and your work will look all the better for it."

Nodding slowly, focused on what she was doing, Lothíriel tore another length of the yarn as instructed. Taking both ends over her palm and rubbing them vigorously with her other hand she was amazed how well they came together again. "Tis good as new," she declared as she held up the yarn. "Do I continue the same way now?"

"Aye," Eowyn nodded. "Until you have the width you want for the scarf, then you'll turn your work and go back. I'll show you how to make the second row." She held up her own work so that Lothíriel could see she now had a second row coming in on top of the first. Nodding again she bowed her head over her work, and followed Éowyn's instructions though she felt just a little dispair over how clumsy it looked in comparison to what she had seen the Rohan women accomplish.

"Do not fret," Éowyn beamed at her. "For I do not know anyone who mastered this on the first try. Show your effort to Éomer, I dare to promise you his pleasure shall be genuine."

Hesitant and not quite so sure herself Lothíriel took the short bit of scarf with her to where her husband stood. She could tell a few of the other women were gazing her way, and she saw one or two of them shaking their head while chuckling. One thing was for certain, even if Éomer was indeed pleased as her sister by law had promised, there were women of Rohan who were pleased that she did not share their skill. By the time she reached her husband where he and Aragorn stood by their horses, she felt the tears just prick at her eye.

"Husband," she turned to face her, never caring that it meant that her back was to his mighty steed, for she knew that Firefoot would do her no harm. "I do try to learn this skill, but I fear it is not going so well as I had hoped…"

"I never knew any skill that did the first time it was tried," even so, Éomer had to agree he had seen much better first attempts. It seemed to him his wife still had a hard time understanding what was happening with the yarn as she worked, with a bit of time, he was certain she would improve. "I think you have done very well, beloved," he stated as he heard the quiet snickers behind him. Men who had nothing better to do than to laugh, soldiers that to his shame took pleasure in seeing the one not of their kind fail at their ways. Lothíriel had been accepted as his queen, but there were many who said he should have taken a woman of the Mark. Most of them were fathers of daughters they would have liked to have seen made queens, and most of them were daughters of men he would rather not have in the royal family. Men who were blinded by privileges and did not see that the king should serve the people, the people should not serve the king.

He had never been interested in any of the women of the court or of the nobles of the Mark. He found most of them to be too preoccupied with trivial things of little real use when a woman of even a Marshal as he had been, needed to be strong. If he rode for battle, then he needed to know his wife was strong enough to sit on the throne when he was gone.

Lothíriel was inexperienced and young, a little quiet sometimes, but she was strong and she was willing to learn the ways of the Mark. He doubted the other women that had been suggested to him would have cared to learn the art of weaving yarn with a needle. What would they have made of Faramir? The Gondorian wed now to his sister. Would they have accepted him, a man with different ways, as well as Faramir had accepted him as brother of his wife. The Rohan men were more straightforward, blunt, rough and sometimes untamed. Faramir could very well have said he wanted naught to do with them, and demanded that his wife conformed entirely to Gondorian ways. Instead, he had been welcomed with open arms in their home, and that was how he wanted his wife to be.

He was about to quiet the men with a glare, aware that she had sensed their mirth if not heard their snickers, but he found the matter taken out of his hands. Firefoot knew well to read the moods of his master, and he cared much for his wife as well. Sensing her sadness, and apparently reasoning the cause for it the stallion laid his ears flat back and bared his teeth in a clear warning. One front hoof stomped hard in the ground, and Éomer might have laughed as the sudden nervous swallows and coughs he could hear from behind him.

It would seem that Firefoot was not someone they wanted to anger, and a wise choice it was! The stallion was not unknown for biting stable hands if they were clumsy or rough in their manners. He would protect his master not only in battle, but in any situation where the mighty war horse felt his master to be endangered. While he had demanded that Éomer spoke in Lothíriel's favor for to accept her, as a good war horse would, he now considered her to be his own to protect and care for. While Éomer claimed it was only for the apples she lavished on him, he knew it was more than that. Lothíriel had indeed accepted her Rohirric husband, even when she did not understand his ways, and that meant she had accepted the high regard the Rohir held their horses in, and Firefoot knew this.

The apples he accepted gladly, but he would have protected her nevertheless. Now, that he took a menacing step forward, teeth still bared and ears flat back to his mane, there was not a man near that dared to even smile, and Éomer knew it.

"I had meant to make you a scarf for the winter," Lothíriel turned soft eyes to him, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. "But I fear now it might not be much good for it."

"T'would be, I'm certain, but would you mind if I asked for it now?" he enquired. "And please do not think that my need for it is because I do not appreciate it. In truth, I had need for something like it, and nothing would make me more happy than if it was made by your hand."

"If there is any use for it, it is more than I can see," she sighed softly as she gave it over to him. A little surprised when he took the horn needle as well.

Aragorn watched curiously as Éomer eased the woven yarn under the strap of Firefoot's bridle were it lay over his forehead. It had not escaped his notice how some had been amused at her attempt of the difficult art, and he had not been surprised over how Éomer tensed beside him in anger over it. What had surprised him, was how Firefoot was the one who had put an end to it, and only a fool would go against that horse he knew. What more, while most Gondorian women would feel Èomer using the product of her effort for his horse offensive, Lothíriel knew that only the best would ever be good enough for Firefoot in Éomer's mind.

"His bridle had chafed him a little," the young King explained softly. "I could care less if I had to suffer a slight chill, but I will not have him suffer, and the colour you used is perfect for his tack. I thank you, beloved, for having made me the perfect thing I need to care for him." Using the loose end hanging from one corner, he used the needle to deftly sew the ends together, with the skill of a soldier used to seeing to his own gear.

"If it was any use, than I have done better than I thought, and I will endeavour to ensure you still have a scarf before the winter comes," blushing Lothíriel cast her eyes down again and Aragorn gave a soft smile. She did indeed know that for the King of the horse lords, it was no insult to have her efforts used such. Though he did not think she realised that in displaying it so openly, the king had also made a statement. Whomsoever sought to amuse themselves at the cost of his wife, would have to face his wrath, and that of Firefoot….

Most of them would like as not rather eat the king's sister's cooking, than anger his horse….

Though for himself, Aragorn was undecided, fortunately, he saw no reason to snicker over her hard work, and Éowyn had been kept busy the whole time the food was prepared.

He was indeed then safe…

Temporarily Ended

Thank you all for your kind reviews, the nalbinding Cricket is happy