AN: Thank you to everyone who has read the story so far, it means a lot! Going forward, I will be including some phrases spoken in Rohirric, so I just wanted to clarify these are actually Old English, as that seems to be what Tolkien based a lot of the names etc. on. The point is only to convey the feeling of not understanding a foreign language, so if any Old English expert sees these and they're incorrect somehow, my apologies :)
"Ouch!"
Lothíriel let out an involuntary half-grumble half-cry as she was crudely woken from her slumber by her face hitting something. She opened her eyes and realized nothing actually hurt; her right cheek and nose were pressed into the pile of bags containing clothes and fabrics that she had fallen asleep on. As she slowly sat up and looked at the road they had just passed on, she saw the culprit of her unpleasant return to reality – the cart must have hit the large rock comfortably sitting on the right side by the grass, unmoved and mocking her misery.
"I hope you enjoyed it, stupid rock," Lothíriel spat out indignantly.
With a deep sigh, she seated herself more comfortably on one of the bags and looked around them. Did the landscape change at all since she had fallen asleep? Did they actually even move at all? It certainly didn't seem so. She saw the same road, the same trees and the same hills in the distance as she did ever since they left the panorama of the White City behind. The journey had felt excruciatingly long and the constant bumping of the cart going at little more than walking pace didn't contribute much to Lothíriel's already sour mood. Sleep was the only pastime she had to help her survive the boredom of slow-paced travel, although it was never too long or too deep, full of troubled dreams she couldn't quite remember after waking up. But today was different – her slumber was dreamless and quite peaceful. That is, until she was so crudely woken up by that stupid rock.
"Good morning."
Lothíriel turned her head in the direction of the unexpected greeting. A large ash-gray war horse with his rider seemed to have appeared out of nowhere next to her cart while she was lost in her thoughts. She felt her stomach tighten when she recognized the man sitting atop the galloping animal.
"Is it really morning already?" she asked with as much dignity as she could muster, suddenly painfully aware of her disheveled hair and the state of her clothes. She quickly tugged some loose strands of hair behind her ear, doubtful it helped much.
The King raised his eyebrows, probably unsure whether she was mocking him yet again, and replied hesitantly: "Uhm, no, it's late afternoon. We will be settling down for the night soon."
"Oh, right." Of course it's still the same bloody day. "In that case, good afternoon, your grace."
"Did my men forget to prepare a horse for you before we left?" he asked, his eyes wandering around the loaded cart.
"Oh no, your grace, they were very kind to get a horse ready for me," she replied politely; "but I'm afraid I do not know how to ride one. I figured it would be much easier for everyone if I just rode in one of these carts."
Lothíriel could swear he almost laughed out loud and yet managed to keep it down to a very audible snort.
"You don't know how to ride a horse?" he reiterated, seemingly unable to keep his eyebrows in their normal position.
"Indeed I don't, your grace."
"The country of the horse-lords is the perfect place for you, then," he said sarcastically.
It's not like I chose to go, Lothíriel almost blurted out loud, but managed to keep her mouth shut and mentally tried to calm herself. After all, the way he spoke to her was all too familiar – sarcastic remarks were quite a tool to annoy people one didn't like too much, and Lothíriel liked to use them in abundance, many times aimed at the King himself. Besides, getting a taste of her own medicine wasn't the only reason she suppressed a snide retort. Truth be told, ever since she left the King's tent after treating his head wound a few days ago, she felt ashamed. The fact that he actually apologized to her came as quite a shock; royalty never apologized to commoners, at least not any royalty she had ever met. Moreover, after their few unpleasant encounters and all the rumors she had heard, she never would have expected such a gesture. And all she could do in return was to thank him. Thank him. Who in the world does that? Every single rule of social interaction and etiquette she had ever learned would dictate that she apologize back immediately, especially taking into account that a person of his standing took the initiative to speak up first. Lothíriel knew the reason why all too well – she didn't like to admit she was wrong, ever. Not that she thought she was in the wrong for having treated Einar; she still firmly stood by her decision. But it's true that she never considered the implications that were so crudely explained to her by the King afterwards.
And apparently, you're a coward too, she thought bitterly. She realized what she had (or rather hadn't) done only a few paces away from his tent, but by then it was already too late – she couldn't bring herself to turn around and face him again. And now, meeting him again after a few more days had passed, she could feel the sour taste of shame on her tongue.
"How come you can't ride a horse?" the King interrupted her thoughts.
Lothíriel was surprised how unbothered he seemed by their last interaction. At the very least his tone seemed friendly enough and didn't betray any resentment, and Lothíriel sure was glad for it.
"I suppose I never really needed it, your grace. I never traveled much back home and if I did, I used to ride with one of my brothers," she explained. "Plus, in Minas Tirith, well, a horse is not really a necessity to get around."
"And where is 'back home'?"
"Dol Amroth, your grace," Lothíriel admitted reluctantly. She found over the years that there was no point in concealing her true origin – her accent usually betrayed her anyway.
"Dol Amroth? You are moving a long way from home, Méav," he said, eyeing her closely.
Lothíriel suddenly felt strange, naked; as if through his gaze he could read her very thoughts. But he couldn't really, could he…? Of course not, don't be stupid; she mentally reprimanded herself. Maybe it is just the keen eye of a seasoned warrior dependent on observing his surroundings and carefully assessing characters. Still, she couldn't shake off the feeling of being under suspicion. I have to be more careful around him.
"A long way indeed, especially riding in a cart that is moving at this pace," she said and forced her mouth into a smile in an attempt to cover up her discomfort with a joke; "I'm not sure we even are moving at all."
The King finally broke off his gaze and chuckled. "Finally something we can agree on." He looked ahead and pointed to something in the distance. "Do you see those mountains back there?"
Lothíriel turned around and indeed noticed snow covered peaks far away, almost imperceptible except for the reflection of the bright orange setting sun on their very top. They must have appeared on the horizon while she was sleeping.
"Edoras sits just beneath them," he continued. "We should arrive by tomorrow evening."
"Praise the Valar for that," Lothíriel exclaimed, genuinely happy to hear the good news. She already imagined the hot bath she would be able to take after days on the road, and a comfortable warm pillow to put her head on and finally get a good night's sleep.
"Maybe you should use the opportunity to learn horse-riding while you're in the Riddermark," said the King; "Your journey back home will be much less excruciating."
ooOOoo
Lothíriel's first impression of the capital city of the Rohirrim and its famed Golden Hall – both so poetically glorified in all manner of books she managed to get her hands on in the few days before they departed – was less than favorable. She never realized that Meduseld, 'gleaming like a thousand golden suns on a midsummer's eve', to quote the words of the famous Gondorian traveler and writer Aelion, could be anything but pure gold. While they were nearing Edoras through the grass plains spread beneath it, she thought she spotted the reflection of the golden roof in the distance, but as they drew closer, she realized with considerable disappointment that the roof was composed of nothing but regular plain straw, just like many other buildings in Edoras. The rest of the city seemed equally unimpressive – being used to Minas Tirith, Lothíriel would hardly even call it a 'city' at all. Although it spread all around a hill that stood at the foot of the White Mountains, its size was considerably smaller than the Gondorian capital; many of the houses were built only from wood and the streets on the outskirts were no more than trampled soil and mud.
Lothíriel knew immediately after she had agreed to come to this place that she made a mistake. Initially, the idea of new life in a country where no one knew her seemed sweet enough, but soon afterwards the realization what it truly meant hit her: no one knew her and she knew no one. Already at the very beginning of their journey to Edoras this sinking feeling settled itself deep in her gut, which meant she spent most of the journey brooding, watching the landscape they passed by and listening to unintelligible conversations between people who she'd either never been introduced to or whose names she couldn't even pronounce. The only solace she found was in convincing herself that the decision hadn't been entirely hers. After all, who could really decline an offer like that in front of some of the most royal people in all of Gondor and Rohan? Besides, the Warden made it perfectly clear, in a slightly heated private conversation Lothíriel had forced him into afterwards, that she was the only one who had nothing to really tie her to the White City and someone had to go.
And so, on her first night in this strange place, she found herself standing inside the Golden hall (which contained no traces of gold in it whatsoever, much like the roof), listening to the buzz of the people around her who had gathered there to celebrate the return of their King and the rest of the surviving warriors to their homeland. For a while, she was standing around awkwardly in the middle of the wide room, unsure what to do next – she couldn't very well just sit down next to strangers and pour her own drink without looking like a desperate alcoholic, although she felt a mug of strong ale could be her best possible companion tonight considering the circumstances. She wasn't left wondering for too long, though. Soon she was approached by a young serving girl.
"Hlafdige Éowyn bidþ þe to cuman to hire bencan."
"Pardon?"
"Hlafdige Éowyn bidþ þe to cuman to hire bencan," she repeated slowly, accentuating every word.
"I don't understand your language," Lothíriel replied equally slowly, and with equally bad results.
The girl stared at her for a few seconds before she sighed, grabbed her hand and started guiding her through the crowd of people towards the elevated dais at the back of the hall where she spotted Lady Éowyn, the King and some more Rohirric lords and captains she met briefly during their journey.
"Good evening, Méav," Lady Éowyn waived at her as she noticed them approaching the large wooden table.
"Good evening, my lady," Lothíriel gave her a small curtsy. "You… wished to speak to me?"
"Oh yes, I have sent Brea here to go ask whether you would like to join us for a drink on your first night in the Riddermark," she explained. "Please, take a seat."
"That's very kind of you, my lady," Lothíriel replied as she sat in the empty seat Lady Éowyn had motioned her to.
As soon as she sat down, the lively chatter at the table resumed, with people laughing heartily here and there at what must undoubtedly have been funny anecdotes, had Lothíriel understood them. The serving girl brought her a large mug full of strong smelling liquor Lothíriel didn't quite recognize, but she figured anything was good as long as it got her through the night.
She was sitting in silence at the edge of the group of lords and ladies at the large table and watched them carefully. For a second, she felt a brief excitement run through her when she had been offered a seat in such noble company – there were many reasons why she had decided to abandon her family's lands and titles for good, but the day-to-day life of a princess was not one of them. Frivolous as it was, there were times when she missed sitting at a table just like this, discussing poetry and politics, being served the most delicious red wine to her heart's content and nibbling at the sweet dried dates from expensive gold and silver bowls. But as she watched the company gathered in front of her, she didn't recognize any of the things she remembered as a young princess. To say that the noble company was unrecognizable from the common folk around them would be an overstatement for sure, but so far the only real difference she could spot were their clothes, made from more expensive materials and embroidered with silver and gold threads. Apart from this, the scene in front of her couldn't be more different from a Gondorian royal dinner – they all ate from the same copper and wooden bowls and plates as everyone else, drank the same ale as the rest of the people in Meduseld and even chatted freely with all manner of passers-by who sometimes even sat down at the free seats at the table without constraint.
Lothíriel's bewilderment must have shown on her face, which made Lord Léofstan, who was sitting across the table from her, turn to her and speak in perfect Westron:
"You seem quite baffled, my girl."
Lothíriel turned her eyes to one of the few people she had been briefly introduced to in the first camp they set up for the night a few days ago. How direct, she thought. The Rohirrim certainly don't seem to like to beat around the bush.
"I am, my lord. Indeed I will probably continue to be so for some time to come in this new country," she replied diplomatically with a polite smile, remembering her old table manners.
"Do you find the Mark very different from your home?" Lord Léofstan asked with seeming interest.
"I haven't seen much yet, my lord, but I could certainly find a difference or two between them."
"Such as?"
Lack of conversational etiquette, Lothíriel thought sarcastically. Either her attempts to avoid further debate on her feelings about her new home, which were not something she would want to share with the present company, went unnoticed, or the directness and non-subtlety she noticed during her few personal encounters with the Rohirrim were indeed a nationwide characteristic.
"Well, I found the landscape on the way here truly beautiful and quite different from Gondor. And of course the horses are-"
Lothíriel's sentence was cut off by a fit of laughter coming from Lord Léofstan. She was speechless – was he really laughing at her in front of everyone?
The King, who was until now discussing something with another lord and lady seated to his left in between gulps of ale, now turned his attention to them and watched the scene in front of him with a bemused expression.
"Yes, yes; astounding nature, magnificent horses! The exact same model reply I've heard from every single Gondorian I've ever met," Lord Léofstan said as he finished laughing. "I know what most of your countrymen really think about us. But I wanted to hear what your impression was, child."
Does everyone in Rohan completely disregard any sort of decorum when talking to people? Lothíriel thought in disbelief. No one else at the table except her seemed to be offended by his words, which only confirmed her premise. Of course, what he said was true enough – none of what she said had been sincere. The nature was exactly the same as everywhere else and she didn't really care much for horses. Indeed a 'model reply' according to Gondorian etiquette. She was constantly being drilled as a child that personal opinions should never be uttered at a host's dinner table, especially if the host and his guests were not related or really close friends. In the end, many such formal dinner conversations Lothíriel witnessed turned out to be no more than small theater performances; carefully rehearsed lines and insincere smiles.
"Well, what is your impression, Méav?" the King jumped in with a questioning look.
Lothíriel looked up at him and noticed the slightest hint of a grin play on his features. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. She took a deep breath and decided to disregard any sort of snide remarks thrown at her. She wished desperately she could tell them what she really thought of this place, but her manners would never allow that, she knew. Moreover, she was not really in a position to be impolite – after all, here she was nothing but a simple healer, enjoying the high honor of sharing a drink with the King of this country and some of his highest ranking nobles.
"Well, for one, if this were Gondor I would not be invited to sit at this table with you, your grace," Lothíriel replied politely, but making sure a faintest hint of offense was audible in her voice. The Rohirric openness and seeming disregard for social status were so far the only things that impressed her in this country, for better or for worse, and were indeed the only not entirely negative difference she could name.
"What do you mean?" the King asked with raised eyebrows.
"It is not really customary in Gondor for mere commoners to sit and drink at the same table as nobles and royals, your grace."
"But you're not really a commoner, are you?" Lord Léofstan jumped in.
What?
Lothíriel froze at his words and almost stopped breathing. He couldn't possibly know, could he?
"I'm not sure I understand, my lord," she said slowly, unsuccessfully trying to keep her voice from shaking. Her eyes inadvertently wondered back to the King. She found him looking at her intently, an unreadable expression on his face. Lothíriel felt blood rush to her head and heard a faint ringing in her ears. If they really know, then-
"I mean you're our very honored guest here in the Mark, not just a 'mere commoner'," Lord Léofstan explained.
Lothíriel immediately released the breath she had been holding and felt as if she was going to faint from relief. So they don't know after all, she thought; praise the Valar.
"That is very kind of you to say, my lord," she replied, her voice now returned back to normal.
Lord Léofstan looked as if he was eager to continue the conversation, but luckily Lothíriel was spared as the entire hall fell silent all of a sudden. She looked behind her to where everyone else was staring. A man holding a lute stood up in the middle of the floor and started singing a slow-paced melancholy tune.
"He is singing a hymn in honor of our fallen brothers," Lady Éowyn whispered to her ear.
Lothíriel listened to the unknown song and immediately thought of Einar and all the other nameless soldiers she had to watch succumb to their injuries back in Minas Tirith. The novelty of her move to Rohan helped her push out the horrible memories of those days, but now they all came flooding back. Lothíriel felt so moved by the mournful melody and the deep ululating voice of the Rohir that a few silent tears slipped out and ran down her cheeks, in spite of her best efforts to restrain them.
She looked away from the singer and wiped the droplets that collected on her chin with her sleeve. From the corner of her eye she could still feel the King's gaze on her. She forced herself not to look back at him and instead concentrated on the roomful of people around her, but after a while her discomfort made her reciprocate his gaze. To her surprise, she found none of the expected accusation and anger in his eyes, but rather a silent understanding as he watched her before he raised his mug quietly in her direction. Lothíriel repeated the gesture and then turned away again, his look suddenly too intense for her to handle.
Maybe he's not such an obnoxious brute after all, she thought.