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46. Embrace your enemy, so that his arms cannot strike you

In the weeks that followed her awakening, Lothíriel made it her top priority to learn as much about the family of three and their people as she could – while at the same trying to keep her true identity a secret. It was probably a remnant of her upbringing as a lady of the Southern courts; the instinctual need of a politician to know the other players in this game well, while at the same time working hard to play her own cards very close to her chest. She was very much aware that this was not just any courtiers' game, and definitely not the one she had played to keep the upper hand in her schemes and intrigues back in the South. This was very much a game for survival; a game whose rules she was forced to learn along the way, but whose repercussions – in case she lost – she understood only too well.

In the game of life and death there would be no second chances.

Her advances had been slow and tedious at best. A peak through the narrow gaps of the piece of leather strung before the entrance of the tent, momentary glimpses only from her bedridden place under the mountain of blankets and pelts whenever someone left or entered the tent. Bits and pieces of conversation that she managed to discern despite the language barrier, with eyes that did most of the listening, learning words and their meaning behind them, what they treasured and what they lacked. Words for snow hares and stags, words for water and fire, words for weapons and whet stones … but no words for grain or bread, and no words for house or horses.

No words for home.

She had learned that the weapons each of them carried seemed almost symbolic of their true nature as well. The wild man with his massive broadsword seemed to scream only blunt instrument at first, but it became clear to her that it took quite a bit of skill to know how to use a blade like that, and, most of all, when not to use it. (She had tried not to think about it then but deep down, in the back of her mind, memories tugged at her – memories of the many conversations she'd had with her husband, the way his eyes would light up when he was allowed to wax lyrically to her about the philosophies of swordplay, his excitement, his passion for it, that he would share with her and she knew that her new-found appreciation for the minute sensitivities of these things were but a cry of her heart, longing for the one she had loved, longing for the one she had lost.)

The red-haired daughter wielded a pair of little throwing axes, and those twin hatchets made of bone, antler, stone and wood, deadly from afar and up close, spoke of her tendency for a quick temper and knack for intimidation. Graina Firehair seemed to particularly delight in cleaning those weapons every evening for hours on end, and always making sure to have their "guest" watch her do it, as if to make sure that their "guest" wouldn't forget who they were and what they were capable of. More than a few times Lothíriel had thought that the Firehair would have made a ruthless politician – even if not a fine lady of the Southern courts.

The youngest, Génnis, favoured bow and arrow, and although she carried a little shortsword at her side as well, it was the longbow made of dark, gnarly wood she seemed to treasure above all else – showcasing her as the quiet and reserved hunter that she was, preferring to interact with any and all things and people from a distance rather than actively seeking out direct interaction or even confrontation.

It had surprised Lothíriel to find that the youngest daughter of the Horse-Breaker used a longbow, as she had previously affiliated that type of weapon with the elegance of the Elves or the efficiency of the Southern Rangers. For some reason she had expected the wild men of Dunland to handle the shortbow, just like the Rohirrim, but, of course, the men of the Mark used the shortbow for their fighting from horseback – and what use would the Dunlendings have for that, given their disdain for all things connected to horses and riding and the Rohirrim? But, perhaps, more than that, it had been her own prejudices that had been the cause for her surprise here. Or was there not at least a small part of her that still snobbishly held on to the belief that Northern people were less advanced and therefore fought with less advanced weaponry?

Stop trying to turn me into something I'm not.

The words echoed in her head, a memory from not so long ago; an argument between husband and wife, a conflict between king and queen – but really, a rift between lovers … before love had been a word they had dared to speak out loud. Back then she had desperately clung to her old, Southern beliefs of superiority, to think herself aloof from the raw makings of the world, and from the people that lived it with their hands and hearts rather than their minds and machinations – trying to force her husband into the role of the barbarian, so she could feel better about her hurting him, trying to prove a point, trying to fight a losing battle against the things she had learned in her time with him. It had been her king then who had showed her the follies of her ways; reminding her that still waters could run very deep and that even the most obvious looks could be deceiving.

Under the blackest fur of the most rabid wolf, a cunning hunter still lurked.

The surface of the water will only ever be a mirror of what one wished to see, unless one dared to dive deeper … and look behind the reflection of the looking glass …

And she had. From then on, she had dared to look closer. Or at least, as closely as she had dared.

She had learned that their tribe was called the Sharp Claws – for the weapons they carried, and for the "beasts" they hunted. Though, the Horse-Breaker had emphasised the last piece with such a wicked smile that the queen had feared the implications of it, wondering whether or not the "beasts" they preyed upon walked on two rather than on four legs, and had tongues to speak and human skin. Of course, the family of three had laughed it off, congratulating themselves on their sense of humour and her foolish naivete to fall for it so easily – but still, the queen had surmised that their people had long fought the Rohirrim with relish, even though they might not have feasted on them, as she had feared for a moment.

And there jokes, more often than not, were the reason she could not but be distrustful of their words, both of their truths and their possible falsehoods – leaving her in a state of permanent ambivalence, conflicted over whether to believe their words blindly, and to take them for what they were, or whether to take it all with a grain of salt, and to judge their words as barely more than the jests of a jester? Because one day they would paint themselves with bright and calming colours, and other times they would remind her of the things they had done, the things they were capable of – all things they claimed but never proved.

But the queen remembered well the wise words her father had once spoken to her, one of the few times he had actually deemed to address her with good counsel (as though he actually thought her worthy and capable of understanding it, as though he actually thought her worthy to be an ally, an equal to him, and not just a piece on a board he liked to shove around however he saw fit): Trust not a new friend nor an old enemy.

And surely the Horse-Breaker and his daughters were both and neither at the same time. So –

A sharp pain in her shoulder catapulted Lothíriel into the here and now, where her wounds were currently tended to by black-haired Génnis, and as it turned out, healers proved to be the worst kinds of patients. She had been fussing throughout the whole procedure, questioning the methods of the wild woman at every turn, demanding to inspect every salve and bandage for herself, and trying (yet failing) to direct the young woman on how to properly dress her wounds to her Southern standards of the healing arts. The youngest daughter of the Horse-Breaker, however, paid no mind to her criticism, seeing to her task with the dutiful diligence and blind ignorance of a soldier – and the only sign she ever gave towards her patient's wilfulness was a frustrated sigh here and there, or eyes rolled in annoyance.

Gunnar Garthson – who was sitting near the fire and fashioning arrowheads for his youngest daughter's favourite weapon, despite the aching in his joints (although he stopped every now and again to massage his stiffening fingers, or even putting on some of that nettle paste that had been made upon his guest's sound advice) – was watching the whole business take place with barely veiled amusement. The wild man seemed to find the whole thing outrageously funny, and he had absolutely no fucking qualms about showing it too.

'Ye sound like a rabbit trapped in a snare! Don' fret, Fairge cailin, the lass knows what she's doin'.', the Horse-Breaker spoke teasingly then, the smile more than audible in his voice as he picked up his little woodcarving knife again to whittle the thin little stick to a fine and even shaft – and the glare the queen shot back at him only managed to elicit a soft chuckle from him, as though thoroughly unaffected by her disgruntled state … which only served to frustrate her even further. But still, the words served its purpose and thereafter she simply submitted to the procedure without further nagging; and rather than overseeing another healer's skill, the queen instead chose to let her thoughts wander and to ponder the strange routine she seemed to have found with this family of three.

Fairge calin às uisge dìlinn they called her, Sea-maiden of the waters with no ends.

In the weeks she had been here, she had managed to pick up on more than a few words of their tongue. Perhaps that was only to be expected, as she had always had a knack for learning other languages (although, strangely enough, Rohirric had proved to be more than just a little challenge to master), or perhaps that was simply due to the fact that their Westron was atrociously accented and of the three Gunnar was the only one to actually talk the common tongue with her. The youngest daughter rarely spoke at all, although she was as watchful and perceptive as the eagle that had become her byname – Fìor-eun – among her people.

And the other one?

Graina Firehair – teine-culan – proved to be some challenge, and not just because she refused to speak Westron with her at all. It hadn't taken Lothíriel long to realise that the second daughter of the Horse-Breaker did not much care for her at all, and on more than one occasion she'd had the impression that if it had been the Firehair who had found her that day in the snowstorm, that she would have surely been left to die … or worse. But that was only to be expected.

The young woman with the mysteriously reddish streak in her hair was not too fond of the people of the Mark, as the red in her hair spoke of some Rohirrim bastard blood in her as well. And if there was one thing Lothíriel had learned about the Dunlendings, then it was that they were proud, passionate and fierce in their hatred for the Rider-folk. To think that one of her ancestors was mounted by a Rider herself, well, some petty bitterness was to be expected at the fucking least. Or perhaps it was the murder of her older half-sister, Gillain Blackhooves, that inspired such aversion in her towards their guest, as in her eyes all of the Rohirrim were to blame for that as well.

Of course, Lothíriel was not one of the Rohirrim – not truly anyway – but she had thought it best to keep the information of her exact relationship with the Riddermark strictly to herself. She was under no illusions here. If this wild but reasonably kind family of three were to find out that she was the wife to the king of their most hated enemies, she could surely kiss their hospitality goodbye, much less her life. And so, the queen had played a game of half-truths and evasions, of allusions that danced along the edge of truth, and that edge was very much the edge of a sword that could cut either way if handled recklessly.

But, surely, she was not the only one playing a game here?

Because, there were the sheer endless tales the Horse-Breaker loved to spin for her, day in and day out, and night after night. Tales of his prowess in battle, the many enemies he had bested. Tales of his exploits on hunts that lasted for weeks, the game he had caught, with skill and with force. Tales of the women he had known, the women that had taught him to be a man. Tales of the warriors he had met, warriors that had pushed him to become a leader of men.

Surely there was more than just a bit of cheek involved here, and surely the wild man loved to take his liberties with the tales he spun for her, playing with the image she seemed to already have of him and his daughters and his people, holding up a mirror to her to tease that there was in fact very, very little she knew of people like him. Surely that smirk barely hidden under his beard, and the gleam in his black eyes spoke volumes, more than any of his so-called tales of the wild.

But then again, there were those other tales as well, and those he told with a very different kind of smile; one that spoke of reverence and nostalgia rather than tomfoolery and teasing. Tales of his people. Of how they awoke once in a land far to the East, long ago, at the shores of a sea with no end, under a never-ending sunrise, only to flee the shadow that spread out from it, and the eternal rest that followed it, an eternal sleep they would forever fear – leaving behind the sea ever since and the light they had once known, despising it and yet yearning for it ever since.

Lothíriel didn't comment on it then, but her heart beat wildly once she recognised the old meaning behind this tale of origin – for it was not just any origin story but the story of the beginning of all mankind, a story known only to the most learned of wise folk. And yet, there he was, a savage from the wilderness, speaking wisdom through crude words, and the queen was once more reminded of a truth she had been made to learn, painfully, when she had left her home in the South and made a home for herself in the North.

That what made a man, a man, was not the manners he showed the world, or the words that sprung from his lips, or the tools he had fashioned with his hands – it was the gift of Men that they were all equally blessed and cursed with. To strive beyond the design even of the gods and, at the end of their days, to fear the unknown that came after death – an afterlife not even the gods knew of. It was the truth that they were all the same, neither more nor less worthy of the breath of life, and neither more nor less worthy of the title of Man.

And it made it so hard for her to keep thinking of him as the enemy still.

Because no matter how much she tried to remind herself that this was the enemy her husband and her friends had warned her of – the enemy that had plundered and pillaged and burned whole villages to the ground – she could not help but see him as the hunter and warrior, unrivalled in his craft, happy, even if not content; as the great leader of men striving to better the situation for his people; as the proud father that loved his daughters above all else.

Ah, and was it not that last image that had been her undoing most of all?

The image of a loving father?

And how could she, who had never truly known a father's love, not fall for the blinding light of it?

In the weeks that followed her awakening, Lothíriel realised that slowly but surely this father figure had managed to burrow himself through all of her cultured and well-mannered defences, through all the lies she had been taught to learn – about manners that maketh man, and wounds of war that had been turned to ugly, itching scars – and found himself a permanent place in her heart. And she realised that fact with a potent mixtures of resignation and trepidation; resignation, because the gaping hole in her heart had unavoidably longed to be filled; and trepidation, because she reminded herself, constantly, that he was not just a father … but a warrior also. A warrior who by his own admission had killed many of her Northern people, and probably smiled while doing it.

And trepidation because she was effectively a prisoner in their home.

Of course, they didn't call it that; they called her a guest and made a show of hospitality. Or at least, the Horse-Breaker made a show of hospitality; his two remaining daughters showed either apathy, as in the case of black-haired Génnis, or barely veiled hostility, as in the case of red-haired Graina. But Lothíriel would not be so easily fooled by the giddy demeanour of the wild man, and even though her foolish heart compelled her to trust him, out of an old longing to belong to someone that she could call "father" and that would call her "daughter", she reminded herself that, surely, it was more than just her weakened condition or her foolish heart that was keeping her from leaving this place.

She remembered well that one afternoon, when the sun had peeked out from behind mighty clouds bringing more snow, when black-haired Génnis had led her out of of the tent for the first time, and even though she had clung to the arm of the youngest daughter of the Horse-Breaker, out of fear for her weakened legs to give out under her, she had noticed that the wild woman's arm had held on to her just as well – not letting her go either. If she had run – if she had been able to run, that is – would the young woman have chased after her? To re-capture their guest?

But where could she have run to?

Of course, she had noticed that there were only a handful of people present around them at that time – sunken faces, hollow expressions and even grimmer gazes eyeing her suspiciously – and for a moment, wild hope had blossomed in her heart. But the black-haired woman at her side had assured her then, with a smirk on her lips and a slow shaking of her head – perhaps she had intuitively guessed the reason for her peaking curiosity, the real reason why she had wanted to leave that tent and look outside – that there were a lot more of them than this, and just because she didn't have the eyes to see them, didn't mean they weren't there.

And if that barely veiled warning hadn't been enough to deter her from any far-fetched ideas of running away, that she might have hatched in her delusional state of mind, then the nature of her surroundings surely had done the rest. On one side of her, high and snow-covered tops of mountains walled her in, and their white caps had reminded her of the spikes of the prison gates she had seen outside of the island dungeon of Tol-en-Annon once – a prison colony south-west of Dol Amroth she had once visited with her brother Erchirion, long ago before the War of the Ring, before, when she had been a lady of the Southern courts still.

Back then, boredom had compelled her to accompany her warrior brother on one of his surveying journeys, but while he had joked on the ridiculous idea that people were sent there for rehabilitation – a propaganda line her father had ingeniously thought of – that they sought to sell to the public, her boredom had quickly turned to horror as the gates had closed around her then. It had not been the first time that she had become aware of her own trapped state of living, but for some reason the moment the prison gates had closed around her as a guest, she had felt like a prisoner all the same – imprisoned in the life she lived, with no way out.

It was with the very same feeling of dread and hopelessness that she had regarded her surroundings here then. Because her prison of nature consisted not only of the white-capped mountains in her back, walling her in, but also of two bodies of water – one great river, the colour of iron, and the other, little more than a stream, adorning it – that further down became one, penning her up. And in between, there was also a vast fenland, stretching out before her; a wasteland as far and as wide and as hopeless as the eye could see. And behind that, plains of grassland and steppe, and even further than that, the great Sundering Seas.

But despite the distant Elvish blood in her veins, she did not have the eyes to see that. As things stood, all she could see was dead earth, swamped and choked under dirty waters, a marshland where nothing could survive, where nothing could grow – nothing, except the creatures that had learned to feed on hardship and darkness … because there was simply nothing else to sustain them.

Nothing grows in this dark earth, the Horse-Breaker had told her later, when they had been back in the warmth of their tent, when she had asked him about the land all around them. Nothing grows in this dark earth, nothing but bones. And with a grim stare that had seemed to look towards a dark past and an even darker future, the wild man had spat out with disgust and spoken no more of it. But it had not been necessary, as she had understood well enough what he had meant to say with it, and she had shivered at the implications lurking behind his words.

Now, growing up, her education had not much favoured the subject of geography, except when it was connected to the fields of politics or diplomacy, but as the Archives of Meduselde had not offered her much diversity regarding intelligible reading material in those first few weeks of her marriage, she had made do with the various different maps she had been able to get her hands on. And granted, most of them had not been able to capture her attention for long – after all, how much leisurely diversion could old maps really provide? – but she had spent enough time poring over them to allow her at least a somewhat decent grasp on her rough location.

She wasn't in the Riddermark anymore, that's for sure.

Or at least, she could think of a few people who would definitely see it that way.

Stealing a glance at her friendly "jailers" – the Horse-Breaker who worked away at fashioning new arrow shafts, fire-haired Graina who sharpened her twin hatchets to deadly perfection, and eagle-eyed Génnis who busied herself with tending to her "guest's" wounds – Lothíriel had a pretty good inkling where she was. If she remembered the maps correctly, there was a small triangle of land in between the mountains at her back and the two rivers flowing out of it; the Western Marches her husband had called it once, during that brief spring time of their marriage, when he had sought to share everything and all with her. It belongs to us, he had told her back then, with all the conviction of a man who had tried to hold on to something others had long laid claim to. They think it's theirs, he had scoffed contemptuously back then, with all the bitterness of a man who had turned a blind eye to the truth in his words.

As things stood, the small strip of land so contested by both the Rohirrim and the Dunlendings was neither one nor the other. Once it might have been part of the lands that became the Riddermark, after blood had been spilt and oaths had been spoken – but that was long ago, and the deeds of old had long since passed into such myths that it was hard to tell legend apart from law. And in between that impasse, conflict had been allowed to brew over centuries; each side fighting for their right to claim a piece of land that held no real value – Nothing grows here, nothing but bones – wrecked and desolated by a feud that never seemed to end.

The Gap of Rohan is not far from here, she thought then, her foolish heart in her mouth – but then she froze. If they were here in the Western Marches, then that meant that the Rohirrim patrol no longer held the Fords of Isen as they once did – or how else could she have been spirited away, away from that snow-covered fields of grass, and out of the Riddermark? She doubted that even such a man as the Horse-Breaker was – bear of a man that he might be – could have possibly carried her through the mountains.

It meant that the road home was no longer open for her.

(And even if it had been open to her, who said her return would be a welcome one?)

She was trapped, it was just as simple as that.

Trapped by the nature surrounding her, trapped by her weakened body refusing to heal and recover, trapped by the people around her – trapped by her own heart, still longing for a place to belong, still longing for a man to call "father", still longing for her fears and guilt to quieten down … whenever she dared to think of home.

Because home was no longer a place to her.

It was a person.

And who knew if that person would be a home to her anymore?

FUN FACT #1: I know this chapter feels a bit short. I'm sorry for that. The chapter was supposed to be longer but I decided to split it in two - it got too long and I wanted to keep up with the updating schedule. The next one will be longer, I promise.

FUN FACT #2: The tale of the Horse-Breaker, about his people waking up, is a reference to the waking of the race of Men in Hildorien.

FUN FACT #3: I wonder, the two rivers I mentioned, can you figure out their actual names?

FUN FACT #4: Hm, did anybody catch my Wizard of Oz reference? =)