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Chapter Text

          The sound of hooves thundered through the air. She thought she might hear them before she could see them.

          Decidedly, she halted her mare. A sand-colored steed, the color of the shores of her homeland, a color she would no longer know. A self-imposed exile. The worst of its kind, she thought, although could it truly be worse than any other?

          She waited for the riders to approach. Her hesitation was only evident to herself. She knew they had already seen her. They must have. These were the masters of these plains, after all. Their armor, as well as the banner they carried, gleamed against the sun in shades of green and gold. No other banner carried those colors. These were the horsemasters of Rohan.

          She left her bow resting on her back, swallowed by her hair. She was careful not to show any sign of threat. Whatever diplomatic talent she carried in her blood, she would need now. Every ounce of it.

          The riders were closer now. There must have been a score of them. They were approaching fast. Perhaps they could hear her now over the sound of their horses' hooves. She shouted, hopeful that her voice would not betray the fear simmering inside her.

          "Riders of Rohan! I come in peace and seek your aid."

          If the men heard her, they made no sign of it.

          Skillfully, they rode towards and past her and then surrounded her in such a way that barred any attempts of escape. She felt their gaze burning in her skin, scanning her, her possessions, and her steed. The mare took a step backward to the dismay of her rider. If her mare's courage failed now, what would happen to her own?

          She knew what they were wondering. Who could this woman be, alone, unguarded, and looking so foreign from their own? What aid could she seek? If she was distressed, she did not seem so. Is this the form the enemy's spies now take? The figure of a lone woman? She did not need to read their minds to know their thoughts. They were judging her; it was an opportunity to show the right qualities for them to judge.

          She steadied her voice and repeated, "I come in peace and I am alone. I am armed only for my own defense. I seek the aid of the Third Marshal of the Mark of Rohan. Is he among you?" She scanned their helmeted faces, but could not see any defining features. They waited in silence, watching her with the stillness of the mountains far away.

          At length, one of the riders rode towards her and removed his helmet. His features showed strength yet were full of youth. He seemed weary, but the kind of weariness that riddles the mind more than the body. His voice was clear and stern but gentle when he spoke. "Who are you and what business do you have in the Mark?"

          "My lord, I am afraid I cannot answer your questions. I shall only speak to the Third Marshal. These lands belong to the Eastfold of Rohan, do they not? If so, you must be his Riders. You must allow me an audience with him." She could not chance to tell them a name, not even a false one. At all costs, she must secure a conversation with the marshal, and the wrong identity might deprive her of just that.

          She looked around them to seek a sign of consent but behind their helmets their thoughts were simply a guess.

          The man spoke again, raising his tone, "If you come in peace, then give us your name. Only spies hide their purpose."

          "I am no spy and I have stated my purpose: I seek an audience with the Third Marshal. To you, I shall say no more. You may take my weapon and my possessions. You may take charge of my horse. You may bind and blindfold me if it will make your decision any easier, but you will take me to your lord or leave me here to find him on my own. Either way, I will speak to him." She straightened atop her mare, pushing away thoughts that were wondering about the origin of her boldness. She then released her bow, quiver, and saddlebag to the ground and dared stare into the commander's eyes without fear, using strength she did not know she had in her.

          After seconds that felt like minutes, the man commanded another rider in their own language, who in turn promptly dismounted and took hold of her possessions. She could hear him looking through her bag but she knew he would find nothing other than food, water, a cloak, a satchel of healing herbs, and an old, faded book. Her key possession, a simple letter, she held on her person, in the pockets of her riding vest.

          She heard the men speak in their language, an act that both frustrated and intimidated her. The tone alone suggested orders to be followed. The riders began to move again, and she found herself riding encircled by them, trying to match their speed and grace. She should have expected they would ride in a way that would prevent her from escaping. Yet there was an odd sense of safety, being surrounded by these seasoned riders speaking a language deep as the earth itself.

          She did not speak more until they reached their destination. They arrived sooner than she had expected, but she was glad. After a long journey, she was yearning for rest, even under an open, velvet sky.

          They reached what could not be described as anything but a war camp. Tents were erected, fires were lit, and everywhere horses, and weapons, and men were scattered, engrossed in one task or another. Upon reaching the camp, the riders came to a stop and dismounted. She followed their example, wondering if they would meet her demands or if they were readying themselves to take her prisoner. As she started to walk, holding the reins of her sand mare, she was ordered to stop and wait by the man who commanded the riding party. She watched him disappear through the crowd of warriors until she spotted him talking to another man. Together, they made their way through the camp towards her and she felt all bravery in her fade away with each one of the warrior's confident strides. They gave her no chance to take the reins of conversation to give herself a negotiating advantage.

          "Who are you and why have you come here?" His voice stilled her will and almost made her give her secrets away. The voice belonged to a man whose armor was richer, and his stature greater than most of his men. He was clearly their commander. She gave herself a moment to look at his face. Yes, it was him. She wondered if he would recognize her but the thought filled her with nerves. It had been nearly three months since she first and last gazed upon him. But he had not seen her face then, she did not think. It was her cousin, not her, with whom he dealt the two days they stayed in his hall.

          "Are you the Lord of the Eastfold? The Third Marshal of Rohan?" She pretended not to know the answer. Yet even without their previous encounter, it was evident this man was a commanding lord.

          "Aye," he stated simply, but impatiently, while staring at her.

          "Lord Marshal, I plead for your aid. If we could speak privately, I would explain my purpose here." She debated between bowing her head or keep matching his stare, but the long moments of her debate made the decision for her. He studied her, watching her demeanor as much as her appearance. She looked very different from the women of Rohan. Her hair did not shine with the brilliance of the sun as the golden heads of Rohirric maidens did. There was no land or grass in the color of her eyes, but instead there was a vast sea, endless and chilling. She was tall, but it seemed to him that shieldmaidens were taller than her. But the greatest difference was in her boldness. Not once had she shown any sign of reverence to one of Rohan's High Lords, and he thought that, with every word she uttered, she stood straighter. Moreover, she held his gaze with a silent fierceness that revealed determination without compare.

          At length, he nodded and motioned for her to follow him. He led her to his tent. Inside was a small desk and chairs carved of rich, dark wood. She looked around, noting the distinct practicality of the furnishings of the tent and the clear lack of riches, but the sound of his voice brought her back to her present purpose.

          "We are speaking privately. Why are you here?" He asked, again, impatiently.

          For all of her plans she had not planned how this particular conversation might go. She tried to gather her thoughts quickly and thought it best to start without preamble.

          "I am a long way from home, but I cannot go back. I am in danger, or else I have reason to think I will be. Because of this, I have needed to exile myself from my home and hide my identity. Only in secrecy may I stay safe. Only one person knows I have come to seek you. You know him: Lord Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor. He sends you this letter to explain what I cannot." At the mention of Lord Boromir's name, his expression turned from impatience to curiosity. He took the letter and turned it around. It bore the seal of Gondor on its back. He tore it open and read it aloud.

          "Lord Éomer, I thank you for your hospitality during my travels through Rohan. I have found what I was seeking in Imladris, but it seems I have now more cares than I did before. One of them is the lady that carries this letter. For reasons that are too sensitive to pen, she must remain hidden under a false name. I intend for her to ride with me to Gondor but at the moment it is not safe for her. I understand that there is no reason why you should honor me with this favor, but I must ask it of you regardless. Keep the lady safe until I am able to return for her. We have agreed to meet in Edoras at the coming of spring. I ask that you keep her safe and hidden until then. Do this and Gondor will be indebted to you, as shall I, Boromir of Gondor."

          "What sensitive reasons are forcing you to hide?" He asked, putting the letter down on the desk. He leaned on the table and crossed his arms across his chest, expressing his thoughts through his demeanor.

          "My lord, I cannot-" She lowered her gaze and shook her head slightly. This was hopeless.

          "You expect me to protect you not knowing from what?" He demanded, as if he were taking advantage of her sign of defeat. She did not give him another chance.

          "I expected nothing, but I hoped for a chance at safety." She met his gaze again and defiantly held it.

          "What is your name?" He asked her.

          Her name was Lothíriel. Only daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Lady of the Sea. But the less he knew, the easier this would be.

          "My safety depends on secrecy. I cannot tell you my name," she stated as calmly as she could, and searched in his dark eyes for a reaction.

          "You will not tell me your name? So when I ask my Riders to give their lives for yours, you will not grace them with the name of the one for whom they sacrificed everything?" She had not considered this. Thinking of warriors dying for her was an impending truth she did not want to admit was approaching. His words were like a stab to her stomach.

          "I will need a false name under which to live. Only you, my lord, need to know it is not my true self." She felt shame at the coldness with which her voice left her mouth.

          "What name is that?"

          "Sílrien, my lord."

          Sílrien. A Sindarin name. He wondered what it meant in the tongue of the elves. Even more, he wondered if she was the lady who traveled with Lord Boromir at the end of summer, when he welcomed them into his hall. He had only spoken to her briefly, at night, on the courtyard of his hall, which overlooks the city of Aldburg. He tried to compare the voice of that maiden to this mysterious lady, but it was no use. Long nights had come and gone between then and now, and the darkness of that night had shielded her from him. But what he wondered most was what her real name was, and from what she was running so desperately.

          When his thoughts robbed him of timely words, she continued, "Sílrien, the daughter of a Gondorian diplomat. Hidden until her father deems it safe to return home, as he negotiates dangerous treaties with tribes from Umbar and Harad. The less details offered, the better."

          "The less details offered, the more people will wonder," he considered. She did not know whether he was referring to himself or to his people.

          "I will be prepared to answer questions about myself. I do not want to ask more of you than I already have, my lord."

          He considered her for a moment, then traced his fingers around Boromir's letter once more. "Boromir is a good man and a good warrior. I will not dishonor him by turning you away," he glanced at her doubtfully, "but I must consider the implications of my decision."

          "I understand, Lord Marshal." She bowed her head to him. Such an enigma, he thought. Where is the defiance of moments ago? Did it shed away to reveal weakness or nobility?

          "You must be hungry and weary. Let us find you some food." He allowed her to exit the tent first, after which she immediately felt the judging and wondering gaze of the riders. A gaze directed at her. It is reasonable to be cautious around foreigners, she reasoned to herself in hopes of helping to ease the burden of the intimidating stares. Éomer led her to one of the roaring fires where bowls of stew and pieces of bread were being handed and taken in a rhythmic fashion. He motioned for her to sit near the fire, near many pairs of eyes stealing glances at the new guest. She noticed there was a female among them, dressed in mail armor; she then realized she was not the only female warrior around. This made her feel more away from home than she had until now. She was in a strange land, and to them, she was strange herself. Her exile would not be easy.

          An extended hand interrupted her thoughts. Éomer was handing her a bowl of steaming stew. She noticed she was hungry when the aroma of spices circulated around her. She reached out with both hands to take the bowl when her fingers brushed against his.

          First, her mind emptied.

          Then she saw, with perfect clarity, a tall man in mail and leather armor. It was golden and green, but riddled with blood, black as night. A thundering voice commanded in a strange tongue, strange as the surroundings themselves. One word she heard clearly among the tones of the earthy tongue: "Éothain!"

          It was over in a second yet it felt like she had seen more than a second.

          Her expression changed and she seemed lost and disoriented. He thought he felt her fingers shake.

          "Sílrien? Are you well?" He spoke, then sought a place to sit near the fire. His voice travelled through her and brought her back to reality. She was afraid but she could not explain why. She tore her gaze from nothingness and forced it on him. The sight of him wearing unbloodied armor reassured her. She made no reply and began eating her meal. Next to her, he did the same. But where in her mind lay fear and uncertainty, in his thirsted a burning curiosity he vowed to quench.

Chapter Text

          In the distance, white waves broke wildly against the cliffs of her ancestral home. The sea was untamed, even menacing; yet to her, it was calming. She delighted in the crash of each wave. It was enchanting. Lothíriel sat on the sand, wet by the endless caress of the sea waters. She felt herself sink in it every time a wave dissipated at her feet. She loved that feeling. It was as if she was becoming one with the shore.

          Incessantly, she wondered if she could sail as far as the horizon reached. She wondered if she would be missed, if she did. She wondered if she would spend her life wondering instead of living.

          The sun was falling. A golden light was sparkling in the ocean and the skies above were dancing in hues of blue and rose. It was time to return, she knew. To walk back to the marbled stone walls of a stalwart castle, unmoving, unwavering.

          She stood coated with sand. It clung to her as if the sea was unwilling to let her go. She was both glad and saddened. There was safety at home; safety, but not much else. Her maid was already calling to her. She could hear her protests; more because she knew what she was saying rather than because she could hear her voice in the distance. The protests were always the same. Her actions were unacceptable. Her dress was ruined. Her tardiness was uncourteous. Her lack of escort, unsafe. There was no room in the maid's protests for her windswept hair, carrying the permeating scent of the ocean in it.

          She was reaching the stone steps that led to the top of the cliff where the fortress stood, beaming proudly in the setting sun. Her feet were sandy and wet, and when she slipped on the second step, slick with the remains of the waves that reached it, her maid was there to steady her. The old woman grabbed her by the hand.

          In that single moment, her life changed.

          Before her eyes, she saw her maid, lifeless. Her body was cold and pale. It was a natural passing, but the sorrow ached deep in her heart nonetheless.

          Lothíriel shook her hand away in terror. She could not believe her eyes. Her maid asked her if she was distressed. She could make no reply. How was she alive when she had just seen her dead? The thoughts haunted her every breath, but not for long. On the second day of her torment her maid was found, cold and pale. Lifeless. Whatever terror Lothíriel felt before paled in comparison to the realization of the events that transpired. She knew her life would never be the same. The safety of her marbled castle did not ease the wild waves of her mind.

          Lothíriel opened her eyes, yet she had not awakened from a dream. She simply dreamt of an ever-present memory.

          The sky was dark above her. Stars shone palely, and a small, crescent moon showered the plains below in a dim silver light. When had she fallen asleep? Embers were all that was left of the campfire. She rose to sit as she did before the sun had set and her memory began to return. She had enjoyed the company of the riders around her, but their voices had lulled her to sleep. She must have been tired. She could not recall their conversations.

          Carefully, she studied her surroundings. The moonlight did not reveal much. But it, coupled with the sound of a whetstone at work on a spear head, made her realize she was not alone. Across the dying embers sat the female rider at whom she had marveled the day before. When she stopped her rhythmic work, Lothíriel realized she had been staring. She quickly turned her gaze away. She should be more careful.

          "I am Ildelith." The woman said, and offered Lothíriel a gentle smile.

          "My name is Sílrien," Lothíriel tried to return the smile, but she could not ignore the sinking, burning feeling in her stomach. It was the price of her every lie. Would she grow used to it? She would hate herself if that burning ever ceased.

          "So I have heard," Ildelith said, and her smile grew broad. "We know your name. What we do not know is to whom the name belongs. We have all been wondering. It has been the talk of the night." She resumed her work on her spear and continued, "Several theories have been hatched regarding the matter." She looked at Lothíriel, gauging her reaction.

          Lothíriel tried to breathe naturally. She knew this would happen.

          "Really? What have they been saying?" She tried to mask her nerves with nonchalance.

          "Well, the younger lads swear you are an elf. Of course, they have never laid eyes on one, but we let them think so." She started, amused. "Many think you are a spy, but none seem able to name those for whom you are spying. We tell them that for a spy, you are not subtle." She emphasized the last word. "Others, like me, think you are highborn. But we only think so because only a lady who is used to men obeying her would ever speak to Éothain the way you did on the plains." At this, she chuckled. "Yet the wisest among us told us it was none of our business. We are far less boring than they." Éothain. She recalled the clear call from her vision. It was a name. And it belonged to the commander she met on the fields. Have I foreseen his death?

          "Éothain? Who is he?" She asked, cautiously.

          Ildelith pointed over to the distance behind Lothíriel with the tip of her spear. There was the man, engrossed in a conversation with a shieldmaiden.

          "He is the captain of the western éored." Lothíriel's confusion was apparent. "The captain is the marshal's first rider. His command is second only to the Lord Marshal's, and he is sworn to take up his banner if the marshal himself is injured, missing or dead, until Théoden King appoints a new Third Marshal to command the land and armies of the East of Rohan.

          "I see." Lothíriel nodded in understanding. "Is he a good man?" She wondered out loud. He had seemed cold and distant to her on the plains, yet she now feared for him. She was certain. The one clear word in her vision was his name.

          "Indeed." Ildelith answered proudly. "He is an example to us all. He rose through the ranks of the Rohirrim because of his skill with sword and spear, and not because of his heritage. He and the marshal were childhood friends, and for a time we thought they would become brothers, as Lady Éowyn, the marshal's sister, was smitten with him. Some say he returned her feelings, but it was known that his humble ancestry would never allow him to pursue her, even if he conquered every rank within his reach. Lady Éowyn is, after all, the only lady with King's blood in Rohan."

          "Rohan has no queen?" Lothíriel asked, surprised.

          "Not for years, no. And the King himself had only one son, Théodred Prince. As his cousin, Lady Éowyn acts as the Lady of Edoras, and of Rohan, really." Ildelith mused.

          "And Lord Éothain, is he a good leader?" She asked.

          "A good leader and a good warrior. He has bested Éomer Marshal in single combat, and he in turn is the only one who has been known to defeat Théodred Prince in a swordfight, whose skills are the words of legend."

          Lothíriel considered Ildelith's words for some moments. Rohan must pride itself in their leaders being renowned warriors. Did they not value diplomacy and wisdom as much as Amrothians did in her father? He was foremost praised as a commander and military strategist rather than as a swordsman.

          "I admit, it is strange to me to see a maiden in mail armor. I gather this is the norm in these lands?" Lothíriel hoped the shieldmaiden would not be offended by her thoughts.

          "It is a deep tradition, reaching the youngest days of our people." She explained. "There are some women among the éored of Rohan, yet many who desire to become shieldmaidens do not do so."

          "Why not?"

          "For various reasons. First, we must train vigorously from a very young age, as any young lad does. Our skills must match theirs equally, but not every lass is encouraged to pick up a sword and shield as soon as they are able. Then, riders do not marry shieldmaidens. They want their wives to bear them sons and daughters, and a shieldmaiden may not bear children. Fathers want their firstborn daughters to marry the King's riders, an honorable rank, and so only younger daughters tend to become shieldmaidens, or else those who were expected to marry below their station."

          Lothíriel's undaunted interest in her explanation ushered her to go on. "Besides that, to be granted the rank of shieldmaiden, one must best a rider in single combat. Their strength, experience, and endurance usually proves to be too much for novices, especially for those who began their training late in their childhoods. It is challenging, but it is also a great honor to receive the rank of shieldmaiden." She looked at Lothíriel firmly. "But enough about us. Tell me about you. Who are you, truly?"

          "I am a diplomat's daughter from Gondor." Her answer was mechanical. Would Ildelith know she was insincere? "My father sent me to hide in Rohan while he negotiates peace treaties with dangerous enemies. Gondor has been under attack by corsairs and tribesmen in service of the East and the amount and frequency of these attacks have only increased as of late. They are not honorable people. I am my father's only daughter, and before he gave them a chance to take advantage of that fact, he requested the Lord Marshal to hide me until negotiations are completed."

          It pained her to lie about her father. She truly was his only daughter. What would he think of her now, if he knew what she had done? How long would it be before he realized Boromir had continued his journey without her? What would he do if he learned she was missing? Would he call every banner sworn under his command to raze the land until he found her, alive or dead? Or would he think her dead and mourn her while she yet lived?

          "A diplomat, huh? I guess Áwerian was right. He made you for a noblewoman. He was the most adamant among us."

          "At least I am not a spy." Lothíriel tried to smile warmly.

          "Aren't diplomats just courteous spies, though?" Lothíriel did not know whether she meant to be humorous, or whether those were her true thoughts. Upon seeing Lothíriel's confused expression, Ildelith began to laugh wildly and warmly; the sound made Lothíriel's tension fade from her muscles. Will I ever understand these people?

          As they laughed, the night grew darker. Surely, the dawn was near. A cold breeze chilled Lothíriel's bones and she shivered.

          "Are you cold?" Ildelith asked, amused and concerned at the same time.

          "Are you not?" Lothíriel answered, colder than she had intended, while she tightened her arms around her chest.

          "No, I guess not. Winters in this land are much worse than this. Even the first snow has not yet fallen."

          "It grows colder than this? How do you live?" She asked to the amusement of the shieldmaiden.

          Ildelith thought about it. "There is a saying in Rohan: hit sy inna dréora. It means something like "it lies in our blood". It means that we were made to withstand and endure. I suppose that includes a bit of cold weather."

          Hit sy inna dréora. Lothíriel pondered at the words. There was such power in the language of the horselords. Its sound was like its meaning: strong and enduring. Lothíriel smiled. She thought of what might be in her own ancestral blood.

          The sea sailed in her veins. A burning desire for freedom; to explore and experience the vast endlessness of the world. The steady wind on a silver sail, and the fiery hue of a setting sun on crystalline waters, ever rising, ever setting, everlasting. She remembered sailing under a dotted sky, each star a bright memory of her childhood. She knew them all by name. She rose her eyes to the dark sky above her. Even as far away from home as she was, she was warmed by the sight of the stars she knew, only slightly different. The sight gave her hope. She would endure.

          Lothíriel lowered her gaze to the ground and remained deep in thought. It was then that she realized her saddlebag had been placed next to her, along with her bow and quiver full of arrows. She looked at the items quizzically. Had she forgotten their presence there, too, along with the conversations during supper?

          "Éothain came while you slept. He meant to return those to you but found you asleep and decided against waking you." Lothíriel nodded slowly. She picked up the bow and traced her fingers through the intricate carvings of the elven design. The bow and quiver had been a gift from the house of the elven lord Elrond upon her departure from his domain.

          "Have you any skill with it?" A voice near her asked. She knew to whom the voice belong, as it comforted her in ways she did not yet understand. Yet it also alarmed her. Its effect on her was nearly paradoxical.

          "Not as much as I would like, my lord." She replied and turned her head to meet his eyes. She rose to her feet, then bowed her head. He gently took the bow from her hands and ran his fingers through it. He raised it and tested the strength of the string.

          "A fine weapon." He assessed. "Have you ever faced a battle?" He asked her.

          Why is he asking these things? "No, I have not." He grew concerned. He asked her to walk with him, to her own surprise. Lothíriel excused herself from Ildelith's presence and did as the marshal bade her.

          As they walked, she noticed the grounds around them. The campsite was in remarkably low ground. She knew there were open plains beyond them but they were not visible from their position. There was a thicket of trees to the west and hills to the east. On the north side a tall rock wall ran the length of her vision and only in segments did it allow passage to the plains above them. Nothing was visible on the south side. There, more hills extended, some greater than others, and any sight of the plains below was shielded from view by the earth itself.

          "At dawn, a band of orcs will attack us." Éomer stated casually, to Lothíriel's growing concern. He noticed how she froze at his words, and continued, "You need not fear. We have been expecting them. My riders are prepared." She looked around them. Horses were stabled, including her sand mare; warriors were sleeping, while others were chatting. They hardly seemed prepared.

          "How are you certain of their attack?" She asked him while he resumed walking.

          "They have been tracking us for three days. They know of our patrols through the farms and villages in the Eastfold, and became aware of us as we left the last outpost." He explained, "Since then, I divided my company. A group stayed behind in Stánweall, to defend it, in case the orcs change course. Another I sent ahead to Aldburg for the same reason. I then brought my best swordsmen and women with me to lure them away from our farms and villages and bring an end to their excursion."

          "If you know they are coming, would it not be wiser to move your company to higher ground? This area is indefensible. There is no escape through the north side, while your position would be known to anyone for miles to the south and east. Not to mention the lack of visibility through the trees on the west. From there even an amateur scout would watch us with the ability of a seasoned rogue."

          He could not help but smile at her words. She has the mind of a campaign strategist, he mused. Surely she is the daughter of a commander of war. "Yes, I know." He said simply. Infuriatingly. Then, she realized what he had done. "You... we are the bait."

          "Aye." He said.

          "You have made your company's position as vulnerable as possible... to lure the orcs with the idea of certain victory, which in turn will encourage them to attack."

          He nodded.

          "Are you so confident in your warriors that you purposefully made your position indefensible?"

          "These are the best fighters in the Eastfold."

          "Are you so certain you would stake their lives on it?" There is that challenge in her voice again. It is as if it takes her a conscious effort to treat me as a lord.

          "So would they. They are eager for the battle."

          She frowned, at a loss for words.

          He chuckled, "You think me reckless."

          You are being reckless, she thought. It is not likely to be both ambushed and victorious. Her father would never plan a battle in this way. Neither would Elphir, her eldest brother, whose passion was as militaristic as any man of Rohan's. But she was not home, she thought. And she had entirely forgotten her place. "Forgive me, my lord. I mean no offense."

          "Nor am I offended. I know it is unorthodox. But trust me, I have not gone mad." At least not on this matter. Yet he had trusted her, against all advice; a woman whose true name he did not know.

          Trust him. She did trust him. Her cousin Boromir trusted him enough to send her into his care.

          "The scouts returned an hour ago." He continued, more seriously. They had reached the western edge of the campsite by now. "The pack is around eighty orcs strong. They will attack from the south side around dawn."

          Lothíriel was visibly uneasy. He noticed it and stopped walking. He looked straight into her eyes when he spoke. "You need not fear." He assured her once more. "You are among great warriors. We will keep you safe." Lothíriel nodded, as it was all that she could do. "But, I do need you to stay here when the battle has begun. A group of riders will guard the west end of the camp, making sure none of the beasts make for the shelter of the forest once they realize they have marched towards death. They have orders to ensure your safety as well. This will be the farthest point from the heat of the battle."

          You will not give your name to those who will sacrifice everything for you, she remembered his words and a sinking feeling took over her insides. "Thank you." It was all she could say to him. Even after hiding herself from him, he sought to keep her safe. He was a man of his word. It was no wonder Boromir had sought him. She knew when her cousin came back, he and the marshal would become friends. In ways, they were very much alike.

          He gave her one last, long look and nodded confidently, then took his leave of her. Afterwards, the night and the natural darkness that came with it lingered around her, as did the cold. She returned to the camp in search of her weapon, but found the area devoid of the sleeping figures from before. The men, Ildelith among them, were wide awake and roamed through the camp, focused on various tasks. They were readying themselves for battle.

          She grabbed her elven bow and reached the western edge of the camp. There, she rested against the cold stone. She sat and held her knees close to her chest. She tried to steady her breathing and forget that a battle was imminent. That she should ride through peril only to reach a war camp was not a possibility she had considered. She thought she would be warm and safe in a rustic, charming city by now.

          She tried to sleep, and was able to for a while.

          Then she heard the roar of a battle horn. It grumbled deeply and its sound echoed through the air like thunder. It was sounded once, long and steady, then twice more in short succession. It bore the alarm of battle.

          Lothíriel tried to still the beating of her anxious heart, to no avail. The riders' focus was bent on the approaching beasts, but she could not shake from her mind the sight of Éomer, stained with blood black as night, calling frantically the name of his friend and captain.

          Two other horns answered in unison, from the center and far end of the encampment. The Rohirrim were ready for iron and blood.

Chapter Text

          A cold breeze accompanied Éomer's determined steps, while colder thoughts invaded his mind. Will this day end in victory?, he allowed himself to entertain his doubts only for a moment. Then his thoughts drifted to another. Who is she? From what is she running? Have I endangered us by allowing her to stay? The questions seemed limitless. No, he managed to assure himself, I would have endangered her by sending her away. What choice was there? None.

          His mind was an endless spiral of questions, details, and possibilities; he could not form a coherent line of thought. In this state, he approached his tent, wider and taller than the rest, and his attention fell on the man waiting for him in front of it.

          Éothain greeted his marshal respectfully and followed him inside the tent.

          "Has the last scout arrived?" asked Éomer, hoping to dominate the conversation to avoid questions to which he did not have the answers.

          "Aye, not long ago," replied his captain.

          Éomer sat at his desk and gazed at a crude map of the land, riddled with lines and letters. Boromir's letter lay beside it. He was tempted to run it through his fingers again, to search for meanings beyond the written words, but he was vastly aware of Éothain's fixation on his demeanor.

          "What does she report?" Éomer's gaze remained on the map.

          "A company of orcs, over four dozen strong, advancing more rapidly than we had thought."

          "Is she certain? The last report suggested a larger company." His eyes did not hide his concern as he looked up to face his captain.

          "I asked the same. She swears it," Éothain paused, then ventured slowly. "How shall we proceed?"

          "As planned."

          It was hard not to see the concern growing on Éothain's mind. His trust on his lord was paramount, yet he could not help a feeling of uneasiness growing from within.

          "Speak your mind, friend," Éomer commanded, his tone resigned.

          Éothain treaded carefully. Which matter was the greater concern? "Is it wise to disregard Aethel's report? The enemy has changed their behavior."

          "It is late now for a retreat. We must hold our position and see this through." There was truth to Éomer's words, and Éothain conceded so.

          "And the girl? She should not be here. We cannot promise her safety." Éomer suspected discussing the matter of their guest was unavoidable.

          "Still, she is under our protection."

          "Who is she?"

          "A diplomat's daughter," Éomer said simply, testing the strength of the lady's lies.

          "A diplomat would have never sent his daughter unescorted into a foreign land."

          Éomer recalled Sílrien's words, only you need to know it is not my true self. "Yet he did, for want of other options."

          "He must have been desperate."

          "Now is not the time to ponder," Éomer declared, rising from his seat. Éothain nodded, unsatisfied, and followed his leader to the reality awaiting them outside.

          "Are the commanders ready?" Éomer asked him, yet his gaze did not rest on the man's face, but on the southern darkness approaching them.

          "Édouard and his company guard the heart of the field. Ardith's flank stands in position at the western edge. They both await the signal." Éomer nodded.

          It was time. They were approaching. He could see their numbers in the darkness before dawn. They brought torches, which lighted the madness in their faces. They had come, not to conquer them, but to destroy them. There was no diplomacy, no parley, no bargaining with their foe. War turns us to savagery or death, if we seek to resist the evil of these beasts. They give us no other option, Éomer lamented. It would be a battle of survival. There would be no admittance of defeat until death. They were not there to win their lands, or steal their riches. They were not there to conquer and enslave their people. They were there simply to see the dominance of men destroyed, little by little. They would not rest until all men knew lay in ruin. But they would not win. Not today, not later. Rohan will endure.

          There was nothing left to do but face the impending tempest.

          "Sound the alarm," the Third Marshal ordered with noble confidence.

          The sound of the war horn thundered through the camp, lifting the spirits of every warrior who knew the sound. Éothain rung it once, then twice more in quick succession. In response, Édouard sounded his horn from the heart of the camp, signaling his warriors were ready. In the distance, Ardith sounded hers, marking the readiness and awareness at the rear of the camp. Together, the sound strengthened their hearts like lightning strengthens a storm.

          The Rohirrim were ready.

          Defiantly, Éomer drew his sword, Gúthwine, battle-friend. He would lead his éored by example. He made his way into the line from which the orcs were expected to attack. He could see the fire of their torches as lights in the distance, growing ever bigger and ever brighter. He steadied his hand and emptied the thoughts of his head. His movements descended into instinct. War was second nature to him. He needed only to let the warrior's blood run through him and his foes would know fear.

          He held his ground. Around him warriors were ready, but none would deal that first blow. Such was the marshal's honor. The honor to lead through actions. If their marshal was willing to face battle alone, who were they to be cowards in the jaws of death?

          The first orc appeared. The beasts were small, their backs bent on a downward angle, yet they were fierce and swift. There was a hunger for blood in their eyes. Ceaseless was their thirst for battle. For whom they fought, the Rohirrim did not know. They were mindless warmongers. They worshipped chaos and destroyed for its sake. It was best not to think about that which drove them. They were less than wild animals, preying upon the weak. But the Rohirrim were no prey.

          The first orc, swiftest in battle, carried both fire and iron. Upon gazing at Éomer, first and foremost among his warriors, sword at the ready, he threw his torch towards him. In one swift move, Éomer dodged it and it lighted the tent to his side until it was reduced to burnt wood and ashes. Next, the orc unsheathed two battle axes, unstained for the last time.

          Éomer kept his ground. He waited for the orc to approach. Behind it, he could see the whole strength of their battalion. But he must not focus on them now. His task was simply to down the first of the orcs to approach him, to send the message of his victory to the rest. There was no more time to think. In one savage move, the beast lunged with both axes, hoping to hack flesh in mere seconds. Éomer dodged the first axe, then parried the second with the strength of his sword. The orc's viciousness grew until after two more blows his head was removed from his shoulders. Seeing blood drawn by their marshal, the Rohirrim were now free to charge towards battle. They did not wait for the orcs to come to them. In their bravery, they ran to meet them halfway. In a matter of minutes, what was once an air of tension and stress turned into a cloud of chaos. The battle had begun.

          Fire blazed in the distance with an unrelenting fury. Lothíriel felt her fear tug at her insides and sought to still it. She gazed upon the sky and saw that not even the first of the sun's rays were yet visible. The orcs had reached them earlier than expected. What else would deviate from expectations?

          Lothíriel forced her gaze out of the now nearly starless sky and focused on the warriors around her. When had they drawn their swords? She looked around, searching for glimpses of familiarity in their faces, but there was none. Lothíriel wished Ildelith were among the warriors near her. Her strength would radiate towards her fear. But there was no familiarity in her surroundings. Only the gleam of fire reflected on the clear steel of each warrior's swords.

          The warriors were still, yet expectant. Their collective gaze was focused on the south side of the camp, where the battle had already begun. A voice startled her from her thoughts.

          "Do not let fear consume you, lady. You are among the warriors of the earth. We will not fail." Lothíriel was grateful for the man's words. She tried to answer but her speech was at a loss. All words dissipated into thoughts.

          He turned back to the others and continued, confidently, "You will witness a glorious victory! Victory for Théoden King!" The rest of the warriors cheered. It was hard to disagree with his statement. He was older than the rest, clearly a seasoned warrior. His words seemed to stir and inspire something deep in the rest of the warriors that made them ready to face death gladly. But such comfort did not reach Lothíriel. She was not a warrior, and for her, there was no glory in death, only sorrow.

          She thought of asking his name but decided against it. Could she bear knowing the name of a man about to die for her, while he did not know hers?

          The clash of iron against steel dragged her from her thoughts. She whispered a prayer for the battle to be over before it reached her.

          The sky grew lighter above them. The enemy's torches turned dim in the increasing daylight. A vile fire had taken many of the Rohirrim's tents; black smoke now clung to the air and to the violence it witnessed below.

          Like many of his warriors, the marshal's armor was green and gold no longer. The enemy's blood tainted its contours. His sword had tasted it; his boots had treaded on it. It had permeated both his body and mind.

          Éomer had no time to wonder at his capacity for violence against a threat to his realm. He gazed at the southern border where the web of fire and anger had begun. How long ago was that moment? Among clashes and blows, time seemed inexistent. His body felt like the battle had raged for hours, yet in his mind mere moments had passed. The reality eluded him.

          Sílrien. Éomer's thoughts trailed towards the strange woman whose welfare he had entrusted to his éored. That she should witness the fury of war for the first time, alone, perhaps worse, among strangers whom she did not trust and who, in turn, distrusted her, must be terrifying. Yet he had seen in her a quiet bravery, a kind of valiancy that might just be enough.

          He gazed at the remaining torches once more. There were hardly any left. Was this the extent of the enemy's strength? Was rest in sight? No, he thought with alarm. It is too soon. Something is amiss.

          The marshal turned around, and with a tremor looming in his mind, he gazed to the east. Solid stone. Emptiness. Nothing. He shifted his eyes to the west. The forest in its late autumn kaleidoscope stood tall, its tallest trees dancing in the early daylight. Shadows hid below, then crawled from beneath the boughs and personified into threat. The enemy had outplayed him.

          "Éothain!" he called to the man carrying Aldburg's sigil etched into his ivory horn. In my arrogance I have endangered us all. He pushed away his thoughts with a forceful reprimand. "The forest!"

          Éothain grasped his marshal's unspoken orders and, with a deft hand, rose his horn to his lips and blew a command familiar to the earthen warriors. Without hesitation, those who were close joined Éothain on a valiant charge towards the ones assaulting their brethren on two fronts.

          The first rays of sunshine gave hope to Lothíriel's heart. At least the darkness would trouble her no longer. She kept herself partly hidden near the rock wall. The warriors around her were all engaged in battle by now. She could do nothing but pray and observe. She prayed for the battle to end quickly and for the warriors to stand their ground and withstand its force.

          It had only been an hour, but she had seen gruesome things. Blood was everywhere. Red and black covered all fair sights with the reminder that war was fatal. But at least the marshal's strategy had worked. Lothíriel remained a few feet away from the conflict, and there were certainly less orcs in this section of the encampment, than there must have been at its core. Lothíriel allowed herself to sigh in relief. Perhaps they would be victorious after all. Perhaps the marshal's carelessness was imagined. But then Lothíriel heard something that frightened her more than any one sound had before.

          The roar of darkness. From behind them.

          Lothíriel took a few steps backwards, cautious and slow, but she soon met the coldness of adamant stone on her back. She glanced at the warriors near her, their scarcity unsettling her; where they had been confidently calling their King's name before, they now stood with swords drawn and bathed in black blood, or else they did not stand at all. Some warriors were fiercely contending against one or more foes, while others were scouting for their next mark. Only she remained untouched, yet her own battle raged in her mind.

          She gauged her options. Was to refrain from battle wise or cowardly? No answer would satisfy her. She dared not engage the enemy, yet neither could she stand idle.

          The marshal's words invaded her thoughts. They will sacrifice everything for me while I stand here and do nothing, she thought. I am not a soldier, her own voice countered, I would endanger them more if I tried being one. The debate raged endlessly until that menacing sound escaped from the forest's shadows.

          They are ambushing us, she thought frantically, and instinctually reached for her bow. As Ardith's commands flew through the battlefield, Lothíriel nocked an arrow and held it there.

          Ardith was a seasoned warrior. She was intimately aware of her surroundings in the midst of battle. She was among the first to notice that the forest hid more than shadows. Upon realizing the nature of its secrecy, she raised her voice and her commands flew through the battlefield like arrows breaking a siege. Her warriors turned to face the devilry pouring out of the forest like a dark avalanche. Soon there were two or three bloodthirsty axes for each rohirric sword.

          Lothíriel summoned all of her courage and briefly thought of her brother Erchirion proudly helping her hold a bow for the first time. She let his encouragement guide her and loosed her first arrow. By now, the day was bright enough to ease her aim, and she found, to her relief, that her first arrow found its mark. Its iron peak pierced through the skin of an orc at his leg, felling him and making him vulnerable to his enemy's justice.

          Confidently, Lothíriel nocked and loosed twice more. Both arrows broke the air near her target and nothing else. Frantically, she loosed another. Focus! She berated herself as she steadied her hand.

          She now gripped the bow until her knuckles grew white. She held her breath while she aimed and let a fifth arrow fly. The arrow clanged loudly against the orc's steel armor. Its force and sound caught the beast's angered attention when she had intended to end it.

          The orc sped towards her with murderous intent. Lothíriel hastily considered her options. Near her, a fallen rohirric sword lay, graceful in the sunlight, a blinking star in a dark sky. She grabbed and lifted it, but to her dread, she found it was too heavy for her to swing defensively. Celerity was essential. Her foe grew nearer. Lothíriel dropped the sword and decided she would not give in to death.

          With the force of fear grapping at her fingertips, she nocked one more arrow and drew her bow. The beast was close. She could hear his growls and threats as he approached her. When her arrow pierced the grey tones of his neck, she could hear the terrible choke of death.

          Lothíriel did not allow herself a moment more to think. She looked at the warriors around her and saw that they were nearly overwhelmed. Her quiver still held chances for her to come to their aid. Once and again her hands drew the string of her bow, and if they shook while she did so, no one knew. All the Rohirrim saw was that foreign stranger, the mysterious, secretive one, the one over whose presence they had speculated dryly, disregarding her own safety to join them in the fray.

          For each arrow she drew and released, she took profound breaths, but the battle seemed to know no end. The orcs appeared to have an iron will that kept them from death. Then she heard the thundering of a war horn and knew its sound, if not its meaning. Her heart found relief, even if she resisted believing it. She turned towards the hopeful sound and moments later Éothain emerged, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. He was joined by a company of warriors who had seen their share of the battle. All of them were a mosaic of green, red, and black, with a faint glimmer of gold shining through.

          The foreign lady kept aiming and loosing her arrows until her quiver was spent. More than once she struck grey flesh. She kept her attention on her surroundings, out of a desire for her own safety. One by one, she saw the orcs fall until the battle felt even again. She took a moment to breathe and hope. At the same time, her vision locked with Éothain's skilled strokes. Ildelith was right. He fought decisively, every movement sufficient. He was locked in battle against an orc taller than most. The duel ended swiftly, with Éothain's sword, Feorhlyre, deep within the orc's body.

          Then, glancing near the captain, Lothíriel saw him. A wounded orc, left for dead. He was stalking Éothain from behind, moving soundlessly towards his last prey. In his claws he grasped a noble sword that did not belong to the likes of him.

          "Éothain!" Lothíriel called at the startled captain. "Behind you!" she warned. It took the young man a moment to locate the source of the voice, and the reasoning behind it. A moment too long.

          Taking his sword from its last victim, he turned to face his attacker and swung it in defense. The orc was cut deeply across his chest, and black blood fell freely from his height. Yet the beast had plunged his stolen sword at the same time, and it pierced the leather and skin on the captain's side.

          The orc collapsed to the ground, but so did the valiant man, who landed harshly on the ground staring at a bright sky that turned dark in his eyes. The horror of what she had witnessed was matched by Éomer's piercing cry, calling Éothain's name in denial and despair, clinging to his friend's life. Her eyes caught sight of Éomer's armor, mail and leather riddled with the black blood of his duty as a warrior.

          The marshal knelt by his friends' side, and worked determinedly to bring him back, past all sense of despair. "Belīf bresnene, freówine," he spoke in his own tongue. Stay strong, friend.

          Lothíriel felt raw fear without compare. Doubtlessly, it was what she had seen and feared. But now, she could not ignore the truth. Did I foresee his death or did my vision lead me to cause it?

          The battle diminished and dispersed around them. They had prevailed, but for both the marshal and the stranger, the cost was on the verge of being too great.

Chapter Text

          The austere light of midday judged the plains of Rohan. Its white rays laid bare the violence and vengeance of the Rohirrim. Their victory lay naked among the ashes before them—bloodied, scarred, maimed. Some Riders averted their eyes, the truth of their victory too great a sight to behold; yet the fiercest of them faced all that plagued the battlefield and were made taller by it; not with pride nor pleasure, but with the becoming silence and solemnity of a warrior of Rohan. It was their duty to bear what others could not. To destroy in order to protect.

          Lothíriel's bow fell from her hand onto the grass below. For the first time since the sounding of the war horns, she allowed herself to breathe deeply, yet nothing she did would still the shaking of her fingers, the disquiet in her mind, or the fear in her heart.

          She hardly dared to glance at the fallen captain, or at the marshal knelt by his side. How could she be forgiven if his wound claimed him? Would the marshal keep his oath even after he learned the truth of his captain's passing?

          Lothíriel felt a mailed hand grip her forearm firmly and pull her back from her feet and her thoughts. "Are you wounded, wealh?" Ardith asked her in a tone as sharp as the drawn, stained sword on her right hand.

          "No," Lothíriel answered compliantly. The woman's tone froze her spirit, and, in her mind, confirmed her fear. The shieldmaiden loosened her grip without another word, then walked over to Éothain, kneeling across from Éomer. Lothíriel could hear them speaking in their native tongue, unintelligible, except in tone. She could hear the power in Éomer's voice as he spoke above those near him. There was no fear in his voice, only resolve, like a mountain withstanding a storm. From where does he draw the strength to command, even now? She wondered. Then she thought that, like the lands around them, he must have also been made to endure. Hit sy inna dréora, Ildelith had said. A warrior's strength lay in his blood.

          A man skilled in the healing arts had arrived, and he and Ardith tended to Éothain's wound where he lay. Lothíriel took her bow and empty quiver in her hands and forced herself to walk away from that place. She dared not linger. She walked away aimlessly, in search of her horse, the sun, a memory from home—anything that might bring her comfort.

          Éomer walked decisively among the ruins of the encampment. Édouard, his second rider, walked beside him, matching his pace evenly. The other officers followed closely.

          "How many have fallen?" He asked, glancing at his surroundings. The dead orcs lay littered like rocks on a field. He wanted to burn each one to ashes and bone, for the Rohirric blood they had spilt.

          "Two, my lord. Algar and Ormund." Éomer remembered their young faces. Neither had been in his éored for long. Their skills with sword and spear were enough to earn them the title of rider, yet they were not enough to save them today. Their eagerness for battle turned sour on Éomer's mind. If they had known what fate had saved for them, would they still ride with pride the way they did on the day they were chosen?

          "How many wounded?" he asked.

          "Gravely, my lord? At least two more: Rand and Halvar. Rand's wounds are many, and deep. Halvar still breathes, but his mind is failing."

          "Halvar is our best healer." And our best chance to save Éothain, he lamented.

          "He is, my lord."

          "Have Aethel tend to them. He has been teaching her the healing arts."

          "As you command," replied the older captain, his features grave and mirthless. He relayed the order immediately to one of his men.

          "How are the horses?"

          "Rested and untouched by the battle." Good, we shall have need of them, he thought.

          Éomer stopped and faced his captain. "Édouard, gather your éored. Ride swiftly to Aldburg to herald our coming. Take young Algar and Ormund with you. Their fathers will want to bury them with honor."

          "At once, my lord," he replied, taking his leave of Éomer and the other Riders.

          The marshal turned to Léogar, Éothain's most trusted sword. He placed a firm hand on the young lad's shoulder and held his gaze firmly. "It falls unto you now to lead the riders under your captain's command. Let them see the same valor in you as they do in him, and they will follow you loyally." The young rider did not let his gaze fall as he nodded, standing now straighter than before. "Burn the beasts where they lie," Éomer commanded, "let their corpses serve as a warning to the rest. Gather what supplies were spared from the fires and ready your company to depart."

          Éomer watched as Léogar departed to obey his orders. He addressed the last officer in his company, a tall, strong-armed warrior, of an age with Édouard.

          "How fares our guest?" He asked him furtively.

          "A little shaken, but unharmed," replied the old man. "I saw her last heading towards the horses."

          Éomer nodded, fighting against the regret that threatened to shadow his mind. If I had pursued the orcs instead of baiting them, they would not have cornered us like sheep.

          "She fought bravely," noted Áwerian, the sun's spear.

          The warrior's voice arrested Éomer's thoughts. "Fought?" He asked.

          "Until her quiver was spent."

          Áwerian could see the surprise in Éomer's eyes, and his features softened, knowingly. "Your first battle must have been glorious, my young lord. After all, your father trained you for it from the moment you could walk, and after he was slain, your uncle did the same." His light eyes looked deeply into the man he remembered as a young lad with a spear on one hand and a horse's reins on the other. "How do you think it was for a gentle lady, a stranger among strangers, who had never before seen a creature die by her hand or any other's?"

          Before Éomer could reply, the man he knew from boyhood had left him and his troubled thoughts behind.

          Lothíriel found her sand mare among the great horses of the Rohirrim. She was still saddled from the night before, her belongings hung from either side. She found her water skin where she had left it, and drank deeply from it, to the torment of her upturned stomach. She hardly heard Éomer's steps approaching her.

          "Lord Marshal," she bowed her head politely, her long, dark braid falling over her left shoulder.

          "My lady," he replied. "Are you well?"

          "Because of your warriors, I am unharmed," she said diplomatically, ignoring the shivers that still chilled her. "I remain indebted to you. Please, offer my gratitude to them." She averted her eyes from his presence, and caressed the light hair on her horse's mane to distract her errant thoughts. Éomer placed his hand over hers, and meant to hold it to comfort her, but she drew it back in fear of the gift that had become Éothain's curse. The risk was too great. She looked away in shame and guilt, and her eyes could not bear to meet his.

          Éomer remained silent and studied her. Her braid was unkempt, and her clothes, though less than his own, were stained with mud and black blood. Has the battle terrorized her so? Is her despair the price I must pay for my arrogance? He gave her space, and turned his attention towards her horse.

          "She seems strong for her size," Éomer noted, and lightly caressed the horse's ears. Once he stopped, the mare moved closer to him, as if she had known him all her life. Lothíriel thought she saw a faint smile before he resumed his affections.

          "She is," said Lothíriel proudly.

          "We will ride for Aldburg soon, with all haste. Will she be able to hold our speed?"

          "She is strong and swift," she answered, "but not one of the great steeds of Rohan. I dare not push her that far."

          "Nor would I ask that of you," he said firmly. "We depart within the hour. I will leave an escort behind to keep pace with your mount." Without another word, the marshal took his leave of her, his features concealing his regrets.

          The Riders of Rohan rode swiftly through the great grassy plains, alongside the rolling hills and the dimming sun. The great company had ridden for less than an hour when Halvar, son of Delgar, died of his wounds. He never woke up from the deathly dream that held him after the beast's bloodied axe broke the skin across his chest. It was then that they stopped briefly to mourn and rest. Scores of riders and the spare horses pressed on to deliver the other wounded to the chambers of healing in Aldburg as fast as they could. The Third Marshal went with them, his white horse leading them with tenacity and grace.

          The silence among the escort left behind for Lothíriel was broken by the sound of a warrior's deep voice. He sang, in his native tongue, a hymn for the fallen riders, whose lives kept the peace in the realm. The hymn was grave, yet beautiful; its sounds breaking the stillness of the wind with its jagged peaks, then embracing it with an unexpected euphony. Soon, other voices joined harmoniously, forming a solemn melody carried away by the wind. Lothíriel did not need to understand the words to grasp their meaning, though she wished she could add her voice to theirs.

          The rhythmic pounding of the earth by a dozen hooves, cracking and splitting it again and again, replaced every other sound when they resumed their journey. Save for that earthen thunder, the smaller company rode in silence and rested in silence, until the great snow-peaked mountains of the east of Rohan rose over the horizon bathed in a rosy, golden light.

          Not long thereafter, the great city of Aldburg, oldest seat of the Kings of Rohan, adorned the landscape. The gold and iron carvings on its wooden gates glowed in the sun's dying light. The mighty gates, magnificent and stalwart, groaned as they were opened before them, while a clear silver trumpet heralded their arrival. The company rode inside and dismounted, while squires and stable boys tended to the steeds and their masters.

          The city was grander than Lothíriel remembered it. On her first visit to Aldburg, she had failed to notice the intricate carvings on the walls and windowsills of buildings, and the splendor of the stone statue of Eorl the Young, the noble first King of Rohan, who ruled from his hall in this city in the early days of the horsemen.

          Lothíriel dismounted and allowed herself a moment to gaze at the city standing before her, doused in the last light of day.

          "My lady," she heard a voice call, its accent heavy with the ragged notes of the tongue of the horsemasters, "welcome to Aldburg."

          The voice belonged to a man whose features bespoke pride and honor. His tone was firm, yet not unkind, and Lothíriel found herself greeting him with the respect she bestowed on her father's advisors and councilmen.

          "I am Déorgar, steward to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, Shield of the Eastfold, and Lord of Aldburg," he stated proudly. "What is your name, fair lady?"

          "Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion, my lord," she lied, naturally, to her dismay.

          "I am no lord, Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion, but I thank you for your courtesy." He ordered a young, blond-haired boy to lead her horse away. "The Lord Marshal has tasked me with welcoming you to his fair city. Come, let me bring you to his hall." He offered his arm gallantly and Lothíriel took it, wishing she could tell him how thankful her father, the Amrothian Prince, would be at his kindness towards her.

          "Is this the first time you look upon our noble city?" The steward inquired, as he led her through the cobblestone streets leading to the marshal's hall.

          Lothíriel remembered the warm summer nights she had spent here with her cousin. They had arrived and left under a shield of darkness for want of secrecy and haste. They had dined on Rohirric delicacies in private chambers and slept upon soft featherbeds. When the moon was highest in the starry sky, she had donned her hooded cloak and walked into a raised courtyard, encircled with balconies and guarded by a fierce mountain wall on one side. From there, she could count the stars in the foreign sky or look upon the length and breadth of the city; but where she expected to find solitude, she found company, for the Lord of Aldburg had also sought the stillness of the night in this private space.

          "Yes, it is," she lied with less efficiency. "It is a fair sight."

          "As it has been since the first days of our people," replied the proud man, who then told her tales about the great warrior-kings of Rohan, who tamed the mēaras and built a kingdom of might and renown. Lothíriel found herself listening attentively, enthralled by the foreign sound of Déorgar's voice, and by the glory of the heroes in his stories.

          Soon, the steward led her up the white stone steps leading into the marshal's hall. Lothíriel raised her sights to witness the archaic texture of the columns and doors in the failing light. Its mahogany and golden hues were a stark contrast to the grays and blues of her father's castle, and where her home stood slim and tall over a sea cliff, the seat of Aldburg extended athwart the base of a mountainside, like the roots of a great tree threading over mounds of earth.

          Lothíriel was taken inside the great hall and escorted into a guest chamber, where a young auburn-haired maid drew her a hot bath, without speaking a word. Lothíriel wanted to thank her and ask for her name, but the girl would not speak, and it was doubtful that she knew the common tongue. Resigned, the princess of Dol Amroth, now exiled and tested in battle, stepped into the heat of the water, and allowed it to melt her fatigue away. It was now that she realized how sore her arms were, and how the ache in her muscles attested the arduous journey from the house of the elves to the home of the horselords.

          Sometime later, the auburn girl returned with fragrant water in a clay basin. Without bidding, the maid undid what remained of Lothíriel's braid, and washed her hair with lavender oil and cold water. Her silence permeated while she worked, and persisted once she was dressing the foreign lady in a light gray shift and crimson woolen gown, sashed at the waist, and embroidered with golden thread at the shoulders. She styled her hair in the manner of the maids of Rohan, a cascade of midnight curls dancing at her back. After the girl departed, Lothíriel stole a glance from an ornate mirror, and needlessly feared how her noble aunt would reprimand her for wearing a style meant only for a husband's eyes.

          The stillness in the room was broken by the decisive knock of a fist on a wooden door.

          "My lady," said Déorgar as he opened the door. "The Lord Marshal requests your presence."

          Lothíriel was learned enough to know when a request veiled a command, and so she followed the steward down candlelit halls and into the marshal's own chambers.

          As they approached it, the door was opened from the inside.

          "Lady Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion," Déorgar announced, as he allowed her into the room. It was a dining hall with no windows, except for two long, narrow slits on one wall. An oaken dining table stretched across the room, long enough to sit fourteen, lit by a hanging chandelier and two glowing candelabra. The chairs were tall and cushioned, but there were none on the table's sides, the customary place reserved for the Lord and Lady of Dol Amroth, a seat Lothíriel had taken upon her mother's passing.

          Éomer stood respectfully when Lothíriel approached the table, and offered her the seat across his own, at its center. The servants brought platters and trays full of meat, bread, and fruits, and goblets full of dark wine. Lothíriel had paid little attention to her hunger since the battle had turned her stomach, but the compelling aroma of the savory spices renewed her appetite.

          Once the food was set before them, Éomer sent his servants away. He stole a few glances at his guest while he ate, noting the delicacy with which she grazed at the fruit and the honeyed bread. She raised a goblet of wine to her lips and drank deeply; the potency of its spices taking her by surprise. Éomer chuckled lightheartedly, and she smiled faintly, but their silence returned, and neither yielded a word.

          The silence began to unsettle her. It made apparent her predicament. Never before had she dined alone with a man who was not her kin. Outside the doors, there were no guards sworn to protect her. There were no brothers, fierce Amrothian warriors, who would scour both land and sea to keep her safe. No father whose wrath would consume any who endangered her. She was alone in a foreign land and unaided, save for the man who sat before her, whose honor she must trust blindly and unreservedly.

          She felt she must strangle the silence before it strangled her. Was this how he meant to learn the truth from her lips, armed with silence and an unrelenting patience? She thought that she would never give in, but, in the end, she could bear it no longer.

          "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Marshal," she said regally. He drank from his own goblet, nodded, and remained silent, watching her intently, exasperatingly.

          She matched his gaze and held it defiantly, studying his features openly, the way she knew he had studied hers. He was no longer wearing plate and mail armor, so no longer did the stains of battle riddle his appearance. He was dressed simply, yet elegantly, as becomes a lord of Rohan. His pale hair was held back behind his ears, and no helmet concealed his features, nor distracted from the incessant stare of his dark eyes. There was nothing in those eyes that betrayed his thoughts.

          He drank again and met her gaze. How strange it was for a maiden of her features to be dressed in the style of a maid of Rohan; how stranger still that this nameless maid could be, at times, both noble and audacious; timid and bold.

          Defeated, she drew her sight back to the table. "How fares your captain?" She asked softly, as if afraid for the man's life.

          "He lives still," Éomer replied simply, knowing that his heart would break if he gave more thought to the fate of his oldest friend, whose battle with the orcs had not yet ended.

          Lothíriel was tempted to admit what happened, yet she could not do so without also revealing the secret she was sworn to protect.

          "I saw it happen," she treaded carefully, knowing that the full meaning of her words would be lost to him. "One of the beasts raised a stolen sword to his back, and I called his attention to it, costing him too long a moment." The wetness of her eyes did not go unnoticed, and that was when Éomer understood.

          "Éothain is an expert fighter," he told her. "You must not judge yourself guilty of his actions." Would he think the same if he knew the rest?

          "Déorgar tells me you were fascinated with the sights of our city," he offered kindly. "How does it compare to your homeland?"

          Lothíriel took a moment to interpret his intent. "It is a fair city," she answered resolutely.

          He casually sipped the last of his wine, though his eyes never left hers. "Not much has changed since you were here last."

          She felt all heat disappear from her core, the impact of his words evident in her eyes. How could he remember me? "The autumn winds have embraced it," she conceded.

          He smiled confidently, knowing he had cornered her.

          "You are the lady who traveled with Boromir of Gondor on that late summer's night," he stated. "On that night we spoke on the outer courtyard beneath a cloudless sky, though you hid your face from me and departed quickly."

          Lothíriel sighed softly and nodded in agreement.

          "And on that night, Boromir confided to me that his path would take him to Rivendell, one of the last dominions of the elves. What answers did he seek there?"

          "I cannot say," Lothíriel answered fiercely.

          "You arrived at my encampment wielding an elven bow. A gift worthy of a queen. Why would the elves bestow you with such favor?" 

          Because they knew no one could help me, she lamented. The gift was out of pity. "I cannot—"

          "You are under my protection. This is my realm," he raised his voice, and the warrior's tone surfaced. "Whatever I ask, you shall answer." Lothíriel had never been commanded with such authority before. She instinctively sat straighter on the wooden seat in response.

          "These things I will not say: my name and the name of my father, my country, and my kin, the reason behind my exile, and the purpose of our journey past Aldburg. Anything else my lord wishes to know, he may ask, and I shall speak nothing but the truth," she stated firmly.

          "You do not give commands here," he replied rigidly.

          "Nor am I your subject to command," strength emanated from her every syllable.

          "You dare defy me in my own hall?" Noting his ire rising, Lothíriel opted to call upon her father's gift for diplomacy.

          "No, I do not," she spoke softly, hoping her tone would ease the tension between them. "I am reticent because our safety depends on it." She fought the impulse to cover his hand with hers, and chose to hold the sleeve over his arm instead. "Please, trust in the truth of my words." After his silence, she drew back her hand dejectedly, and drank the rest of her wine.

          He sighed deeply and relented. Somehow, he could not bear to dishearten her.

          "Who else knows you are refuged here?" He inquired.

          "Lord Elrond of Rivendell, his most trusted councilors, and the elves who escorted me as far as the Fords of Isen, though I led them to believe I meant to ride to Edoras," she answered quickly to placate him.

          "If the elves received you, and favored you enough to bestow gifts upon you, why did they not shelter you as well?"

          "The elves do not infringe upon the wars of men, and will not endanger their own for one of mortal blood," she answered, shaking her head softly. She watched as he left his seat from the table, and paced the length of the room, in turns obscuring and revealing the fireplace behind him. Lothíriel followed him with her eyes, in a failed attempt to learn his thoughts.

          "The name you have given me, Sílrien, what does it mean?"

          "It is an old name, given to a heroine in a melancholy tale written by the elves of Imladris. I came upon it in Lord Elrond's library. In Westron, it means daughter of a shining, white crown, though its meaning may be closer to the white princess."

          "You speak the tongue of the elves?" Éomer asked curiously, now sitting beside her, facing her closely.

          "Yes, fluently," she answered, proud, yet uncertain.

          "Your presence in my hall will only raise suspicion, especially among my éored," he began, as if speaking to the room instead of the dark-haired maiden who watched him closely. "Yet their disquiet will grow, the greater my efforts are to conceal you." Lothíriel remained silent.

          "If you are given a purpose here, in time, even they may grow used to you," he mused, while she listened attentively. "There is a young girl, daughter to my second rider, for whom we had thought to send for a tutor so that she may learn about the world beyond our lands. Rohan does not yet value diplomacy, but our time has darkened, and only the combined strength of the free kingdoms will endure the coming storm."

          Lothíriel felt her fears dissipate in the depths of her mind as she listened to the words spoken by her protector, the Third Marshal of the Mark; yet as he spoke, her mind wandered to his foreign features, while his, unbeknownst to her, ventured into a dream of lavender.

Chapter Text

          The wood in the fireplace burned ceaselessly near the marshal and his most enigmatic guest. There, the words that were spoken between them seemed untethered to time; hours had passed, and though the day's light had dimmed and faded, their words had not.

          Twice they had been interrupted by diligent servants; once to clear the oaken table upon which they had dined, and once more to refill their goblets with the sweet spiced wine that had brought such warmth to their spirits, yet twice they had resumed their conversation, like the water of a river after the rain has ceased.

          At some moment or another, they had moved their wooden seats closer to the fire, its warmth and earthen fragrance engulfing them as they spoke. There, they spoke of Aldburg, and of Rohan. They spoke of Gondor and of its vast, distant lands. They spoke of Édouard's eldest daughter, Éathelin, who was to be placed under Lady Sílrien's tutelage, to become learned in the ancient language of the elves, and in the histories and cultures of the lands beyond the protection of the King of the Mark. They spoke of Rúnwitan Torr, the Sage's Tower, a place of old tomes, and faded scrolls, and forgotten letters, which would serve the Gondorian diplomat's daughter as a private study, and of the humble cottage near it, which would serve as her private chambers.

          "There is more dust there than becomes a place of such wisdom and history," Éomer had lamented. "Perhaps under your care it will be again as it once was."

          Lothíriel had wondered at the longing in his voice; a longing for the glory and prosperity of a realm that lay at the edge of tempest, though its strength had not yet faltered.

          Then, silence befell them. Deep thoughts eroded their minds, as the sea erodes a rock at its edge; slowly, yet insistently. They watched the flames engulf the firewood, and allowed the silence to permeate between them.

          Solemnly, the door that led into the marshal's dining chamber was opened. Lothíriel raised her eyes towards the entrance, and recognized Déorgar, the noble steward, as he entered the chamber and inclined his head towards his lord and then towards her. His countenance had changed. There was austerity where there had been kindness when he had first greeted her into this city; gravity where there had once been mirth.

          Lothíriel's heart sank within her chest. Has Éothain succumbed to his wound? She turned in her seat to gauge the marshal's reaction. His features had turned to stone, and she saw him stand, resolute, as Déorgar spoke what he had already understood merely by his presence.

          "My lord," the steward said. "The pyres are ready to be lit."

          Lothíriel stood as well, instinctually, not quite understanding the steward's meaning, but nonetheless recognizing the importance of his words.

          "Will my lady be joining us?" Déorgar asked the lady whom he thought was named Sílrien, and, though the question was addressed to her, she knew it was meant for his lord. Apprehension bled through the steward's words, and she held her tongue, though she desperately longed to know whether what she had come to fear the most had come to pass.

          Éomer did not speak immediately. His mind tortured him with Áwerian's words. He had not shielded her from the despair of battle, but he could still shield her from the grief of the toll it exacted. Then, he remembered that she had fought alongside the warriors and shieldmaidens of his éored, who would all gather to witness the great fires that would lay the spirits of the fallen to rest after their bodies had been interred, as was their right, having partaken in the same battle that had claimed their lives. Arrows fell upon their enemies by her hand. Has she not earned that same right?

          She could bear the silence no longer. She had to know. "Please, my lords. Enlighten me. Where would I accompany you?"

          "To witness the lighting of the pyres, my lady. An ancient tradition among our people. Our way of honoring the fallen after their final battle," the steward explained.

          Lothíriel allowed his words to illuminate her. They seek to lay their warriors to rest.

          She was no stranger to such traditions. In her homeland, the greatest warriors were laid upon a sailing ship that was then set ablaze, fire and water intermingling in the horizon until the flames extinguished and their bones sunk to unknown depths. Her own mother was laid to rest in this manner, though she had been laid first upon a bed of flowers, and no sail darkened the last rays of sunlight to ever touch her gentle face.

          Lothíriel had no desire to revive those harrowing memories, yet duty compelled her. Duty to those who fell, perhaps protecting her, perhaps not, she would never know, just as they would never know her true name, as she had been warned. Duty compelled her to go and witness their final rest; duty, honor, and the entwining tendrils of guilt encircling her heart.

          She gathered her courage and banished her apprehension from her mind, the way she did before plunging from a cliffside into deep, cold waters—aware of what awaited afterwards.

          "With my lord marshal's leave, I would witness this. The valor of the fallen should be honored. I was there when they fell, I should be there when they are remembered."

          Éomer regarded her for a moment. He saw no trace of hesitation in her features. She fought bravely, he remembered Áwerian telling him, until her quiver was spent. That bravery is what he now saw in her eyes. He recognized it and respected it, and knew then that he neither should nor would deprive her of honoring those who had fallen.

          "As it pleases you," he decided, and motioned for her to lead the way, walking behind her, followed by the noble steward and the two guards that had remained vigilant at their door while he and his guest had spoken the evening away.

          Midnight was upon them. It was at this hour, when the night was darkest, that the pyres were to be lit. The people of Aldburg, the third marshal's éored among them, had gathered in the heart of the city to witness the event. They made way for the Lord of Aldburg as he approached them, but extended no such gesture to the foreign diplomat's daughter. Lothíriel felt mistrustful eyes upon her.

          The statue of young Eorl King watched over the grief of his Eorlingas, the wood having been laid at his feet in a great circle. Four tall wooden piles were placed equidistantly within that great circle; one for each of those who were claimed by the orc's bloodlust. The people of Aldburg also encircled the statue. The sombre marshal was lost to Lothíriel's sight as he approached it, and she made to step closer, to better watch the proceedings, but Déorgar, who had not left her side, stilled her movements by taking a gentle hold of her arm.

          "You should approach no further, my lady," he whispered to her. "Presence in the inner circle is the right of the bereft." Lothíriel fell back to his side, her ignorance shaming her into silence.

          Soon afterwards, she caught glimpses of a wooden torch, masterfully ornamented with iron and gold, being lit by Éomer's hand. She saw how he raised it over his height to illuminate the faces of those who were gathered there, and how the words he had spoken carried the same burning strength as the flame he held up high. His language was the earth itself, its tones cold, firm, and resolute, and she knew he spoke of the enemy without understanding his words. The flames crackled as they lit the midnight sky.

          Lothíriel caught sight of Édouard, the second rider, standing behind his lord marshal, and found that she feared him. His bearing was formidable and served as a reminder of how her deception would lead her to tutor his young daughter, and she feared what he would do if he learned the truth. To his side the third rider, Ardith, stood proudly, her countenance unreadable. Lothíriel found that she feared her as well, for hers was the first word of contempt that had been directed towards her, though she knew it would not be the last. I am but seawater in a desert; unneeded, and unwanted, Lothíriel admitted, and did all she could to adopt the severity of the people around her, out of respect for those whom they were honoring, but also out of fear that her resolve would burn away with the charred wood at young Eorl's feet.

          Lothíriel listened attentively. Among the words spoken in that entrancing tongue she heard their names. Algar, son of Elgard was named first, as the flames consumed the easternmost pyre. His mother's grief could have pierced the very mountain that sheltered their city. The marshal clasped the forearm of an ageing man, who nodded, then went to tend to the wailing woman.

          Orson, whose chief pride was his slain son Ormond, walked forward on a heavy limp, proudly accepting the marshal's arm as it was extended. The words whispered between them were taken by the wind to lay among the smoke and ashes.

          Lothíriel's heart ached deeply as she heard the name of the healer whose eyes had forever darkened on the ride to Aldburg, and for whom solemn hymns were sung to the mountains of the Mark. Halvar, son of Delgar, must have been beloved, for a shieldmaiden was among those to receive his fire, and, despite her proud bearing, tears trailed the lines of her face. Her name was Aethel, Lothíriel would later learn, but at that moment, she had just been one more unknown face.

          As the fourth pyre was lit, and Rand, son of Wolfe, was named, Lothíriel realized that more had been claimed by the battle than she had thought. She stilled her heart against the melancholy that threatened her, but she could bear the fire no longer. Where the Eorlingas seemed to gain comfort from the manner in which the flames consumed the firewood, the warmth emanating from them did not reach her own heart.

          All four pyres burned wildly. The flames defied the very night that permeated in the sky above them. Songs were sung in low voices, the deep rumble of the words echoing in the pathways and alleyways of the old city. Her distress had grown, and she longed to turn back, but she forced her feet to remain where they were. What was her comfort worth in the face of these warriors' last farewell?

          Déorgar had not left her side. He had looked at her on occasion, noting the way her body had tensed and her breathing had become more conscious. Her face had become pale, or so he thought, and though he knew she had seen his stare, her eyes never flinched from the flames.

          The crowd had begun to disperse when she caught a glimpse of the marshal beyond the flames. He was speaking softly to a greyed man, his hand clasping the man's shoulder, whispering words lost to the autumn wind.

          "Would my lady like to depart?" Déorgar asked her, forcing her sight unto him. It was then that she realized how her stare had been fixed upon the noble marshal.

          "Please," the lady replied quietly, a plea veiled in a whisper, and compassion found its way into Déorgar's knowing eyes.

          And so, Déorgar, the Steward of Aldburg, took her arm in his and escorted her back to the privacy of her chambers, where she had no need to stand tall and remain still.

          The Third Marshal of the Mark lay uselessly awake upon his bed. His mind would know no rest. The many pyres he had lit over his years as Lord of Aldburg did not make the flames any easier to bear. He had lost four good men in that battle.

          That reckless battle. What was victory worth against those four lives?

          The knowledge gnawed at his pride. He had led his éored into a disadvantaged position. He had not heeded the advice of his oldest friend, who still struggled to overcome his injury. He had not heeded the advice of the enigmatic stranger at the encampment, who was not a campaign strategist, not even a warrior, yet saw plainly that it was folly. Warned him that it was unwise. He had not listened. He thought the orcs' minds too feeble to strategize. Their raw urge for violence too great to afford them caution. Yet they had restrained their urges. They had planned their attack. They had pressed their advantage, and it was only the skill of the warriors under his command that afforded them their victory. At the cost of four lives.

          And yet, he forced himself into reason. What has changed? The orcs had always been too feral to organize. How could these lesser beasts outmaneuver the renowned Rohirrim? Why had they borne torches? Why seek to burn and pillage when before, violence and death had satiated them?

          It was of no use. His mind would know no rest tonight.

          He stood from the bed and donned a warm cloak over his simple clothes and departed his hall in search of clarity. He resisted the urge to go to his faithful steed and ride the night away. Instead, he made his way into the Chambers of Healing, deep within his city. Within, a tired healer led him into the private chambers where Éothain would convalesce. After he heard the door close behind him, he knelt by the young captain's side. He watched him closely for a moment, studying how his breathing had become peaceful, his chest rising and falling in restful sleep.

          Éomer sighed deeply.

          "Would that your words were here to counsel me," he lamented softly, selfishly, part of him desiring his recovery so he could ease his already troubled mind. But he knew Éothain would not mind. They had been through many trials together, and the understanding between them surpassed their most natural faults.

          Yet he had lied to him, purposefully. A diplomat's daughter, he had assured him, knowing well that the truth evaded even his own grasp.

          He sighed sharply and ran his hand from his brow to the loose strands of his hair. I shall find no rest here either, he thought bitterly, and then exited the dim chambers, parting from it more troubled than he was when he had arrived.

          A warm fire welcomed Lothíriel into her guest chambers. Upon entering, she realized how elegant its furnishings were, noticing it only now that she had been left alone. The cushions and blankets on the bed looked comfortable and inviting, and so she discarded her crimson gown, and sank beneath the covers, finally allowing her feelings free reign over her body and mind. Soon, she found that tears came, though she knew not the reason for their intrusion. Was it grief for the fallen that bothered her, or was it the lingering stress of battle? Was it fear for her future, or the poignant realization that she now dwelt among strangers who were wary of her?

          A tempest raged in her mind. She could feel its weight like a pall over her being, tensing her muscles and straining her heart. Fear was not far behind in her thoughts; fear of a fifth pyre illuminating a midnight sky.

          She tried to force her thoughts elsewhere, to no avail. They circled like a whirlwind again and again, bringing relentless torment to her spirit due to matters over which she had no control.

          She could not bring the valiant riders back to life. She could not have done anything differently to prevent their deaths. She could not heal the poor captain's wounds, and whether her vision had been meant as a warning or as a prophecy, the outcome could not now be changed. She could not make strangers less wary of her, no more than she could stop speaking falsehoods to them, if she was to keep herself safe. What she had witnessed today was but the dust and shade of a much greater threat, and Elrond the Wise had warned her that if the enemy learned of her foresight, and found a way to exploit it, her freedom and safety would be forfeit, and so too would be the fate of her homeland, and of all the free lands that still defied the enemy.

          Thus, she must bear it all—the grief, the guilt, the fear, the loneliness—or perish.

          It was of no use. Her mind would know no rest tonight.

          She removed herself from the warmth of the covers and walked from her guest chambers along the familiar hallways, her feet bare, her hair loose, her hands tightening the dark shawl she had hastily wrapped around her shoulders over her grey linen shift. The stone floor was cold and rough beneath her feet, but she cared not. She would no longer be deafened by the silence of her chambers while her mind threatened her from within.

          No door led to the inner courtyard of the marshal's hall, only an archway, and as she walked under it, she found that she remembered it from that one summer's night. She could feel the chill of the air in her extremities as she found that its unforgiving grasp was what she was seeking to distract her mind into silence. Like a plunge from a cliffside into deep, cold waters, she reminisced, and walked out into the late hours of the cold autumn night to capture the feeling of her memory. Indeed, the cold wind froze her breath and chilled her skin, but she welcomed it. Any feeling was better than the turmoil her mind had subjected her to.

          She breathed deeply, extended her arms to her sides, and raised her sight to the stars. The cold was akin to the grip of the chilled winter waters of her homeland. So potent, so relentless, that her mind was forced to focus on its feeling and forget all else—if only for a moment. A moment of reprieve was all that she needed. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

          "It was much warmer the last time I found you here."

          She gasped with surprise. She could not control how hastened her breathing became at the sound of that voice. How long has it been since he arrived?

          It dawned on her how strange she must have looked, embracing the stars in the open sky in the cold and stillness of the late night. She felt foolish for having come here, and reprimanded herself, noting that she was no longer the Lady of the Sea, whose eccentricities went unquestioned, and who could not intrude on anyone's privacy, save for her own father's.

          But here, she was a guest of no stature, and she had intruded on the privacy of her gracious host. She resolved to apologize but found for once that she did not know what to say, especially upon seeing that he, too, had discarded his more elegant clothing, and that he looked as disheveled as she thought she did in that instant. So, she said nothing at all, but inclined her head courteously, brought her arms back around her, and awaited his reaction patiently.

          He looked at her, and studied her. As he had neared his private courtyard, seeking the stillness of the night, he had noticed her embracing it, barefoot and lightly garbed, on its coldest hour. The sight had perplexed him into silence, until he realized he was staring, and thought it best to make his presence known. But now she stood before him, abashed, and would not say a word.

          Her gaze lowered to the ground. Why does she fall silent now, after speaking her mind at every turn? Have the pyres affected her as much as the battle did before them?

          He thought of reaching out and placing a hand over her shoulder to raise her spirits, but he remembered the apprehension in her eyes when he had meant to hold her hand in comfort, and thought it better to keep his distance.

          With her gaze turned from him, he allowed himself a moment to watch her features carefully, but did not know whether it was sadness, loneliness, or fear that he saw there, nor could he tell whether it was something altogether different from his suspicions. How can I help her, when she hides so much? He thought, displeased, but then remembered that she had promised him veracity in all matters that did not regard her exile.

          His delayed reaction unnerved her, and brought forth the words from her lips. "I should not have intruded upon your private space, my lord. Forgive me. With your leave," she said respectfully, then sought to walk past him, back into the torch-lit hallways that would lead her back into the warmth of her guest chambers.

          "Stay," came his clear reply, and she acquiesced, though, in her mind lay a silent protest. It was clear to her that he was used to being obeyed, but also that it was she who was not used to being commanded. "What troubles you?" He asked her simply, testing whether she would keep true to her word.

          She said nothing at first. To her shame, she considered speaking another lie, but, in the end, she could not bring herself to do it. She had sullied the honor of her words enough. But neither could she tell him how worried she was for her beloved cousin, Lord Boromir of Gondor, whom she knew would soon depart on a most dangerous quest. Or how heartbroken she felt at having left her father's side without telling him the truth behind her journey into Imladris.

          When she had seen her maid's demise two days before it had taken place, she had been distraught beyond grief, and her only solace was confiding in her noble cousin, who had been brought to the shores of Dol Amroth by an inexplicable feeling of foreboding after he had departed to seek answers in the house of the elves.

          It was he who had suggested that she accompany him to speak with Lord Elrond half-elven, wisest among the elves, to seek answers about the dreams that had plagued him and the visions that had tormented her. And so, he persuaded her father into allowing him her company, promising to care for her and to show her the world beyond the shores of Belfalas, perhaps even shelter her in the house of the elves if the clutches of war should grasp their fair city. It was this last argument that had persuaded him into agreement, though he was loath to part with his only daughter.

          And so, Lord Boromir, heir to the Steward of Gondor, and Lady Lothíriel, daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, set out on a long, exhausting journey that had parted her from the love, comfort, and wisdom of her father. That she had not thought to confide in him was a heavy load upon her heart; and yet, although the decision had been born out of fear, perhaps it was the wisest choice.

          But now that she was no longer in the safe haven of Rivendell, her guilt had increased tenfold, as she knew her father thought her safe in the elven homeland, when in truth, they would not shelter someone who could bring as much danger to their lands as she could. All she could do now was wish that spring would hasten so that she could be reunited with the only kin who knew of her plight, and who would know what to do next.

          The marshal patiently awaited her answer, and watched her struggling to find the words she needed. He moved closer to the stone railing and looked over his sleeping city. How many others lie restless in Aldburg tonight?

          "I am a long way from home," she replied softly and walked beside him, resting her arms on the same cold stone railing, overlooking the same city, but, unlike him, finding no comfort in the sight.

          He said nothing further and she was glad for it. She feared she would not be able to allay the storm within her if it broke through. Its severity would consume her.

          "What troubles you?" She asked in turn, robbing him of his own words. A subtle smile appeared briefly on his lips, and he chuckled mirthlessly. Indeed, she was no lady of the Mark, for when she spoke to him naturally, she did so without the deference that befitted his rank, and thus he suspected that nobility was the source of what any other would have named impertinence, although he found that he delighted in it.

          He tested his words in his mind, not understanding what brought him to bare his feelings to this most enigmatic stranger, this unknown foreigner, unknown save for one summer night, one brief letter, and one vow of secrecy.

          "Your disquiet is my doing," he finally admitted, yet said nothing of his guilt over his fallen riders, his doubt at his leadership in the battlefield, or his fear at the unusual sagacity of the enemy; even so, he suspected, neither had she laid bare all that afflicted her.

          She could perceive the guilt in his tone, so akin to the one she felt in hers. Where is the confident, proud, even arrogant man whose aid I besought on the plains of the Mark?

          "It is not," she declared, truthfully, and turned to look deep into his eyes to assure him of her sincerity. "Were it not for your efforts, I would have been forlorn."

          "I should have sent you away, escorted, the moment you arrived; spared you the despair of battle and the grief that comes with it," he countered, and harshly reminded himself that she to whom he spoke was a stranger, an outlander, and that he should be guarding his thoughts and deciphering hers, to ascertain what kind of threat she posed to his realm.

          She did not know whether she agreed with him. It would be idyllic to be sheltered from war, but, as she learned in the elven council that brought her to this place, sooner or later all the free peoples of the world would have to face the evils of war, and so, she was glad that she was now battle-tested and would no longer have to wonder whether she would survive her first encounter with the enemy.

          She knew that her presence was not the only care that burdened him, but she dared not press him further. And in that moment, she remembered the words her father had spoken to his eldest son in the moment when he most needed to hear them.

          "A drop of doubt leads to a well of despair," she quoted him softly, and fixed her gaze upon the horizon, beyond the sleeping city, to the edge of the world. She shivered involuntarily, and tightened the shawl over her garments, and regretted the state of her attire, and the bareness of her feet, but she could not regret having intruded upon this space, where she found the comfort of her father's wisdom, and felt his love engulf her through her memories, and her heart was thus gladdened.

          It was he who was now at a loss for words, and he could only wonder at how her features had relaxed, and how her worries had lessened, though he could not understand why. He watched her rest over the railing; as she pulled her arms closer to herself, he unfastened his cloak and gently draped it over her shoulders. The gesture surprised her, but she welcomed it, offering her sincere gratitude. She pulled the cloth closer to her body and held it tightly, relishing its warmth, while he noted, to his relief, that she did not pull away the way she had done before.

          No other words were spoken between them until she asked for his leave to retire to her chambers, and, raising no objection, he led her back through the torch-lit halls, neither of them aware of the extent to which they had assuaged each other's fears.

Chapter Text

          The Third Marshal of the Mark opened his eyes to the unforgiving flood of daybreak that threatened to break even through the stone walls of his bedchamber. His most present desire was to rebel against the brightness and claim a few more hours of rest, yet it could not be so. The day was born anew, and there were matters that required his attention, though there were always matters that required his attention.

          Dispassionately, he rose from his pillared bed. Tension gnawed at the muscles in his body, while scattered thoughts clouded his mind like a dense fog on winter’s morn. Under this fog, he walked over to a clay basin filled with clear, cold water, and washed the night away from his face.

          Not long thereafter, a voice called from behind his chamber door. As the marshal bid him enter, Déorgar emerged from the entrance bearing formal greetings despite years of faithful service both to him and to his father before him; time that would have afforded anyone a degree of familiarity with the ruling Lord of Aldburg. Yet Déorgar remained as courteous as he was on his first day as the steward of the marshal’s household, and Éomer could not begrudge him his courtesy. Earlier in his years, when he was bestowed the rank of marshal by Théoden King, it was in part due to Déorgar’s loyalty and perceptiveness that he had learned to traverse through the subtler trials of leadership and command.

          “How did you sleep, my lord?” He asked gently, as he placed a tray of hearty food and drink on a small table that lay before an armchair.

          “Well enough,” the marshal replied, then sat upon the cushions of the armchair and began his meal with a deep drink of the cold, bitter ale he was brought. “Have you visited the Chambers of Healing this morning?”

          “I have, my lord. Lord Éothain’s condition did not worsen through the night. Béorric expects he shall awaken soon.”

          Éomer nodded thoughtfully, then continued eating.

          “Lady Sílrien still sleeps as well,” the man informed him. “I thought it might be sensible not to disturb her rest.”

          Éomer met his steward’s eyes momentarily, then repressed a smile. I should not be surprised, he thought as he drank more of the cold ale. Hardly a shadow moves between the torches in these halls that does not rouse my steward’s awareness.

          “Good,” he replied. “Let her rest. Her journey has been long.”

          “Indeed,” Déorgar mused. “Is she not the reserved young lady whom my lord sheltered along with the Heir of Gondor this past summer?”

          Not one single shadow, Éomer conceded in his mind. “She is,” he said plainly.

          “Her demeanor seemed familiar,” the steward admitted, then paused, considering his words. At length, he spoke again. “A valiant spirit lies within her, I think.”

          The words consumed Éomer’s thoughts. Had he not come to notice it as well? The valiancy with which she sought his aid? The solemnity with which she had witnessed the flaming pyres? He recalled the sight of her beyond the flames. Her bearing had been as stone. If her hair had not been the color of the midnight sky above them, he might have mistaken her for a shieldmaiden of the Mark, upholding the ancient, noble traditions of her realm.

          Silence overcame him, and Déorgar spared a studious glance at his marshal. The older man’s features softened, unbeknownst to the thoughtful man, and at last he spoke, “Shall I convene the riders, my lord?”

          “Aye,” was all he ventured to say.

          Éomer walked through the familiar hallways that led into the great dining hall at the heart of his seat in Aldburg; its rustic elegance was one of the qualities that made the ancient city the primeval jewel in the annals of Rohan, crafted in conquest and might.

          The great hall was nearly deserted save for a number of squires whose lords were busier than they were, and for the serving girls who giggled patiently at what they knew were overwrought tales of grandeur. Soon, the joy of mid-winter festivities would engulf this place, and Éomer held the expectation that on those days the tales would be grander and the laughter more genuine.

          The marshal’s steps took him to a postern door that led to his council chamber. The single guard that was posted at the entrance stood straighter at his marshal’s approach and greeted him respectfully as he allowed him entrance into the private room under his guard.

          Once Éomer stepped within the chamber, his council rose from the seats that were placed around the table at its center. Déorgar had summoned Édouard and Ardith, his second and third riders, as well as youthful Léogar, advising in Éothain’s stead. Déorgar bowed respectfully to his lord, then walked towards the door of the chamber and closed it behind him, standing vigilant in front of the only entrance to this private space.

          The chamber was as private as it was barren. Both light and air were only allowed within the chamber by three tall, narrow slits on the concave stone wall at its far end. Two braziers were lit, one on either windowless side of the chamber, while an assortment of candles illuminated a collection of detailed maps of the King’s realm that were laid on the otherwise desolate council’s table.

          The hard, cold walls that were graced with neither door nor window displayed a proud banner descended from the house of Éofor, a resplendent golden spear over a field of grass with a white-capped mountain standing watch behind it, a banner which had been passed from father to son, each bequeathal subtly varying its design, until it was time for Éomund to bear it as the emblem of his house upon his son’s birth. On that day, he had two white stars embroidered on the pale sky depicted in the banner he inherited, one for his beloved wife and one for the son she bore him. Some time later, he had a third star added, in honor of the birth of his daughter.

          The King’s banner hung beside it, a fierce mearh , a single steed of the renowned mēaras , white upon a field interwoven with threads of gold, verdant, and crimson. This had been the banner of Eorl himself, passed down through his son Brego in an unbroken line until it was flown proudly by Théoden since the dawn that saw him crowned King of the Mark.

          Éomer himself remained childless, and thus carried no banner of his own house, but instead displayed his father’s colors, both in the intimacy of this chamber, and out in the ferocity of the battlefield. Such was the banner that was hung on the great hall of Aldburg when Éomer and his sister were innocent children filling their father’s heart with laughter and delight, in the warmth of their mother’s embrace. An embrace of which they were both deprived far earlier than they deserved.

          He allowed himself the bittersweetness of remembrance. He recalled how her hair had been golden, and how her eyes had been a graceful shade of amber that had always looked upon him with a mother’s love. The pain of losing her was like poison in his heart; a cruel venom for which there was no balm.

          Strenuously, he turned his thoughts to his riders. He could not allow himself to stray from his duty.

          “What news of Stánweall?” The marshal inquired unceremoniously, as he walked towards the center of the chamber to take his seat amid his council.

          “Cerdic arrived before the dawn broke, bearing tidings, my lord,” Édouard announced, his voice dispassionate. “Our riders have not yet departed the outpost. They were besieged at noon the day before last. Their commander seeks your leave to remain in the village for at least a fortnight, to defend it in case of future raids.”

          “Attacked, under the day’s brightest sunlight, by orcs?” Éomer asked in disbelief, the shadow of fear encroaching on the deepest reaches of his mind. Why would orcs, whose abhorrence of daylight rivaled only their detestation of mankind, venture to crush them under the brightest sun?

          “No, my lord,” Édouard clarified. “The assailants were tribesmen from the hills of Dunland, rogues and spearmen among their ranks.”

          “Dunlendings?” Ardith asked, contempt pouring out of that sole word. Léogar, youngest in years and experience among the members of this council, remained silent.

          “They grow bolder as well,” Éomer mused softly, more to himself than to his riders.

          “Cerdic reports that his commander has reason to believe that a Dunlending tribe has settled on the southern hills,” Édouard continued. “It seems that their greed for the King’s lands has risen of late.”

          “Have any wildmen been sighted near the southern villages?” Éomer asked him.

          “None have been reported, my lord,” Édouard assured him, then continued, “though it is possible that their presence has been well concealed.”

          “Send a company of your éored to patrol the southernmost villages along the river. Instruct them to occupy the old garrison there, before it decays into rubble. Charge them with finding the Dunlendings’ encampment and have them keep a watchful eye over Éastan. Of all the river villages, it is by far the most vulnerable to raids.” Éomer commanded him.

          “My éored would see it done, lord marshal, but that is not all that Cerdic reports,” Édouard’s tone grew colder with each word. “After the attack upon Stánweall was repelled, a wildman was taken prisoner by our riders. Cerdic swears that despite his commander’s efforts, the man could not be brought to reveal the secrets of his tribe. Once his sentence was passed, he spoke vile tales of the razing of villages and of fire and poison upon the Mark, all in the name of the Hand. He then brandished a hidden blade and made his own end.”

          “The Hand?” Ardith echoed, concerned. Her eyes pressed into Édouard’s, questioningly. Presently, she gave voice to her thoughts, “These wildmen must be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly, lest they act on this threat.” The fierceness in her voice could have stirred valor in the heart of the least valiant. Léogar looked upon her, deference and assent intermingling in his eyes.

          Édouard shook his head. “Much still remains unknown to us,” he cautioned sensibly. “We know not their true intentions, nor do we understand that which drives them. Should we draw first blood, we would expose our people to a retaliation that would be named justice by their chieftains.”

          “Their intentions were made clear when rohirric blood stained their axes and swords,” Ardith countered coldly. “They mean to bring ruin upon our people so that they may conquer our lands.”

          “What if they have shifted their ambitions?” Édouard asked her, the challenge in his voice matching the defiance in her eyes, yet neither of them relented. “Whom do they truly serve? What do they seek in the south? For years, order in their lands has crumbled, skirmishes between their tribes increasing in frequency and intensity. Which tribe serves the Hand, and which tribe serves itself? We are treading in utter darkness, and no sword can serve as light.” His gaze turned to Éomer, whose features suggested profound contemplation. “I would advise caution,” Édouard said with finality.

          Presently, Ardith turned her sight to the marshal as well. “These savages should not be left to raid our lands with impunity,” she insisted. Then, she added, “If they intend to lay claim to our southern villages, we are too far away here to deter them.”

          Édouard looked at Ardith and considered her argument. He nodded slowly, pensively. At length, he spoke once more, “Even so, an offensive strike from the Rohirrim would be just cause for open war. It would be dishonorable to attack, save in defense of our lands.”

          “Our people would rather preserve their safety than our honor,” Ardith replied callously.

          “I have heard enough,” Éomer said, and silence descended upon the chamber. His rider’s words roamed through his mind, encircling his own thoughts incessantly, until sense began to tear through. His tone was firm and resolute when he spoke again, “I will not allow these hillsmen to roam unopposed across the plains of the Eastfold. Though the first strike must not be ours, I will not leave the southern villages undefended.”

          “Édouard, muster your keenest scouts,” the marshal looked decisively at his second rider. “Charge them with finding the southern wildmen encampment, if there is one, and have them trail their movements in secret. Task them with ascertaining the identity of whom they serve.”

          “As you command, Lord Marshal,” Édouard replied, inclining his head.

          “Ardith,” he continued. “Position a company at Éastan. If the wildmen are indeed hiding among the southern hills, raiding that village would give them the greatest advantage. Your éored must defend it should our fears come to pass.”

          “My lord,” Léogar interjected before Ardith could acknowledge her orders. “I beg for the honor of defending our lands. Let these barbarians taste the steel of my spear.”

          “Léogar,” Édouard spoke, placing a firm hand upon the young rider’s shoulder. “The storm of war is one you must always be willing to endure, but never be glad to encounter, however honorable its cause.”

          Éomer was intimately familiar with the expression that had overcome Léogar’s features. He saw himself in his eyes, younger and eager to prove himself. His was the same countenance he bore when he challenged his cousin, Théodred Prince, to single combat in the training grounds of Edoras.

          “Ardith,” the marshal turned to face her. “Have you any objection?”

          “None, my lord.”

          “So be it,” he declared. “Ready your company to depart by daybreak tomorrow.”

          “Thank you, my lord,” Léogar said, as he nodded, repressing a smile.

          Éomer steeled himself as he addressed his second rider once more. “Édouard,” he began resolutely, holding his gaze with his own. “I have taken counsel with Lady Sílrien of Gondor.” There was no hint of a reaction in Édouard’s face. “She is the daughter of one of Lord Denethor’s diplomats; as such, she has been educated in matters such as the languages, histories, and cultures of the realms of men. I have learned that she even holds knowledge regarding the elves of Imladris.” He paused briefly, then continued. “I intend to employ her as a tutor for your eldest daughter. The world grows smaller and darker, and we must count diplomacy within our arsenal if we mean to outlast these times.”

          Édouard hesitated, then spoke, the shadow of a qualm lingering in his voice. “Éathelin is a bright girl, my lord, but her temperament is ill-suited to diplomacy.”

          Éomer shook his head. “She takes after you, Édouard,” he said. “Given time, she would thrive in this office.”

          “My lord—”

          “It has been arranged,” Éomer said.

          “As you command, Lord Marshal,” Édouard replied, inclining his head once more.

          “The girl is an outlander, my lord,” Ardith said. “It is likely she has fed us falsehoods from the moment Éothain found her on the plains. At best she is a foreigner, at worst she is the eyes and ears of the enemy. She should not be trusted.” Both Édouard and Léogar remained silent.

          “She is no spy, Ardith,” Éomer said. “She came to the Eastfold seeking our protection and I have given it to her.”

          “When she betrays us to the enemy, it will be us who shall need to seek the protection of others, my lord,” she replied.

          “I have made my thoughts clear. I will hear no more grievances concerning her.”

          Ardith saluted her marshal in acquiescence.

          Without another word, Éomer dismissed his council and sank deeper into his chair, resting his forehead on the palms of his hands, then running his fingers through his hair.

          By the time the Amrothian princess awakened, the morning song of birds could no longer be heard. When she opened her eyes, the guest chamber was shrouded in darkness save for the glow of the fire that still lived in the hearth. While the drowsiness of sleep still snared her, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings startled her, but once she truly awoke, she remembered where she was and how she had come to be there.

          Lothíriel rose from the featherbed. She blinked against the darkness, and let her eyes wander. The contours of the heavy drapes that hung from the chamber’s window were framed in the sun’s strong rays. The flames in the fireplace were dancing vividly. When had a dress been laid upon the bed?

          Her eyes fell on the other side of the chamber. A platter of fruits, nuts, soft breads, and rich meats was laid upon a table, and a small, elegant flagon and an adorned goblet were placed beside it. Lothíriel sat on the cushioned seat and poured the unfamiliar liquid into the goblet. Its aroma was not wholly unpleasant; thus, she ventured a taste, finding that what it lacked in offensive odors, it made up for in the strong bitterness of its flavor. Nonetheless, she drank deeply, coaxing herself to become accustomed to its taste.

          She then glanced at the small, round fruits, which looked akin to grapes, but their shades and hues delved into vibrant oranges and reds and deep purples and blues. Out of curiosity rather than hunger, she tasted them all, one by one, and found that the red ones were especially delightful, possessing a tender, refreshing sweetness in which she could perpetually indulge.

          It was sometime after she had satisfied her palate, dressed in the woolen attire laid out for her, and tamed the tangles in her hair, that a voice came to the door, its timbre laced with a heavy accent. After stealing one more glance at her appearance from an ornate mirror, she bade the voice enter, desiring to know to whom it belonged.

          “My lady,” a young man said. He was dressed in the garb of the marshal’s household guard. As he spoke, his eyes seemed to look past her. “The Lord Marshal requests your company.”

          Lothíriel gazed upon the young man pensively before she responded. “Very well,” she said at last. “Lead me to him.”

          The young man watched as the strange lady walked past him into the hallway. Once she had left the chamber, she stopped and allowed him to walk before her. She followed him past hallways, doors, guards, and servants, until he left her at the top of the white stone steps that led into the marshal’s hall. She found the marshal at the bottom of the steps, speaking to a small, auburn-haired girl.

          As she approached, the girl bowed hastily to both of them before she scurried away. Lothíriel smiled warmly at her, but she had left so quickly that her smile was only caught by the marshal.

          Éomer watched her descend the last of the steps. The deep green of her gown looked like Aldburg had gone from autumn to spring. Its golden embroidery shone in the sun’s light. After she reached him, Lothíriel bowed politely to the Lord of Aldburg, who inclined his head in return.

          “Lord Marshal,” she greeted him. He looked at her. There were changes in her; some too elusive to name, but others clear as the morning trill of birds. She seemed calmer. Less troubled. Content, even, if not comfortable . “I am told that you desired my company,” she told him.

          If she had not known him to be the lord of this city, she would not have surmised it from his appearance. He was dressed in simple designs and grey tones, devoid of ornamentation, though his garb had been woven out of elegant fabrics.

          His demeanor told her a different story. The way he stood spoke of authority and grace. If she had realized that her own bearing exuded nearly the same qualities, she would have made greater efforts to conceal them.

          “Aye, I do,” he said.

          Is he aware of how unforthcoming his words can be? The thought lingered in her mind.

          Éomer was not certain whether he had seen a smile begin to form on her lips. Silently, he began walking down the wide cobblestone street, past the perennial gaze of Eorl the Young. Lothíriel followed him and walked at his side, matching his pace evenly. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, the way she did when her father tasked her with showing his foreign guests the beauty of his castle by the sea.

          As they walked past the statue, Lothíriel’s eyes lingered on the ashen and charred remains of what had been four solemn pyres when the night had last grown darkest. Her eyes trailed to the shadows the fire had etched upon Eorl’s feet, and considered that the scars that now masked the enduring statue were an important part of the horsemen’s tradition.

          Noting her silence, and how her sight rested on the burnt wood, then averted to the road ahead of them, he found within himself the inclination to distract her from the memories of the fires.

          “Did you sleep well?” He asked her.

          “Yes, I did, my lord,” she replied. “I think that your servants went to great lengths to not disturb me. My gratitude is theirs.”

          “My steward thought it prudent to allow you time to rest,” he informed her.

          She remembered how Déorgar had greeted her into this strange city and treated her with kindness, compassion, and gallantry, and felt a pit form within her, knowing that she had twice lied to him. She fought against the urge to admonish herself, and chose to speak instead. “I will be sure to thank him upon meeting him again.”

          He nodded. “Have you eaten?”

          “I have, yes,” she said, then the smile that began to form on her lips seized his attention. “In fact, among the fruits that were brought to me, there was one that was especially delightful. It tasted like nothing I have known before. It was sweet, but not fully so, yet it was pleasing and refreshing.”

          He nodded once more, and said nothing.

          Her smile grew in earnest, though its origin did not lie with the memory of the fruit.

          “What were they?” She asked him.

          “The red ones?”

          “Yes,” she said, remembering them.

          “ Hindbergan ,” he replied. She tasted the word in her own lips and found it as alluring as the fruit itself. 

          As they walked on, children ran barefooted, chasing each other. Older boys sparred with wooden swords, while young girls spoke to each other in smiles and whispers. In the distance, Lothíriel could hear a lively song accompanied by cheers and the tune of a lute.

          After they had nearly reached the outer wall of the western border of the city, they came upon a small wooden cottage. It was then that Lothíriel understood why they had traversed through half of the city.

          Éomer stood in front of the door and opened it, beckoning her to step inside.

          Lothíriel’s gaze endeavored to survey the inside of the cottage. It consisted of a single room. Small windows on three of its four walls allowed the sunlight to bathe the furniture in its golden tones. On one side was a simple featherbed, large enough for one person to rest comfortably. An iron-studded chest lay at its feet, while a small table was placed to one of its sides, nestled under a window. A large basin rested on its surface.

          On the other side, Lothíriel noticed a humble table with two chairs. A tray of food and a flagon of wine had already been placed on it.

          A fireplace made of light stone was placed on the deepest wall of the cottage; small, leather-bound books were placed on its mantle, while strange objects held them in place on each side. A single armchair sat in front of the hearth, a rug resting under its feet.

          “This cottage will serve as your quarters during your stay in my city,” Éomer told her. “The serving girl to whom I was speaking earlier, Arleigh, will bring you food and drink every morning, as well as whatever else you require. Déorgar will visit you at the end of every week to deliver the coin you will earn in my service.” The marshal said, standing near the door of the cottage.

          She turned to face him. “That is not necessary, my lord. Our agreement more than rewards any service I may render.”

          “How shall I explain our agreement to my steward?” He asked her.

          Lothíriel fell silent and nodded slowly, while her mind berated her for her ignorance.

          “Come,” the marshal beckoned her towards the sunlit streets. “Let us visit the Sage’s Tower.”

          Lothíriel followed him past an alleyway and two other buildings until they came upon an old tower, built out of gray stone.

          “ Rúnwitan Torr ,” Éomer announced in a whisper, as he drew the old key from his pocket. Lothíriel looked at the tall tower and admired the runes that had been etched on its stone face, as well as the lines that were carved to resemble vines of ivy. The tower looked steadfast and ancient, yet elegant and beautiful, much like the city it overlooked from its highest step.

          “I apologize for its state of disarray,” Éomer told her as she walked past the threshold and into the wonders that awaited her. She could feel the history of the horsemen emanating from the stone walls.

          The door led into a circular sitting room. In its far end, across from the single entrance, lay a large window. Its wide wooden sill was lined with red and purple cushions embroidered with silver thread. Books were littered on the floor near it and some were still open, revealing the last page someone had read in them.

          Closer to the entrance, a narrow wooden table was placed against the wall, elegantly carved out of a strong, pale wood. On it stood a variety of phials, some empty, some half-filled with liquids of strange colors, while empty parchments and feathered quills occupied the rest of the table’s surface. A bookcase stood to its side, but it only held a few books. Instead, its shelves were lined with trinkets and antiques that Lothíriel could only assume were of great historical significance.

          On the opposite side of the circular chamber, an iron staircase, elegant in its narrow curves, wound upwards leading to the loft on the second level of the tower. A small fireplace was nestled under its tallest part.

          “May I?” Lothíriel asked the marshal, moving towards the spiraling staircase.

          “Certainly,” he replied, and as she began to climb the steps, he followed closely behind.

          The steps lead higher than she had originally thought. Upon reaching the final step, she stood mesmerized by the bookcases that were built within the stone walls of the tower. They were taller than her, taller even than the man who stood behind her. The only respite from the shelves of endless books and tomes was a second window, similar in appearance and location to the one on the floor below it. Two broad wooden armchairs were placed in front of its warm light.

          Across the stairwell, a rich mahogany desk was placed. On it were scattered scrolls and used parchments, as well as quills dipped in dry ink, and enough wax to seal a hundred letters. Lothíriel walked towards the desk and ran her fingers through its elegant contours, tracing the patterns of the carvings engraved on its surface. Her hands reached one of the open scrolls and she took it in her hands, marvelling at the runic handwriting, wishing she could decipher its hidden meaning.

          “Who used to work here?” She wondered aloud, caught between curiosity and longing.

          “Our scroll keeper, Wulfred, before he was summoned to serve the King in Edoras,” Éomer replied, leaning against the cold iron railing of the stairwell behind him, watching as Lothíriel moved from the desk to the grand bookcase upon which a slim wooden ladder was resting. Éomer crossed his arms on his chest as he watched her.

          “It seems he left this place unexpectedly,” Lothíriel noted aimlessly as she trailed her fingers through the leather tomes that she could reach from her height.

          “That he did,” Éomer confirmed. “He was first summoned to care for the ailing scroll keeper in Edoras. After his passing, he was offered his position,” the marshal paused, then continued. “I have yet to find his replacement. I place less care than I should in matters such as this,” he reflected, more to himself, than to his guest.

          Lothíriel remained silent as her thoughts trailed to her father’s library where she had been taught to read while she was serenaded by the sounds of the sea.

          Presently, she walked over to the bookcase behind the desk and moved closer to the ladder that rested on a selection of books that sat beyond her reach. She turned around and looked at him. “May I see some of these books?” She asked him.

          He nodded, then walked closer to the ladder and held it so that she could climb it and reach a volume that had excited her curiosity.

          “Mind your step,” the marshal told her. “This ladder is older than it should be.” He held it firmly as Lothíriel climbed two of its steps. She extended her hand, then reached for a dark green tome with golden runes in its spine. She removed it from its resting place, stirring the dust on the shelf, then took it back with her down the ladder.

          As her feet stepped on the stone floor once more, she turned the book around, and traced her fingers over the letters on its spine.

          “Leo… leob… creft?” She attempted to read the strange language of the horse lords. She looked up at Éomer and smiled in defeat. Her eyes entreated him to decipher the letters that had vanquished her.

          “Léoþcraeft,” he corrected her.

          She repeated the sounds as she read the golden runes, then spoke again. “What does it mean?” She opened the book and ran her fingers through its pages. It was written expertly. Beautifully.

          “The art of poetry,” he said.

          She raised her eyes from the pages of the book. “Rohirric poetry?” She asked and he nodded. “I wonder what lines the verses of the horsemasters,” she said. After a moment, she spoke again. “May I borrow this book?”

          He considered her question. “How do you propose to read a book in Rohirric?”

          “Slowly,” she answered with a smile.

          He laughed softly, then said, “As you wish.”

          Presently, voices came to the tower’s entrance. Éomer descended the stairway and Lothíriel followed him closely. The door was opened for Édouard and a young girl whose hair carried the sun’s brightness in its threads. Behind him stood a man dressed in leather and mail armor, a sword within its scabbard at his belt.

          “My Lord Marshal,” Édouard and the man behind him bowed, while the young girl dipped into an elegant curtsy.

          Éomer returned the girl’s curtsy with a deep bow of his own, the gesture eliciting a subtle warmth in the inner reaches of Lothíriel’s heart. This is not the grave commander of war I met on the plains , she thought.

          “Lady Sílrien,” Édouard greeted her, and the warmth dissipated.

          “My lord,” she replied and inclined her head.

          “This is my eldest daughter, Éathelin,” the girl curtsied to her as well, but her eyes did not leave the cold stone floor. “I understand she is to be your charge,” he said.

          “It will be my honor to serve as her tutor, my lord,” Lothíriel said in a voice that sounded more like her father’s than her own. Then, she addressed the girl, “It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Éathelin,” Lothíriel smiled as the girl raised her pale eyes to meet hers. She looked at the strange lady, then stole a glance at her father, and lowered her gaze to the floor once more.

          “This is Wulfric, son of Ulric,” Édouard continued, gesturing to the man with broad shoulders who stood behind him. “He is charged with my daughter’s safety. He shall escort her to and from this tower, and he shall remain outside this door while she receives her lessons, for her protection.”

          To protect her from me? As she tried to veil her thoughts, Lothíriel stole a glance at the marshal, whose silence was deafening. Or to spy on me?  

          Her displeasure strengthened like a storm at sea. She willed her spirit to restrain itself.

          “Wulfric, son of Ulric,” she addressed him. “There should be no need for you to stand idly under the sun for hours while the young lady and I are engaged in our work. I would sooner have you wait comfortably within these walls.”

          Words which would have been spoken in return were stayed by the hurried voice of a man who appeared suddenly at the tower’s entrance.

          “My Lord Marshal,” the guard said, panting, beads of sweat on his brow. “Lord Éothain has awakened. Béorric sent me to inform you at once.”

          Éomer’s countenance was transfixed upon the man. Without delay, he excused himself and left the tower in large strides. His captain lingered for a second longer, then inclined his head towards Lothíriel and followed him, sparing a glance at Wulfric on his way past the door.

          Lothíriel’s mind twirled like a waterspout descending from the sky. She did not understand. Until this moment, her visions had revealed naught but the certainty of death, yet the captain lived.

          Doubt grew within her. Had she indeed seen him die? Had her interference saved him? She had even considered that she had doomed him.

          Lothíriel endeavored to focus on the memory of her vision. He had fallen. His blood had stained the grass below him. His life had deserted him, leaving him pale and breathless.

          Memories were feeble, traitorous things. How could she trust what she remembered?

          Yet if the veil of remembrance did not deceive her, one thing would be certain—the fate presaged in her visions could be averted.

Chapter Text

          Éomer, Third Marshal of Rohan, and Édouard, his second rider, entered the Chambers of Healing in great strides. In there, they found Béorric, a tall man, brown of hair, with small, tired eyes, who was dressed in a long, green robe. The master healer of Aldburg greeted Éomer and acknowledged his companion, and led them with haste to the private chamber where Éothain, first captain to the marshal, had awakened from the sleep of death.

          The smell of herbs and poultices, not all of them unpleasant, inundated them as they stepped within the chamber. The small space was barren save for the bed at its center, and the small tables at its sides. The lone window in the wall allowed both light and laughter to fill the otherwise desolate place.

          The man himself sat on the bed. His features were marred with discomfort and pain, yet they brought relief to those who thought him lost to the orc’s bloodlust. A young woman, whose slender frame nonetheless evinced discipline and strength, stood by the side of the bed, strands of her hair threatening to come loose as she worked to redress the wound in the young man’s abdomen.

          Béorric assessed the Lord of Aldburg on the details of his captain’s condition, as well as the prospects for his recovery. Afterwards, he allowed both men to converse with their friend, provided that they did not tarry, and that they allowed the convalescing man his rest. Then, he took his leave to bestow privacy upon them.

          “If you stopped moving, it would hurt less,” the woman chided Éothain as she wrapped fresh bandages around the bare muscles of his abdomen.

          “If what you are doing hurt less, I would stop moving!” He replied, then witnessed the seldom seen occurrence of his oldest friend bearing a truly joyful smile. “Éomer, if you had told me Aethel would be my healer, I would have stayed senseless a few days longer!”

          Until that moment, the sound of the marshal’s laughter had been more elusive still.

          “And if you had told me my first charge would be this difficult, I would not have traded my spear for this office!”

          “What?” The jest died in Éothain’s eyes. He turned as best he could to face the young woman. “You asked to be released from your oath?”

          Aethel turned away from him and went to clean her hands in a wooden basin.

          “How do you fare, Éothain?” Éomer asked, and his captain turned towards him, shifting into a more comfortable position.

          “Give me time and my sword will be by your side again,” he said. “How grievously was I injured?”

          Édouard sighed. “We feared the worst.”

          “Did I at least manage to strike the beast down?”

          “Aye, you did,” Éomer said.

          “That is welcome news,” the captain said softly. After a few moments, he spoke again. “What of the battle? Were our losses great?”

          “Perhaps it is best if we spoke of this at another time, Éothain,” Édouard said.

          “Tell me.”

          Éomer was quiet for a moment, then he spoke hesitantly. “They were greater than they needed to be,” he paused. “Ormond, Algar, Rand, and…” Éomer stole a glance at the woman who had returned to Éothain’s side.

          “And Halvar,” Aethel said as she wrapped the last of the bandages around Éothain’s torso.

          “Halvar?” Éothain said incredulously, then turned, ignoring the evident pain the movement caused him, and faced her again. “Oh, Aethel… I am sorry,” he said and held her hand reassuringly. “Is that why you…? Is this what he would have wanted? For you to renounce your oath for his sake?”

          “It is my choice. This is where I belong. Where I should have been…” Her voice became softer and Éothain nodded, but he did not let go of her hand. Silence enveloped them for a few moments, then the captain returned his gaze to his marshal.

          “What of the girl?” He asked. “I saw her engage the enemy after we were ambushed from the west.”

          “She was frightened, but otherwise uninjured,” Éomer told him. “Though she was distressed concerning your wound. She believes herself at fault because she called out to you before the orc struck you. Thinks she caused a distraction that nearly ended your life.”

          Éothain laughed mirthlessly. “Clearly, she is a stranger to war. When has a warrior’s focus been broken by an errant sound in the cacophony of a battlefield? Nonsense! The beast is to blame. Where is she now?”

          “In the Sage’s Tower. I have employed her as a temporary scroll keeper, of sorts. I have placed Éathelin under her tutelage as well.”

          “Indeed?” He asked, then glanced at Édouard, whose features were akin to stone.

          Silence enveloped them once more.

          “Perhaps we should allow you to rest,” Aethel said as she moved to one of the tables to prepare a sleeping draught.

          Éomer nodded and he and Édouard soon retired to allow the tired captain the peace he needed to recover from death’s call. As he turned to close the door after them, he heard Éothain’s voice call out softly to the young woman whose hand he was again holding. “Stay a while longer.”

          To Lothíriel’s surprise, the last few days had been rather peaceful.

          The day after she met Édouard’s young daughter, she was woken before dawn by the clear melody of birds. Hours earlier, when the sun had last shone brightly, she had learned of Éothain’s awakening, and the news had mystified her beyond reason. She had hastened to dismiss her new charge and the girl’s guard to conceal her errant thoughts from them. Yet once they had departed, and she was left in the privacy and transparency of her thoughts, she found that she was indeed heartened by the news—and by what the news implied.

          The man had survived her vision. The man had been the first to survive her visions.

          Whether this was because of her attempts at interference, or in spite of them, she did not know. Still, the man lived.

          Never before had she considered that what she saw could be avoided.

          Had she been meant to interfere before? Could she have saved any of the lives she had seen end? Is there anything that can be done to forestall someone’s natural passing?

          Though she possessed no answers, none of these thoughts tormented her, for the valiant captain had survived, and the hope that this brought to her heart was truly welcomed, even though it remained inexplicable.

          And so she had been able to rest through the night, until the song of birds heralded the sun.

          On that new day, she prepared to begin her new duties. She donned a comfortable gown, soft slippers, and styled her hair in a manner befitting a lady of Gondor, refusing to acknowledge that, in a mere day, she had come to miss the exhilarating freedom that wearing her hair down as the maidens of Rohan did brought her.

          The young teacher, or láréow , as Éathelin would come to call her, a vision of a cerulean evening against the clear, bright day, walked towards the Sage’s Tower—was it her tower now?—and unlocked its door. She stepped inside, then turned to close the door, when a sight arrested her movements.

          A man, watching her from the shadows of an alleyway, a short distance away.

          He was dressed raggedly, boots laced haphazardly, a tankard filled to the brim held hopelessly in his hands. He sat on the dirt floor, his back hunched against the hard wall of the building behind him, and he looked at her through the shadows of a hooded cloak that concealed his features.

          He was there every morning, and remained there every evening, his tankard never empty, his stare never ceasing.

          Though Lothíriel was loath to admit it, Wulfric, son of Ulric was indeed a welcome sight.

          On that first morning, the armed and armored man escorted the visibly apprehensive young lady to her first lesson. Steadfastly, he refused Lothíriel’s offers to join them within the tower, informing her that his post was by the door. Lothíriel let the matter rest after his third refusal.

          Afterwards, she led the girl to the second level of the tower, where they sat in the two great armchairs that faced the window, and there they could be found on most of the days that they spent together in the tower thereafter.

          In the first days of their time together, Lothíriel sought to become better acquainted with Lady Éathelin of Rohan, to the girl’s unexpected surprise. In no time at all, Lothíriel realized that it was likely that she had never before been asked about her own interests and preferences.

          And so, it did not take long for the proud captain’s daughter to lead their conversations with her questions, musings, and opinions. It was evident to Lothíriel that she had awakened in her charge a curiosity that in the past had been forced dormant.

          “Why do you never wear your hair down?” Éathelin asked her one day.

          “It is customary for an unwed lady of Gondor to wear her hair in this manner,” Lothíriel explained, the words echoing her aunt, Ivriniel, more than she cared to admit. “Hair may be worn loosely as soon as a lady is betrothed, but any sooner would be seen as untoward.”

          “Maidens in Rohan wear their hair like I do,” the girl informed her tutor, as she had come to enjoy doing, “unless they are shieldmaidens in duty or married like my mother.” 

          “Yes, I have noticed that,” Lothíriel said with a gentle smile.

          “But you looked different on the day I met you. Your hair was loose then.”

          “Yes, it was.”

          “Why?”

          “What do you think the reason was?”

          The girl thought for a few moments. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

          “Now that you know how such a simple thing can have vastly different meanings across two cultures, what would you do if you were sent to treat with the nobles of Gondor? Would you adopt their style or would you keep your own? Which choice would best serve your purpose?”

          Éathelin pondered the question.

          “Well, if I dress and style my hair the way their ladies would, I would be showing them that I have knowledge and respect for their culture, wouldn’t I? And this would make them trust me, wouldn’t it?”

          “That is a possible outcome.”

          “But if I’m willing to change my culture for theirs, wouldn’t that show them that I think Rohan’s ways are less desirable, and that we should defer to Gondor not only in that, but also in the matter I was sent to negotiate?”

          “That is a valid concern.” 

          “Then, how could I ever decide what is best, if neither choice is fully beneficial and both have clear disadvantages?”

          “How could you, indeed?” Lothíriel said, hiding her growing smile.

          The young lady spent long moments in contemplation. “Maybe there’s another way to show respect without undermining my own position? Or maybe my choice just depends on what it is I will be negotiating.”

          “You are a clever girl, mín leornestre .”

          “Thank you, mín láréow ,” the girl grinned proudly. “What if I were treating with elves instead?”

          “That is easier. Elves, particularly those who dwell in Imladris, usually defer to their guests’ customs. In that respect, they are less quick to offense than men,” Lothíriel said, then explained to the girl how proper greetings and gestures take precedence over appearance when meeting with the firstborn.

          And so days passed.

          Each morning, Lothíriel arrived at the tower in the early hues of sunlight, and worked to organize the array of tomes, scrolls, phials and relics that were left scattered around the tower in the wake of the previous scroll keeper’s haste to Edoras. Around mid-morning, she welcomed her enthusiastic apprentice, though it seemed that each morning the girl arrived earlier and departed later than expected. The focus of their studies quickly shifted to Sindarin, an activity that seemed to please her the most, and for which Lothíriel discovered the young lady possessed a natural affinity.

          In the peaceful solitude of the evenings, Lothíriel sought to improve her own knowledge of languages by studying Rohirric. Éathelin insisted on teaching her the same words, phrases, and structures she was taught in Sindarin, an act which filled the girl with such pride that Lothíriel would not discourage it.

          In these days, Lothíriel was seldom visited by anyone other than Éathelin and her stalwart guard, though on one afternoon, Éomer came personally to inquire about the progress of the girl’s tutelage. The rest of their communication was handled by messengers.

          In this manner, Lothíriel spent the first of her days in the rustic city of Aldburg.

          On a particularly cool evening, the Lady of the Sea sat quietly, encircled by the stone walls of the Sage’s Tower, her arms resting on a carved desk that no longer felt unfamiliar. The pages of two books were spread open before her, while one of her hands held a quill dipped in black ink. The fingers of her other hand traced the words written on the pages of the book closest to her.

          After she read each passage, she consulted the second book, then wrote on scattered pieces of parchment. The sun sank ever deeper into the horizon as she read, wrote, then read some more, muttering a string of unintelligible utterances as she did so.

          Some time thereafter, a sound came from the door in the first level of the tower. Lothíriel glanced at the window to her side and saw the tendrils of darkness taking root in the sky. That must be Arleigh, delivering my supper silently, again . She sighed, bade the girl enter, ignored the interruption, and continued her work.

          Silence returned to the tower after the door was closed, the sound of the quill dancing on the scroll’s surface filling the emptiness of her surroundings once more.

          Lothíriel’s attention fell again on the small book before her. She traced one of the verses with her fingers, exploring the sounds of the words. She considered each word in turn, then wrote on her scrolls.

          “Therefore, if sunlīc  means solar… and sunna is sun... and mōna is moon,” she said to herself, her tone inquisitive, “that must make mōnelīc … lunar… which means, you, my friend, are speaking of a warrior of the sun… and a maiden of the moon…”

          Éomer chuckled behind her, the sound drawing a startled cry from her lips.

          Lothíriel rose hastily from her seat and turned ungracefully to face him. She placed her hand on her chest in an attempt to calm her wild breathing.

          “Lord Marshal,” she gasped, and saw how the amusement in his features dissolved into guilt.

          “My apologies, lady,” he said, inclining his head. “I did not think you were unaware of me.”

          “I thought Arleigh had come with food and drink and left without a word, as is her wont. Forgive me, I did not mean to leave your presence unacknowledged,” she said and bowed to him.

          A strange expression momentarily took hold of the marshal’s face. “Think nothing of it,” he said. Then, he moved and stood beside her, and took a few moments to examine the scrolls and volumes on the desk. First, he glanced at the books, recognizing them immediately; then, he briefly examined her notes, and a subtle smile graced his lips.

          Lothíriel released a breath she did not realize she was holding. “Since we began our work together, Lady Éathelin has progressed in her studies, as have I,” she said contentedly. “I may now greet you in your own tongue, my lord. Gōdne ǣfen !”

          The marshal’s smile grew and lit up his eyes. “Good evening to you as well, my lady,” he said. His gaze then returned to the scattered items on the desk. “Is this how you mean to read Rohirric poetry, or is reading these poems how you mean to learn my language?”

          “If I must be truthful, I confess that I truly desire to read those poems, my lord. Learning your language to do so is merely the means to that end,” she told him.

          “And among the hundreds of books in this library, many of them written in the common tongue, this is the one that has enraptured you?” He lifted the familiar green tome with gold lettering.

          She raised her shoulders as though the matter did not merit argument. “There are few pleasures more blissful than poetry, my lord,” she said, “though among the other hundreds of books in your library, I have found one to be quite captivating.”

          “Indeed?” Éomer said, but Lothíriel gave him no answer. Instead, she walked past him towards the old wooden ladder, which was resting upon one of the bookcases. She lifted it carefully, then moved it and placed it on the bookcase behind the desk. Éomer moved to hold it firmly as she cautiously ascended its steps.

          As soon as she could reach it, Lothíriel withdrew a rather large tome from one of the upper shelves, dark beige pages bound together in black leather. She handed the book to the marshal, who turned it in his hands and studied its cover.

          “Ah, of course. The Riders and Shieldmaidens of Rohan: Tales of Honor and Valor ,” he read, then set the large volume on the desk. “A worthy selection.”

          Lothíriel smiled to herself at his approval, then began her descent from the ladder. Éomer’s hands returned to steady it, but when her foot pressed on the edge of a weak step, the rotting wood split from its side. Her ankle bent painfully, and she lost her balance.

          Swiftly, Éomer grasped both of her arms. He held her until her feet found solid ground once more. Then, he held both of her hands firmly in his own and asked her if she was well.

          She did not answer.

          He asked her again, concern spreading over his voice; still, she did not answer.

          He watched her as her eyes widened, though her stare was vacant, distant, as if she were gazing upon a translucent spirit rather than the tangible body of a man.

          He asked her once more, the edge of tension now enveloping his voice, but again, she did not respond. Can she not hear me?

          Éomer studied her features, his concern for her well-being growing like a forest fire. He saw tears begin to gather in her eyes, a sign of life within that lifeless stare. Confusion and distress grew in his heart as she remained unresponsive, gazing through and beyond him, into a world that was not there.

Chapter Text

          In the heightened tension of the Sage’s Tower, Éomer stared in bewilderment at the woman whose hands he was holding. A few moments prior, she had fallen from the old ladder, and he had inquired on her well-being, but she had given him no answer. In truth, since then, no sound had come forth from her lips.

          This was the silence in which the marshal found himself. Until the words came. 

          Words that pierced him deeper than a war spear. Words that burned him hotter than branding iron. Words he had kept buried in the deepest pit of his heart, for want of respite from sorrow.

          “ Ne héofe, mín bearn, ic sceal licge eac þín fæder, hwæne ic langielangige deorlice. ” As she spoke, her voice carried the same melodious quality he noticed on that day on the plains, yet her accent was gone, and the tone with which she spoke was painfully familiar to him. Every sound, every pause, even the distinct rhythm of the earthen language, was exactly as he remembered it.

          He let go of both of her hands and stepped backwards until his back hit a solid bookcase sooner than he had expected. Bewilderment and shock spread over his features, and his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

          The moment he released his hold on her hands, Lothíriel gasped with great force. Tears fell wildly down her eyes. Her breathing became labored. Nearly unable to bear the emotions that crashed against her chest, she strove to focus her eyes on his, but the pain she saw in them fractured her heart into a cruel mosaic of grief and sorrow.

          She stepped closer to him, ignoring the ache in her ankle, and reached out to him. Gently, she rested the palm of her hand on his cheek. Her eyes never left his. Then, after a moment that to them felt akin to a lifetime, she spoke to him in a whisper.

          “You were so young… only a child…” she lamented, as she recalled what she had seen.

          It had been a vision. The most harrowing and vivid of all the ones she had ever endured.

          A woman lay on a pillared bed. Translucent curtains hung from each of its carved posts. Her hair could have been the sun itself, her eyes the woods bathed in its morning light. The color of life was deserting her skin as warmth deserts the twilight. Shadows crept under her eyes.

          A child wept by her side.

          Though her lips were pale and dry, she managed a smile. Though her fingers were frail, she ran her hand through the young boy’s hair. Though her voice faltered, she spoke to him in the tones of the earth, the echoes of her words reverberating in the desolate chamber.

          The child wept with abandon.

          The woman smiled at him one last time, then turned her gaze away and closed her eyes. Her breathing lessened until she breathed no longer.

          A tall man tore the child from the woman’s side and carried him away, as others began to gather around the body of the woman.

          Éomer closed his eyes and turned his face away from her hand. 

          Lothíriel pulled her hand away.

          When he opened his eyes again, she could see the wetness that threatened to overflow them. Stubbornly, in defiance of his vulnerability, he composed himself and his features darkened.

          It was then that Lothíriel realized her mistake. She had been so overcome by the emotions of what she had witnessed, that her place, her secret, the very world around her, had been forgotten. For a moment, nothing other than comforting him had mattered, but that moment had been fleeting, and the gravity of her error now shadowed over her like the darkness of a raging storm.

          “Where did you learn those words?” he asked her, his tone menacing.

          Lothíriel could scarcely understand what had happened. She had been both within and without herself. As her mind had been witnessing the events unfolding before her, she had listened to the woman’s utterances; yet, at the same time, her own voice had echoed the woman’s words in perplexing harmony. In a manner she could not sensibly describe, she had been aware of both.

          Her mind began to spin, but the fear in her heart threatened her thoughts to remain focused.

          She searched her mind frantically for a way to mend her mistake.

          Could she break the promise she made to her cousin upon her departure from Imladris? Could she reveal the secret he had made her swear to protect?

          Boromir of Gondor had warned her that a gift such as hers would be sought relentlessly as a weapon of war. Elrond of Rivendell had warned her that, should her gift become known, the enemy would stop at nothing to acquire it, or to destroy it if it lay beyond his grasp. Could she disregard the counsel of those wiser than her?

          Could she trust that this son of Rohan would not act in this manner? Had he ever given her reason to doubt him?

          Her silence infuriated him. His anger became inflamed and in his pain, he did not restrain it. He grasped both of her upper arms rigidly and stepped closer to her, searching her eyes with a ferocity he could not recognize in himself. He shook her firmly as he asked again, his voice darker, heavier, more threatening.

          “How came you to know those words?” He demanded.

          Lothíriel’s thoughts were brought to a halt. Where before she could not stop thinking, now she could not think at all. He was incensed and she felt her apprehension melt into fear. She raised her hands to his chest and tried to push him away, but he would not move. His stare bore deep into her and she could do nothing but stare back at the depths of his eyes, seeing and fearing the darkness she saw there.

          “Speak!” He said fiercely as he shook her again, his fingers encasing the skin on her arms with greater force. Lothíriel felt caught between the onslaught of his rage and the downpour of her own turmoil. Her indignation surfaced amidst the chaos, and she felt strength that would make her father proud.

          “Unhand me,” she commanded him.

          He did not let go.

          “Who are you?” He asked bitterly. “Who told you those words? What do you seek to gain by speaking them now? You speak my language perfectly. What other lies have you told me?”

          His questions rained like hail upon her, cold and incessant, each one rising in force and ire. She denied him answers time and time again, yet each new question threatened to break her resolve.

          “Answer me!” He demanded one final time, his tone shattering the last of her will to deny him.

          She could endure it no longer. She broke free from the restraints of prudence, and ventured into a place unknown, unprotected, alone, exiled, and now doomed to withstand the weight of a broken promise.

          “I was there!” She cried, despair coating each of her words.

          He neither spoke nor moved.

          “I had a vision, and in it, I was there,” she repeated, in a much lower tone, and she felt his grasp on her arms lessen. “When my hands touched yours,” she continued through the lump in her throat, “I saw you at your mother’s bedside and I heard her speak those words to you.”

          His hands deserted her arms and she felt both relieved and forsaken.

          His features betrayed the depth of his perplexity, and he found that he could not even utter the questions in his mind.

          “I…” Lothíriel began, but she could not face him a moment longer. She looked at the cold stone under their feet, and resigned herself with a dejected sigh. “I suffer visions… of death,” she said softly, and did not dare raise her sight again. She brought her arms around herself. When had her hands begun to tremble? She held herself tighter.

          He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice deserted him. She has the Gift of Foresight … The realization hardly explained matters; it only confused them further.

          He searched for her gaze, but it was fixed on the floor underneath them. There was a slight tremble in her hands. Was she weeping? A dagger coated in shame stabbed his insides for the way he had behaved towards her. He summoned his courage to form an apology, but again, words failed him.

          He raised his hands to her arms once more, but where before he had gripped with all of his strength, now, for just a moment, he caressed with the gentleness becoming a man of Rohan.

          She raised her eyes to his and the unshed tears he saw in them drove the dagger deeper within him. Confused and speechless, she looked at him almost incredulously. Did she think him incapable of tenderness after the way he had treated her?

          She waited in stunned silence. He had not reacted to her confession. Did he think her mad? Would he send her away, now that he knew the truth?

          “You have the Gift of Foresight,” he stated softly, testing the words.

          “It is no gift,” she said, recalling the many visions with which she had been burdened since that fateful afternoon by the sea. “But yes, I do… or I thought I did... until today.” 

          He frowned.

          “Before today, if I saw anything at all, it had always been the death of whom I touched,” she explained. “The first was a dear friend,” her heart ached as she remembered her handmaiden fondly. “Then came a soldier, who drowned at sea. After him, an old man, a friend of my father’s, who succumbed to a raging fever. Then came others. Every vision was the same. Our hands touched, I saw the manner of their passing, and days, or even weeks later, word came to make known that which I had already seen.” She took a calming breath as she waited for his reaction, but there was no more anger in his eyes, and she felt reassured enough to continue.

          “I believed myself cursed. In mere months, my hands had become a herald of death. I sequestered myself from everyone, even my own family. What if a simple touch would show me their deaths? With each new vision, I became more withdrawn and more despondent, to my family’s increasing worry. I was too afraid to confide in them. I was too afraid to confide in anyone, until Lord Boromir came to me with a tale just as perplexing, which led to him learning of my plight and arranging for me to accompany him to Imladris, to seek the counsel of Lord Elrond the Wise.”

          Éomer nodded gently, and remained silent. She took his demeanor as encouragement and continued.

          “I thought I would find answers in the wisdom of the elves, but I left their realm more troubled than I arrived.”

          “They could not help you?” Éomer said softly, speaking at last.

          “No,” she sighed and turned her sight away, fighting to hold back tears. “No more than a healer can help the mortally wounded. There is naught that can be done.”

          Éomer came closer, and Lothíriel’s breath caught in her throat. He felt the urge to hold her in his arms, but he fought wildly against it. Why should I be the one to comfort her when my anger only worsened her anguish? 

          “How did your plight worsen after leaving their lands?” He chose to ask instead.

          “Not only did I learn that there is no reprieve from this… this gift , but Lord Elrond, who commands such a gift himself, gave me three warnings before I departed.”

          “He warned you?”

          “Yes, though he said they were mere words of advice,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “He urged me to remain away from Gondor and from my homeland, and to hide the existence of my visions, on pain of death—whether mine or someone else’s, he did not say.”

          “What were his exact words?”

          “ Ride not to Gondor, for death awaits you there. Return not to your homeland, for death will follow at your heels. Reveal not your gift, for death will lay claim to you. ”

          Éomer felt a cavernous pit form in his stomach. Was it true? Did he condemn her to die by forcing her to reveal her secret to him?

          “And thus you sought refuge in Rohan,” Éomer stated, forcing his mind away from those thoughts.

          “Yes, though much more was considered before making that decision, and even more trouble has risen since,” she said. He frowned again, and she tried to elucidate. “Aldburg was closer and safer than other cities that did not belong to Gondor, it was known to me, albeit briefly, and Boromir was adamant against leaving me under the protection of anyone unknown to him. He told me he trusted you enough to quell his misgivings about parting from me.”

          “What if I had turned you away?”

          “He was certain you would not,” she said and he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “But he discussed in great detail what I was to do in case you did, or if anything else went amiss.”

          “He cares for you, does he not?” He asked impulsively, and admonished his audacity the moment the question left his lips.

          She looked at him surprised, and considered her words carefully before answering. “He does, as a brother does a sister, or a man a dear friend.”

          He ignored the relief that overcame him.

          “Will you turn me away now that you know the danger I could bring to your realm? Should my gift become known, your enemies would hunt me relentlessly, even if they had to raise arms against you and sack every village in the Mark to do so,” she asked hesitantly.

          “I gave you my word,” he stated indignantly. “Do you think me honorless?”

          The way his words distressed her only furthered his own shame.

          “I will not turn you away,” he said firmly. “Why do you say that your troubles have increased since you came to me? Did the battle torment you so?”

          “No,” she was quick to reassure him, “No, what I mean is that, since I arrived in your realm, my gift ,” she said, as though the word were poison, “has become even stranger.”

          Éomer considered her words, then it dawned on him. “When our hands touched,” he said, then paused, “not only did you see into my past … but you also saw a death that was not my own, though it was me whom you were touching.”

          She nodded softly and the subtle shaking of her fingers returned.

          “And this had never happened before?”

          She shook her head. “Never before had I seen into anyone’s past,” she hesitated, then breathed deeply. “Yet on the day I arrived at your encampment… that night, before the campfire… your hand touched mine, and I… I saw your captain’s death. I saw how the orc would strike him down.” She paused again, then continued. “That is why I called his name on the battlefield,” her gaze fell back to the floor. “I had seen his death, and I was trying to prevent it, but my intervention was likely the cause of his downfall in the first place.” Lothíriel could not hold back her tears any longer, nor could she hide the fear and guilt that had consumed her since the battle on the plains.

          He could not bear to see her distressed. He stepped closer to her and, without a qualm, enclosed her in his arms and let her weep against his chest. She surrendered to her tears and felt the tension ease from her shoulders with each sob.

          In the comfort of his embrace, her breath steadied, and her tears eventually ceased. She moved her hands from his chest to her eyes to wipe a few stray droplets from her face.

          Though his body was reluctant to let her go, he released her from his arms. As he watched her regain her composure, he noted with sadness the extent of the burden she had been carrying all this time, all on her own.

          “There is nothing to fear,” he told her gently. “Éothain lives. He is nearly recovered. He does not blame you for what happened. Perhaps if you spoke to him yourself, you would see how misplaced your fears are.”

          “That is not all that I fear,” she said in a voice neither of them could recognize, full of the apathy of one who has resigned herself to a grim fate.

          “Tell me,” he said.

          After long, silent moments, she spoke again.

          “I can neither understand nor control my visions. I fear what I may see and I do not understand why I would even see it. They are changing, and growing. They are becoming longer, stronger, more vivid, and I am powerless to stop them. Soon, they will overwhelm me, and I fear I will become lost in them.”

          He thought about her words. “Do not lose hope, my lady,” he said. “You are brave and you are strong, stronger than your gift.”

          “You do not understand…” she shook her head dejectedly. “The strength of this vision was unparalleled. It was no longer as if I were a bystander witnessing a grim turn of events. It was as if I had been there myself. My whole senses were there, in the past. I felt everything. The oppressive, suffocating heat… the smell of turmeric and basil… I felt it all…” she lowered her voice, and raised her sights and looked into his eyes. She was certain he was recalling the heat and the scents exactly as she had experienced them. The palm of her hand came to rest on his chest as she spoke her next words. “I felt the pain in your heart… deep within my own, as if it had been my own.” Her words were barely a whisper. The accuracy with which she had described his memory was both uncanny and painful. He closed his eyes, reliving the ever-present memory, pushing back the feelings he kept carefully guarded. Feelings she had now felt as well, if only for a moment. 

          “Forgive me,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing her hand. “I have brought you great sadness.”

          He shook his head as he opened his eyes and looked at her gently. The unshed tears in them broke her heart and she yearned to hold and comfort him now as much as she yearned to hold and comfort the weeping child in her vision.

          “No, it is me who should seek your forgiveness,” he told her sternly. “I allowed my bitterness to reign over me when you spoke those words. I should not have treated you the way I did.” He hesitated, but gathered his courage to ask her. “Did I hurt you?”

          “No,” she said, though she could still feel the force with which he had held her. She could not burden his heart further.

          “My shame is none the lesser.”

          “Think not of it. It cannot have been easy for you.”  

          She places my well-being ahead of her own, even now, even after the way I have treated her , he noted to himself.

          Silence embraced them momentarily.

          Then, against her better judgment, she gave in to her curiosity, and asked him, “What did they mean? The words I spoke?”

          She regretted her question immediately upon seeing the pain return to his eyes. “I am sorry. That was thoughtless of me. It is not my place to know, I should not have asked.”

          He agreed that it was not her place. But no one knew the pain he bore, no one except Áwerian, who was there when those words were spoken, and whose arms, loving as a father’s, gave him comfort when he found himself alone in the world.

          How would it feel to confide in another?

          She had trusted him unreservedly, had revealed to him her innermost thoughts and feelings… Could he do the same?

          “ Do not be grieved, my son, for I shall now rest with your father, whom I miss dearly. ” He recited and wetness overcame his eyes. “They were the last words my mother ever spoke to me.” He took a moment to breathe and still the trembling of his fingers and then he continued. “I know now she meant to bring me peace, but I was too young, I did not understand. On that day, I thought she chose death over life… that she had chosen my father over my sister and I. Now I know the outcome would have been the same, regardless of what she had said, desired, or chosen. Now I understand she may have even been trying to accept her own fate, to calm her own fears upon facing her death. But on that day… I knew nothing but pain, anger, and the chains of impotence, and it took… has taken... a long time to heal from her passing.”

          It must have taken a great amount of courage and no less amount of trust to admit these thoughts to me , Lothíriel realized. Knowing that no words were good enough to comfort him, she placed her arms around his neck and pulled him into a tender embrace. He marvelled at how the gesture made him feel.

          His arms enveloped her firmly, and he vowed to himself then that he would not leave her to face the trials of her fate alone.