Hello, my beloved guys, gals and non-binary pals!
I. AM. BACK!
Oh, and before I forget - be prepared to meet the Horse-Breaker. ;)
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45. The Awakening
Lothíriel woke up with a start, and a gasp. One moment she had been dreaming of fire and water, of a horse aflame, of a green-eyed child lost and gone, of a fishtail that turned to legs, of gills that worked no more, of a man of the land trying to save his woman of the seas, only to be saved by her instead, only for them to save each other. And then, the next moment she was wide awake – and staring at the half-shadowed face of a fierce and fearsome black-bearded man, more bear than man really.
If she'd had the strength to scream at that moment, she would have done it, but as things stood, she was too weak to do even that. Too feeble to get away, and too frozen in fear the queen simply lay there with eyes wide open, dreading what was to come. The stranger sitting opposite her appeared to have been reading her very mind, but rather than act offended by her so very obvious thoughts, he seemed positively amused by her reaction.
'Don' be afraid, girl, if I'd wanted t' do what ye're thinkin', I would've done it already.', the wild man spoke then, his words washed out by a thick accent she couldn't quite place and a smirk that showed a row of perfectly sharp canines, and although a part of her felt instantly affronted by the fact that this stranger had just called her "girl", even though she hadn't been a girl in many years, and was married woman and a queen, she could feel herself relaxing in response to his reassurance – strangely enough. There was just something about his demeanour, beneath all that harsh and dirty exterior, a kind soul that undeniably managed to soothe her worries and her fears.
Or at least, as much as it could be expected, given that she was in a stranger's tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere and that she had no idea who this man was nor where exactly she was.
'W-where am I?', Lothíriel asked then, and the waver in her voice had as much to do with her weakened physical state as it had with the question of her whereabouts, and instinctively her eyes wandered, slowly but surely taking in her surroundings.
From her place of a pile of furs and wool blankets (in which she was securely and warmly tucked), she could see the whole of the insides of the large tent she was in. There was a hole in the top of the tent, to let out the smoke of the fireplace that was situated right in the very centre of it; but even so, the fire had been slowly dying down and thus gave off little warmth now and the light from it was dim at best, barely illuminating anything through the wisps of smoke still caught in the belly of the tent, and yet it was enough to see that all around her the floor was laid out with pelts and furs and skins of various animals – and some of it she even shuddered to recognise as horse skin.
At the other end of the tent was the entrance. However, it was closed off to her by a large and, by the looks of it, also heavy piece of leather skin strung before it – and also, by the imposing figure of the wild man, whose face was half-drenched in shadows thanks to the fireplace somewhat behind him to the left, who sat right between her and her only means of escape, and who continued to stare at her, openly, with absolutely no shame or regard for tact.
She was trapped, and lost – but where? If only she could figure out where the hell she was, then, perhaps, she could simply –
'Home.', the wild man answered then, interrupting her ever spiralling thoughts, and with a bemused smile at that, as though fully aware of her line of thinking. He smiled so much in fact that his eyes squinted, and the wrinkles around them made the dark brown of his irises appear almost pitch-black, and yet, they managed to shine with good humour nonetheless. Almost against her will, she felt herself calm down, and even though she knew she should be wary of this man at the fucking least, she found herself inexplicably at ease. And when she addressed him once more then, her line of inquiry, although in a way still seeking to determine her whereabouts, no longer carried the same sense of urgency from before.
'How long was I asleep?', the queen inquired then, wondering at how much time exactly had passed between then and now, and if it perhaps might give her some clue how far away she might be from Edoras. In addition to that, when she had dared to move but a little, pain had been bursting in her shoulder and shot all the way down her back, and when she noticed her left forearm covered in thick bindings, it made her wonder for how long and how well her wounds must have been treated.
How long have I been here … wherever here is?
The fight in the storm was a hazy memory at best, but the pain and bandage was a sharp reminder that had the memory return to her with a sudden and violent vengeance. She had been near passing out when the wild man had entered the scene with the brute swing of his mighty broadsword. The very same massive broadsword, she noticed with her keen powers of observation, that lay even now next to the wild man – comfortably and conveniently within his hand's reach.
'A few days. Maybe longer.', the stranger replied dispassionately then, and one would have been forgiven to think that he had taken no notice of her wandering eyes or the subtle direction of her questioning, but his blackish eyes shone with an attentive gleam as they registered even her most minute movements. And even as he seemed to lazily stroke his braided black beard, the motions of his fingers suggested that this bear of a man could have that massive broadsword in his hands with a nimble flick of his wrists – should the occasion call for it.
'Not long enough.', the wild man added then with a weird emphasis on the words, and as his eyes sought hers with surprising scrutiny, she wondered whether he had truly spoken out of concern for her, as one would think, given the way he had chosen his words, or whether, in truth, she was not the only one here being suspicious of her counterpart. True indeed, if she had come across a person locked in a lethal fight, with two opponents dead on the ground already, would she have taken that person into her home without any suspicion or doubt? It was no wonder the wild man had the sword at the ready – although she still debated whether to enlighten him about the fact that she could hardly pose any threat in her current position, or if it would not be better to keep her mysteries and to avoid being seen as an easy prey?
She told herself then that she would keep the new life growing inside of her secret for the very same reasons.
'Who are ye? Ye aren' one o' them Forgoils.', the wild man asked her then, and the question came so suddenly, and so out of the blue that the queen was quite torn out of her wandering thoughts. It would seem then that where she had lost herself in her appraisal of him and his character, he had chosen to take an approach that was a lot more head-on. Of course, she remembered well the very first words he had ever addressed to her, back there in the eye of the storm, his curious wondering at her black hair, and she had quickly deduced that Forgoil had to be a word that this man used for the Rohirrim and their golden hair. Under the intense gaze of the black-bearded man she felt the old unease return, an odd feeling in her guts warning her to tread lightly – and so, she only shook her head.
Better to lie with the truth than have the truth belie her.
'Makes sense. Ye don' look like one o' them straw-haired cunts.', the stranger assessed then with a curious and keen look in his eyes – a look she should have taken into account much sooner, a look she should have recognised from her old days at court, a look she had seen gleaming in the eyes of some of the most masterful politicians she'd had the pleasure and the pain to meet in her time. But as things stood, she was far too shocked at the coarse choice of words to even register the look in the other man's eyes, or the way it took note of her reaction. Because, perhaps, it was not only her sense of propriety that rebelled against the wild man's foul-mouthed comment; perhaps, it was rather a sense of patriotic pride she had newly acquired for the land she now called home, and therefore she could not quite keep the bite out of her voice as she snapped back at him.
'I might not be one of them, but I do belong to them – and I'd appreciate it, if you watched your mouth from now on.', she all but hissed back at him then – the words out of her mouth before she could have stopped herself, and only once the immediate flush of anger had passed, did the queen realise the scope of her words there. The information she had inadvertently, impulsively, foolishly, divulged, and not just by words alone, but by the fervour with which she had spoken them. And when she caught sight of the black-bearded man's gaze, she knew, she just knew that he had noticed her slip-up too, and, what was more, and by the smirk he could barely hide in those thick braids of his black heard she understood it so well – she had just walked into a trap of his skilful making.
Who would have thought a savage knew how to play the games of courtiers and cunning cavaliers?
But rather than lunge forward and hold her at knifepoint, to demand clarification of her person and her purpose, or to gloat in roaring triumph at her foolishness, the stranger did none of that. True enough, he seemed rather content with her answer, as though satisfied that she appeared not to be one of the golden-haired Riders he so seemed to despise, or perhaps he was simply content because he had got her to reveal something true about herself at last. But be that as it may be, he inquired no further.
Instead, the wild man rose with a groan from his lips and a creak from his joints, and then moved over to the fireplace to stir the logs in it with a crude dagger he pulled from his belt. And now that he faced the fire directly, she actually saw that the wrinkles around his eyes were not only caused by thinking or smiling but also by the inevitable force of nature that limited each being's time in this life, and that the streaks of grey in his black hair were not just dirt or dust at all but simply the grey of a person in his declining years.
Indeed, the wild stranger could not be called young anymore. And yet, when she thought back to the way in which she had met this beast of a man, she did not doubt for a second that he could swing that massive broadsword he had left lying on the floor with ease and relish, should the occasion call for it. Unless …
When the queen watched then as the wild man secured his dagger back onto his belt, and then stretched his hands out towards the fire that was coming back to life, to warm them – only to pull them back quickly, with a look of discomfort, and to rub them together with no small amount of displeasure, she could not help but feel compassion bloom in her heart, as hesitant as it may be. With the instinctive eye of a healer she had quickly guessed what plagued the black-haired man.
The king's disease, the other healers had called it in the South, a name that had lost much of its meaning after so many centuries without a king at all; but the less privileged had long since found a better name for it: the rich man's disease. As they saw it, it seemed the well-deserved penance for a languish lifestyle, noble joints that became stiff and swollen, unable to bend lest they would break. It was hard to argue that even people who did not indulge in the same frivolous gluttony as the higher classes suffered from the disease also, as it was true that the high and mighty were somewhat disproportionally affected by it.
Whatever the cause, however, in her time as a healer she had learned that there was hardly any kind of pain more severe and straining that that of the gout – and she had also learned, during her training sessions with the women of Edoras, what sort of herbs could be used most effectively to treat it. And it were the instincts of a healer now that had her fingers itch with the desire to tend to the afflicted man crouching before the fire – but since she could hardly move due to her own wounds, she remained where she was. And yet, even though she knew she should not extend such courtesies towards a man she as of yet knew not whether to trust or fear, she already found herself speaking.
'Nettles do help with the aching of the joints.'
The words had been out of her mouth before she had known it. It had been the healer in her that had spoken them, but it was the queen in her that froze with regret in response to it, ruing the information about herself she had so carelessly let slip just now. And, when the wild man's head whipped back around to her, she could see clearly that the stranger had noticed that too. Eyes so brown they appeared black widened for just a moment before tightening in realisation – he might have suspected she had some secrets to keep, but now he could be damn well sure of it.
A black-haired lady with undefined ties to the Rohirrim and knowledge of healing?
For a smart man of the land that would be enough to guess who she was – and if there was one thing Lothíriel was certain of, then it was that the wild man before her was frighteningly perceptive and highly intelligent. Not even his savage looks and rundown appearance could hide those keen, alert eyes, and that penchant for laying traps for her to blunder right into. And she knew that it was only a matter of time before he eventually found out who she really was (if he hadn't already done so, that is) – although she hoped to be miles and miles away by the time the stranger put two and two together – and when that happened, who knew what he would do?
Although she could almost definitely rule out that the wild man before her was one of the Rohirrim – and that would definitely spare her from another attempt on her life – based on his derogatory comments regarding the Riders from earlier on, she could not yet be certain that he would mean her no harm. She remembered well the sight of that massive broadsword flying through the air, burying itself into her attacker's chest, effectively gutting him, killing him instantly. Before her was a man not easily trifled with, and she knew if she weren't careful not to rouse his suspicion any more than she had already done, she could very well end up at the receiving end of his terrible wrath – and the very sharp and very deadly end of that massive broadsword.
But then, as she held the gaze of the wild man, she realised that, perhaps, it was not suspicion at all that she saw gleaming in his eyes, but rather something more akin to surprise, or confusion either – and it had not all been tied to her words alone, but rather to the chance she had not taken. Because when she saw his eyes flitting back and forth between her person and the sword still left lying on the ground between him and her, she understood at last. He must have left it there on purpose, unattended, unguarded, to see what she would do, if she would do anything at all.
Had he expected her to jump up from her sickbed and to grab the sword? To take advantage of his obvious distraction and disadvantage and to attack him? To take back her freedom with the threat of a sword's edge pressed to her keeper's neck? But what threat could she pose in the condition she was in? Or rather, what threat could she pose in whatever condition she was in?! Surely, the wild man was warrior enough to recognise that she was no fighter?
What kind of place is this and what kind of people are these to expect a woman, and an injured one at that, to have intimate knowledge of fighting skills and then to resort to it as the only logical conclusion?
But before Lothíriel could have said anything to the effect of alleviating the fall-out of her mindless slip-up, and in fact, even before the wild man before the fire could have commented on her telltale words – his mouth, though, already opening to address the secrets hiding behind her statement – two women entered the tent in that very moment, stopping any and all possible questions or answers in their tracks. Both the queen's and the wild man's gazes were drawn to the tent's entrance. But while the man seemed surprisingly gladdened by the arrival of the new guests, Lothíriel – although somewhat relieved that she had been spared an uncomfortable interrogation just now – could not but feel uneasy, and for good reason too, as she was now alone with not only one but with three wild strangers in a tent she could not escape from. Thus it was with suspicion and caution in her heart that she gazed at the newcomers.
One of the women was lithe and lissom, like a willow tree, with short, black hair and sharp, thoughtful eyes; the other one was wiry yet sturdy, with long, braided hair that had a touch of fire in the blackness of it, and hard eyes on top of a cruel smirk. And although the three of them – the wild man and the two young women – had widely differing features, they still shared some unmistakable likeness to each other, and in the lines of their noses, and the twists of their lips, and the strength of their jaws, she recognised the same fierceness that defined the wild man before her.
They are a family.
If the situation had been any lighter, Lothíriel would have laughed at the fact that she was enjoying the closely-guarded hospitality of not only one wild stranger now, but in fact three of them, and each of them looked more fierce and fearsome than the next. From the furs and leathers they wore to the crude but sharp weapons they carried, she gathered they knew well how to hunt – whatever prey they chose to set their sights on. It would have been understandable for anyone to feel intimidated by that alone – three wild strangers crowding her in that makeshift tent that felt awfully cramped and sinister all of the sudden – but even more than that it was the welcome she received at the hands of the wild man's daughters.
The dark-haired daughter entered the tent without so much as looking at their guest; the pair of dead snow hares hanging from the belt on her hips seemed much more interesting to her. Perhaps it was not such an unusual thing for this wild father to bring home strays he had collected in the wild? Lothíriel remembered a similar affliction she had witnessed in the South during the war, in a woman bereft of husband and sons who had taken to bringing up street urchins, dressing them up as her lost children, and ended up losing both house and home to her self-sacrificing care and delusion – as the street rats desired no mother, but they very much desired her jewellery, and they took off with it as soon as she turned her back, leaving her with nothing but her depressing grief of yet another family lost … and with nothing but a knife in her hands to end it all. But clearly the black-haired daughter didn't seem to fear for such a thing to happen, as she neither questioned her wild father nor acknowledged his guest in any way. Instead, she merely relieved herself off her bow and arrows and sat down to begin the skinning of the two snow hares she had unhooked from her belt.
In contrast to that, the other daughter, the one with fire in her hair, showed a very different reaction. When she entered the tent, with two twin throwing axes hanging from her belt, clanging against the rim of a wooden bucket filled to the brim with ice and snow as she heaved it along, her black eyes zeroed in on the guest wrapped in the furs and blankets and pelts on the ground real fucking quick. In fact, as soon as her eyes saw her, her face turned into a grimace of such pure hatred that it had Lothíriel stifle a gasp of shock.
It wasn't often that one encountered such unadulterated rancour in a stranger – and it was clear that the red-haired daughter had, apparently, very strong opinions of her staying here with her family. It wasn't clear what emotion hardened those black eyes exactly: suspicion or even jealousy? But it became abundantly clear that in the red-haired daughter's eyes she was not wanted here, and the queen doubted not that if it had been up to that one to decide her fate, she would not have been saved but rather left to die – or, perhaps, even worse.
Fire in her hair.Murder in her eyes. A storm brewing underneath it all.
The other two people left in the tent with them seemed perfectly oblivious to the silent staring and the tension that had been slowly but surely building, as the black-haired daughter was completely engrossed in her task of skinning and gutting the two snow hares (the sounds and sights of it quickly enough drawing the reluctant and disgusted but ultimately fascinated attention of the queen), and the wild father was only too glad to take hold of the bucket full of ice and snow to ease his aching joints. But it wasn't long that the two of them were allowed to remain oblivious in their blissful ignorance and distraction.
The red-haired daughter engaged the wild man in an intense and seemingly old discussion quickly enough, and, judging by the looks she threw her way and the way she pointed at her every now and again, the topic of that discussion was none other than the queen wrapped in furs and pelts and blankets at the other end of the tent. Of course, Lothíriel couldn't be entirely sure about that, as she didn't understand a single word they said, but she had been brought up as a lady of the Southern courts, and she didn't need to speak their language to know when she was being talked about – especially when it was done with such an open show of hostility.
The wild father, for his part, seemed rather reluctant at first to even listen to anything his red-haired daughter had to say, perhaps hoping that in time, with him not responding to her, she would give up, so he could ease the ache in his fingers in the bucket full of ice and snow in relative peace and quiet. But when the red-head gave no sign of shutting up anytime soon, the wild man became more and more agitated himself; from eyes rolling in annoyance to scoffing and shaking his head, it was only a short jump to angry words being tossed her way as well, and when it did, that bear of a man rose with a snarl that sounded more like a roar than anything else.
'We ain' goin' t' kill her, so shut it!'
In the immediate silence that followed, tensions ran high, so much that the very air in the tent seemed almost too thick with it to breathe. For a moment father and daughter tried to stare each other down, which was quite an intimidating sight – because while the red-head was not exactly a short woman, the wild man seemed to positively tower over her. And yet, she stood her ground, and for a moment the queen wondered whether father and daughter would come to blows over her; but then the wild man man sat down without so much as another word, and went back to trying to cool his aching joints.
In contrast to that, the wild woman with the red hair still stood there, silently seething with rage. The red-haired daughter seemed positively affronted by the black-haired father's reaction, though it seemed to have less to do with his curt and crude choice of words, and rather with the fact that he wasn't agreeing with her on the subject of their "guest's" fate – something, apparently, that must not have happened before. But rather than further raging in frustration, or worse, defying the wild man's orders and slitting the queen's throat, the red-haired woman merely snorted in contempt before she turned to her black-haired sister instead.
The red-haired daughter spoke to her sister in quick, hissing words in their harsh, foreign tongue– perhaps she was complaining to her about the mistake the man was making, or perhaps she was even trying to convince her to help her end the very life of their "guest". But whatever myriads of words the red-head had spoken, her black-haired sister spoke no word in return – instead she only turned her head in silent appraisal, eyeing her sibling with a level gaze that spoke volumes before she shook her head and then simply went back to work, as though nothing had ever happened.
Lothíriel, for her part, felt herself tremble in quiet panic, shaken by what she had witnessed, and what could have happened – and might yet come to pass. Because even though the red-haired daughter only gave off a huff of annoyance, before sitting down in another corner, to silently scowl and sharpen her two twin hatchets, the queen did not believe for a second that the wild woman with fire in her hair had let go of the fire of hatred in her heart just yet. So, the queen reminded herself to be vigilant – lest a pair of throwing axes in the dark would find a new home, embedded in her skull.
And yet, not all was terror and threat to be wary of. The wild father had refused the red-head's thirst for blood, his refusal firm and resolute. And even though the black-haired woman had remained quiet throughout the red-head's onslaught of words, with eyes barely ever leaving her task at hand, she too had refused her sister's call for blood – with eyes that spoke louder than a thousand voices and one. And it made the queen wonder. It made her wonder what motivations had driven them to speak and act in favour of her? And what had compelled the wild man to not only spare her life but to save it? What was it that they –
'Ye must forgive my daugh'er for 'er lack o' manners – she's raised by me.', the wild man threw in then, his raspy voice cutting through her thoughts and catapulting the queen right back into the here and now. And as her head whipped back towards the man, and she beheld the barely veiled smirk under those black braids in his beard, she understood that for all his self-deprecation and all his (seemingly) humble apologies, he was actually quite the proud man, and his pride came from his daughters most of all. And the queen understood that no matter what manner of dispute they could ever have, no matter how far they would drift afar in their opinions, at the end of the day they still stood together, a family of three, staunchly loyal to their own – and not even the most fascinating of guests would be able to break that bond.
'I told her, again an' again. Ye got the wrong hair colour, I said t' her, an' ye're clearly no threat – beggin' yer pardon, if I may say so. But still – she thinks o' ye as the enemy.', the wild man went on to say then, and as he continued, the smirk he had worn took on a rather menacing note first, showing more teeth than lips under that thick black beard, before that smile vanished altogether behind the hard mask of a man capable of deeds of great violence. And the queen understood that despite their obvious disagreement over her status, father and daughters were very much in agreement that if she turned out to be a threat, they would make short work of her, and they would do it gladly.
'I'm not your enemy.', Lothíriel answered then, her words barely above a whisper, as she felt barely able to breathe amidst the tension quickly thickening in the tent. Three pairs of black eyes were intently trained on her, waiting, like predators, still trying to determine whether she was a foe or food – or, perhaps, even a friend? She felt her palms grow sweaty, she felt the little hairs in her neck stand up, she felt her face blanch even harder than it probably already had, surely making her appear even more like a ghost. Anxiety was choking her, and she was positively tense as a bowstring, while she waited for the judgement of the wild man – wondering whether he would believe her words or whether he would declare her fair game and her life forfeit.
(And it wasn't just her life alone that was on the line here.
Under the blankets the muscles in her hands flexed with the wish to cover her belly in a pure instinct to protect what was still undetectable and secret, but her hands never moved.
Secrecy was the best defence she had at this point.)
'That's good t' know. Although … ', the wild man answered then after what felt like the longest pause in human existence (and Lothíriel suspected he had deliberately taken his time before answering, just to watch her squirm in discomfort some more), and the smile that twitched at the corners of her lips told her that he took indeed an almost perverse level of delight in keeping her in suspense, just so he could test the truth and making of her character. And when he continued then, his figure slowly leaning closer, across the bucket whose contents had all but melted away in the heat of the moment, 'Between ye an' me, it'd probably ease 'er worries t' know more 'bout the stranger that claims not t' be our enemy.'
In the silence that followed, the queen was perceptive enough to understand that it were not only the worries of the red-haired daughter she needed to ease here, but that of the father as well, and that her words were weighed a lot more than she would have thought. Acutely aware that her next words might very well decide her fate, she tried to answer the unspoken questions with as much honesty as she dared without betraying who she was in the process of it.
'I am Eärwen, daughter of … Lhinneth. I hail from the South, where the waters have no ends.', Lothíriel spoke then, and she worked hard to keep the subtle trembling out of her voice, but as she held the scrutinising gaze of the wild man before her, she knew, she just knew that he picked up on it nonetheless, trying to spy out any lies she might try to spew here. But he would not have been able to pick up on any lies, because even though she was stretching the truth almost past the point of recognition here, she did not lie.
Not really anyway.
She had chosen her words most carefully. Eärwen. Sea-maiden. Not so far from truth, if one considered where she came from. And her reasoning for choosing to give her mother's name rather than her father's name might have also been nothing more than a decision born out of calculating pragmatism. Indeed, it might have been her head that had told her to do so, as a ploy to mask who she was by using the rather unknown name of her late mother rather than the well-known name of her father. But it had also been her heart that had rejected the name of one living parent whose love she had yearned for all her life but never received it (until she had turned from it in bitterness and rejection as well), in favour of the name of the parent whose love she felt still, even though her late mother was long lost to her, alive now only in her memory.
'I've seen the endless waters too, long ago, in the West. I've often wondered if there's truly no end t' it.', the wild man spoke then, and now his raspy voice was like a gentle hand on her shoulder rousing her from sombre thoughts. And when she looked up, there was indeed a tenderness to his gaze that simply had not been there before; a fatherly quality in his eyes that spoke of his fatherly heart he had revealed without fearing it would make him vulnerable in the eyes of the world. Perhaps he had noticed the melancholy in her tone or the sadness written across her face and had simply wanted to comfort her, or rather to distract her from the ghosts of a past he had no knowledge of. Whatever his reasons were though, it did not leave her untouched.
'I've often wondered that too.', Lothíriel answered slowly then, partially surprised at this unexpected connection between the two of them, but also moved by the sympathy for her that he had showed through his words and the direction they had taken. And it gave her the courage and curiosity she needed to be comfortable enough now to ask him a question of her own.
Black hair. Savage appearance. An enemy to the West of the Mark?
'Are you … are you one of the Dunlendings?'
At that, the black-bearded man chuckled, as if she had made some kind of joke.
'Dunlendings? Is that what 'em Riders call us these days?', the big man snorted then with no small amount of amusement, but Lothíriel thought better than to enlighten him on what her lord and husband often chose to name him and his people. She was wise enough to know that he would not take kindly to it. The wild man, however, took her silence as a hesitant form of confirmation and thus seemed to feel compelled to enlighten her now on the subject.
'Aye, we be the Dunlending savages – but we prefer other names.', the wild father started with a smile on his face still reminiscent of his previous sense of humour, but quickly enough that smile faded away into a dark expression of malcontent and displeasure, 'Dunland's a dark name for a dark land – dark for the meagre food the earth offered hungry bellies, an' then dark for the darkness that festered in the hearts o' the people forced t' live an' starve there. It's a bad name, given t' us by our enemies – an' we spit on it!'
And here the wild man exhibited some of the anger that was always felt simmering beneath the surface, and that he seemed to usually keep so well hidden – and he spat out indeed. A physical manifestation of the obvious disgust he felt for the people he considered his enemies and architects of his people's misery – and from where he stood, such a view and such a reaction seemed more than understandable. But then his face calmed again, along with his mood, and he was his usual good-natured self again, his words seemed as much a whisper as they seemed a dream made of hope, 'No, we prefer other names. Names that we've given ourselves. Names that come from the people, an' not from the land.'
And then it seemed as though almost child-like excitement took hold of him as launched into a giddy explanation on the matter of names the people he called his own.
'In the East some call 'emselves Red Hunters, after the foxes they worship as gods. I knew a lass once o' the Red Hunters. Túila Grim-Smiler was 'er name – but she never smiled, not e'en when I pleasured 'er.', the wild man spoke, an almost dream-like expression on his face as he remembered the woman he had known once, and again, the queen was shocked by his coarse choice of words, though he gave her little time to recover from this rather unexpected venture down memory lane as he leaned forward, almost in gossip-like fashion, and with a proud smile he inclined his head towards that red-haired daughter of his, 'But smile or not, she gave me Graina o'er there. Don' mind the fire in 'er hair, lass, she's blood o' my blood, an' if there's e'er been a Rider that mounted one o' 'er foremothers, the fucker surely paid with his life for it.'
And as though the red-haired woman in question had heard them both whispering (and perhaps, she really had), the warrior-maiden looked over to them, but rather than hiss in anger at being talked about, she only smiled a cruel smile before she left the tent – and perhaps that smile had been more intimidating than anything else she could have done. Perhaps, Lothíriel wondered then, remembering the wild man's words, the clan of the Red Hunters didn't get their names from the red of the animals they worshipped but rather from the red-golden blood they spilled?
But the black-bearded man gave her no time to sit and ponder before he already spoke again.
'In the West, by the sea, there's the folk o' the Great Waters.', the wild man explained then, but now, for some reason, the fierce eyes of the warrior from before had somewhat softened, and at first the queen thought that change in him was connected to the open waters and the coast that seemed as dear to him as it was to her, but when he continued she came to understand that his changed mood was tied to quite another memory, 'I knew a Rivermaiden once from the Great Waters. Llywa she was called, an' when she sang t' ye, all the noise o' battle would be silent, an' all was peace an' quiet.'
For a moment then there was a silence stretching out between them in the tent, and yet it did not feel awkward or depressing at all, but rather bittersweet, as memories often tended to be of the ones that we had loved and that we had lost. And if a sniffling sound could be heard from the tall, tough wild man, then the queen was kind enough to ignore it.
'That one o'er there, Génnis, was 'er greatest gift t' me.', that bear of a man said then with a bittersweet smile and a heavy sigh – like one who edged closer to the warmth of a candle after the warmth of the sun had passed away into the darkness of night – and with his huge paw of a hand he pointed towards the quiet woman in the corner (who had just finished skinning and gutting the snow hares and put them on skewers for the fireplace), and although she hadn't yet spoken a single word to the queen, the eyes that looked out at her from under the fringes of her black hair were not only alert but also open. There was still a feeling of wariness, sure, but Lothíriel judged that compared to the red-haired sister, this one would at least treat her with mercy and kindness.
'In the North there're the Painted Spears. I sparred with the chieftain a couple o' times. Freida Knife-Dancer they called 'er, an' that was a fitting name. Ye see, she was such a knife-thrower that she could decapitate three men with a single throw. She also claimed no man could e'er put 'er on her back – well, I proved 'er wrong.', the wild man spoke then, interrupting her train of thought, and here he smiled a toothy smile, with eyes glinting with the joy of memory – before the light of it vanished from one moment to the next, as though a shadow had passed over his face, turning it dark and sombre.
'She gave me my eldest daugh'er, Gillain … that they called Blackhooves.'
'And … where is she?', Lothíriel asked then, slowly, almost cautiously, a tiny voice in the back of her mind telling her to tread lightly here, and when she looked towards the deerskin hanging across the entrance, as though fully expecting for said young woman to enter the tent at any given moment, and no wild daughter appeared, she began to understand. And it was with dread, and a terrible sense of foreboding – Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts! – that she turned her gaze back towards the wild man.
'Butchered, by 'em Riders, many years ago.', the black-bearded man answered with such hate in his voice, and in his eyes, that the queen was shocked speechless by the sudden change in him, not doubting for a second that if he knew who she were, then he would surely make short work of her, and smile while he did it. And what was more, the longer she held the wild man's gaze, the more she began to fear, deep down in the part of her that had grown up to always expect and predict other people's nefarious and hidden agendas, that this black-bearded bear of man was already suspecting her to be part of the very same evil that had taken his eldest child from him, all those years ago.
Or perhaps, she was just imagining things here. Perhaps the fear and stress of the situation was turning her paranoid. Perhaps the wild man was merely interpreting her silence as sympathy for his grief, and the hard edge in his gaze was simply the one of a man who hated to be pitied. (Not unlike another man that she knew, tough on the outside but soft on the inside – but she forbade her mind from walking down that memory lane, she couldn't afford to lose her head in a time and place like this!)
But whatever the reasoning behind the hardness in his gaze, it vanished as quickly as it had come upon him. The sound of a woman's voice from the other end of the tent cut through the tension, and just like that, the spell was broken. The youngest daughter of the wild man seemed to have chosen this very moment to look up from her task and to address her father, and even though she spoke in quiet terms, her words seemed powerful enough to drawn his attention away from the mystery right in front of him – a mystery he might have already run the risk of solving.
But not now. Not yet.
From one moment to the next, the wild man turned away; and even though it should have felt freeing to be rid of his intense staring, Lothíriel could not but take note of the oppressive shadow that lay itself across the whole of the tent. She suspected that the pain of memory was still too near in those moments when he talked of the one he had lost, and that's why he rose so quickly after their conversation had ended so abruptly. Or perhaps he had simply noticed just how much energy the talk had drained from her, and thus did not wish to press the issue any further.
The black-haired daughter of the wild man moved over to her, taking her place next to the guest. Quick, nimble fingers already went for the pelts to peel off the layers, and Lothíriel jerked back instantly, not knowing what was happening, only seeing a strange wild woman trying to take her only protective layers from her, to leave her bare and open to the world and everybody's gazes and deeds. But when the youngest daughter held up her hands in a motion of placation, showing that she meant no harm, the queen understood. She was a healer, too, and she knew her bandages needed to be looked after.
And so, while she allowed the black-haired daughter to do as she liked, the unknown words the young woman must have spoken to her father finally took on a whole new meaning. Watching the quiet woman work in her quiet ways made Lothíriel wonder, if the young woman had felt the tension in the tent too, and that's why she had chosen to break her silence and speak up at last? Could it be that, like her father, this young woman was just as frighteningly perceptive? But unlike her boisterous father, she seemed in no need or hurry to thunderously proclaim her insights – and somehow, that made her all the more dangerous, as she, unlike her father, did not give any signs of warning before she did or said something. No, she was a wholly quiet and instinctual creature, that, however, saw or heard more than one would probably like to show.
The flapping sound of leather being folded back was what pulled Lothíriel out of her increasingly uncomfortable musings, and, looking up, she just saw the wild man at the entrance of the tent, ready to leave, and to allow his daughter to do her quiet work, and for his guest to take the rest she needed to heal. However, the moment he was about to exit the tent, the queen remembered her manners and addressed him once more.
'Wait!', she called out to him then, trying to sit up, and even though the movement caused her to flinch back in pain, she sat up anyway, to be able to look over the youngest daughter's shoulder, to see if he would stop to look back towards her, and indeed, he did.
'You never told me your name, and I would very much like to know the name of the man to whom I owe my life – so I could thank him for it.'
There was a moment of hesitation, as though there was yet another question hanging heavily in the air between them; but then the decision seemed to be made, and with that grim determination he turned towards her one last time before he left the tent.
'Ye owe me nothin', lass, but thank me, if ye need t'. Gunnar Garthson, that's my name. But folk call me the Horse-breaker, an' for good fuckin' reason too.', the wild man answered then with a watchful eye towards her reaction, and when he got what he seemed to have wanted, he stepped outside at last, leaving the queen to shudder at the name and the implications of it, because she understood it with a dreadful clarity then that this man must not have earned that name for the beasts he had broken in, but for the men riding them that he had killed.
FUN FACT #1: Okay. So, you guys finally, officially met the Horse-Breaker and his daughters. What'd you think? Is he a fucking force to be reckoned with? The coolest fucker in all the land? I love him to bits. I hope you will too.
FUN FACT #2: We will be staying with Lothíriel and with this family of three for a while - although A WHILE is a relative term. I expect at least 2 more chapters before the queen needs to return to her king. Oh. Yup. There will be a reunion.
FUN FACT #3: As you can expect from me, I will further expand the world-building with the Dunlendings. As I once read somewhere that Tolkien used the Celtic fringes and "Anglo-Saxon/Roma vs Celtic" clashes as his inspiration for the Rohirrim-Dunlending-strife, I will literally take that idea and fucking run with it. Here's to hoping I won't trip over my own feet while running! =)