Chapter Text
The sprawling city of Edoras was exceptionally pleasant after dark.
That was not to say that it was unpleasant at any other time, oh no. It was a relatively joyous place, even with the utter despot that was Fengel currently wearing the crown. But the mere fact that the King of the Mark was so intolerable had created a rather delightful culture surrounding the mead halls and their associated clientele that drew acclaim from far and wide. So long as there was coin to be had, the drinks did not stop flowing, and despite the obvious disruptive nature often found in such exploits, this night remained peaceful and calm; the quiet sounds of cheer leaching into the air from behind closed doors and reverberating through the silent city.
At least, the night would have been peaceful, had the entryway to a mead hall halfway up the hill not chosen that very moment to be flung open, sending a body toppling down into the dirt (and horse… leavings) below. Of course, technically the doors had not thrown themselves open – inanimate objects clearly incapable of achieving such a feat. That naturally had more to do with the smirking dwarf currently watching the Man she had just removed from the premises with extreme prejudice tumble down the slope.
Rohan was good.
Gondor had been lovely too; Minas Tirith a beautiful city, albeit a little cold for Dís’ tastes. The smaller towns in the south had been much warmer and more vibrant… but then again, she had not been forced to make hasty getaways for brawling in those settlements.
Rohan, though…
She inhaled the night air, feeling the familiar scent of hay and horse wrap her in a soft blanket. It had been strange on her arrival – almost four months ago now – but such smells had become soothing sometime around her third proper fight.
The Men of Rohan were good people. They had been suspicious of a dwarf in their midst at first, but once she had proved her mettle as a sellsword (and given a fair few black eyes and broken fingers to those who had doubted her), they had welcomed her in with open arms, and even more open taverns.
Dís liked the taverns.
More than that, Dís liked being free.
She was not her here. She was simply another bearded face; male by choice, for as much as the Rohirrim were relatively progressive, they had lost most knowledge on the capabilities of womenfolk some centuries ago, and it was best to pass unnoticed when the ruling monarch saw all as a threat to his wealth. Fengel tolerated her presence within the city. She would not challenge that further.
Besides, there was something… exhilarating in remaining incognito. When even her gender was obscured, it truly felt as if she could be anyone, and right now Dís was altogether rather happy remaining an additional patron of the Dun Filly.
But like all things in life, satisfaction was a fleeting beast, determined to remain far from her grasp, and the death knell of her night was sounded in a quiet croak as she turned to head back into the mead hall proper.
Glancing up into the sky, her eyes were immediately greeted by the most horrifying of sights.
A bloody raven.
“Ohh, no no no no no,” she moaned, waving her arms as the bird began to descend. “You are not here for me! I am done with my brother’s machinations, and unless you bring me news that he is to beg my apology for allowing some misfortune to come to his blasted glasses, I am not interested!”
The raven let out a miserable little huff as it landed on the steps. “Look,” it muttered. “I haven’t stopped flying for bloody weeks. I’ve been sent back and forth over the Misties since the twenty-sixth of April, and we’re well into August now. A couple of days’ rest is not enough, so if you think I’m going to turn around and fly the whole way back to Lothlórien, you’ve got another thing coming.”
That statement gave Dís pause.
As did the sudden realisation that the bundle tied to the raven’s leg was far too bulky to fit neatly inside the capsule that all those who lived in the rookeries of Ered Luin were fitted with.
“Lothlórien?”
If the raven could have rolled its eyes, she was certain it would be doing so. “That’s what I said. Now, take the letter so I can go and find somewhere warm to roost.”
Well, she wasn’t completely heartless. “Three houses down to the right you will find an open window on the second floor,” Dís murmured as she bent down to reluctantly retrieve the note. “It is my rented accommodation, so please do not shit on the floors. I shall see about retrieving sustenance for you upon my return.”
The raven cawed happily. “Boiled eggs, if you please. Enjoy your evening, Lady Dís.”
She did not ask how the bird knew her name. The moment it was free from its burden, the beast was off – flapping up into the night and off towards the promised roost – and Dís was left holding…
Well, that was the problem.
She wasn’t entirely sure.
There was a map, of course. And a key… the iron of which she knew well.
The last time she had seen that key, it had been around the neck of her father.
Given this terrible portent, reading the attached letter seemed like the worst decision she could make, but Dís – much like her brother and sons – was full of ill curiosity, and she was scanning the first line of the missive before she could bring herself to abstain.
And the second.
And the third.
And when the letter was fully read, the words lying in her brain as if being digested by the hissing enzymes of her mind, there was really only one thing that could be said.
“Fuck.”
*
“What’s wrong, Geldir?”
Despite the horrifying realisations currently dawning on her while she slid back into her seat within the Dun Filly, Dís was forced to hold back a snort. As she did each and every time one of the Riders referred to her by this new name, but when said name was Hestageldir – the Rohirrim unknowingly referring to her as ‘castrator of horses’ – such an outcome was inevitable.
“A letter from my brother,” she sighed, taking a heavy swig from her tankard and plonking it back on the wood with a thud. “He knows how much I abhor politics, and yet I am to drop everything and clear up his messes. Again.”
Leif looked puzzled. “Can’t you just say no?”
His confusion was quickly cut short when an elbow flung out from beside him, catching him below his ribs and ripping the wind from his lungs.
“Sorry about that!” Éothain chuckled brightly, before lowering himself to Leif’s level and whispering loudly in his ear. “Do you want another broken rib? That’s how you get it!”
Dís ignored them both. “Unfortunately, I do not have a choice,” she huffed, tracing the runes over the parchment. “This letter was sent from Lothlórien. Knowing my brother as I do – and his minor distaste for the elves – he would not have travelled there unless it was necessary. And then there is the small matter of the key.”
“Key?”
Ah. She had forgotten about Holdwine and his infuriatingly perceptive gaze. Shoving the letter into her breast pocket, she shot him a secretive smile.
“Never you mind,” Dís murmured. He would find out in time. They all would, for unfortunately there was now a quest to undertake. And for that, Dís needed allies. Allies competent enough to take on a dragon.
The Men of Rohan had some knowledge of such beasts – not to the extent of her own people’s intimate dealings – but they had dealt with Scatha… and the less said on the polite debate regarding the distribution of his hoard between the Éothéod and the dwarves the better. But they were loyal to the one who led them. The one who currently held the title of King of the Mark proved that, for Fengel was something of a gold obsessed bastard with fewer morals than a half-starved orc.
How would the Rohirrim react to a competent leader, she wondered.
Frankly, Fengel scared her no more than the memory of Thorin trying on Thrór’s crown before bursting into tears when it did not fit. And Dís knew a thing or two about dealing with stubborn monarchs.
“It seems it’s time for a power shuffle,” she mused, taking a small sip of her ale.
Whatever her brother was up to had better be important. Coups were so draining.