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Éomer had known both Lothíriel and Amrothos for a year, and he was fast learning the Gondorian art of understatement.
Sometimes, it involved simply saying something other than what was meant. For instance, “that’s different,” pronounced with slightly narrowed eyes and stiff-moving lips was a damning condemnation.
Sometimes, it involved no speech at all, especially when people knew each other well. Instead, a series of miniscule eye movements, lip twitches and brow raises was as eloquent as a sentence.
This new understanding served him well as he unwrapped his Yuletide gift, a surprise from Amrothos. Both Amrothos and Lothíriel looked on, and as the item came into view, Lothíriel raised her brows exactly half a finger’s breadth.
This meant, “no, no, you didn’t. Surely you didn’t.”
Amrothos’ lips turned up at the sides, a miniscule amount.
This meant, “oh, yes, yes, I did. Surely I did.”
Lothíriel raised her shoulders and pressed her arms against her torso. Her lips grew tight and her eyebrows pinched in the middle. Translation: “You are a scoundrel. An irredeemable, comprehensive ass.”
Éomer guessed what would happen next, and in three, two, one, it did.
Lothíriel turned on her heel, her arms still pressed against her sides. She walked to the window, her heels making angry clicks. “I will not speak nor look at you for at least three days,” was her meaning. “I thought we agreed.”
Meanwhile, Amrothos followed her with a pert-cheeked look, in case she turned after all. “I had to, and you know I had to,” it said. “I would not miss his face for a dragon’s hoard.”
The item at the heart of the discord was a small, carved figure of a mûmak, the creature that still haunted Éomer’s dreams. Again and again, he raised his lance at it in his slumbers, with varying outcomes. Sometimes, the lance flew wide and the beast trampled him and his comrades. The last thing he knew was the crush of bone and the screams and the laboring for breath. Sometimes he hit the man controlling the beast, but as the man fell, his reins attached to the mûmak’s ear, the creature went on a rampage, killing even more men. Éomer was forced to look on, and the great footfalls and the crunch of metal reechoed long after he woke. And sometimes, unknown forces delayed him, and he could not throw his lance no matter how he tried.
Lothíriel was right to be angry. She was the one who soothed him when he screamed, the one who risked getting hit as he flailed about, fighting the imaginary foe.
As for Amrothos, much as Éomer loved him, there was always something loose in his mind. He often found things funny that should not have been.
“I traveled to Harad on a diplomatic mission,” Amrothos said, the first words spoken since Éomer unwrapped his gift. “I discovered a whole herd of them in a merchant’s stall, and I sought fit to bring one home, in honor of your brilliance on the battlefield.”
He inclined his head and rounded his shoulders, looking wide-eyed and tight-lipped at his brother-in-law.
Éomer could not speak—not a question of any volition—and fixed his eyes on the mûmak.
This creature, without question, was a far different beast than the one of his nightmares. Carved out of wood and stained a warm orange hue, its proportions were different: its sides more balloon-like, its legs shorter, like those of a Wold pony. (1) The distinguishing features were all still there: the great, fleshy ears, the thin, tufted tail, the long nose and the tusks, but that was all the resemblance. Where the war-mûmakil had spikes on their tusks, which ended many a Rider, this mûmak had long, dull, harmless ones. While the real mumakil had tiny, angry eyes and corrupted features, his one had a relaxed, pensive look, and the great ears were shaped like something smooth and lovely: like half a heart, or a cloak about a woman’s shoulders.
Beside the carved mûmak walked a similarly carved man, leading him on a halter of metal wire. The carver got the scale right: the mûmak was at least three times as tall as its handler. On top of the mûmak, there was a load: two baskets slung on either side of its body, connected in the middle by thick straps. The loads contained great bushels of something the wood could not depict, but they looked like the baskets used for grain.
Éomer still had no words, though his heart was steady—nothing like its wild pounding when he woke at night. He did not know if he could stomach the creature in reality, but almost unbidden, images of various mûmakil came.
They did all sorts of things. Some conducted dignitaries in delicate towers, giving them a chance to see the land and enjoy their swaying progress. Some carried goods and foodstuffs—spices and grains and sugarcane that was abundant in southern lands. Some pulled great trees and wagons and stones, and some aided machines as walls came up, building cities.
The mûmakil, he supposed, were not to blame. They were only beasts. Just like horses in Rohan, they had little say in whom the served and to what end. The servants of Saruman stole many horses, and sometimes horses refused to bear a rider if they sensed evil. But many still bore them, out of fear of retribution.
No, the mûmakil were not to blame, in and of themselves. The way one of them rampaged when wounded… a frightened horse would have been no different.
He looked up at Amrothos, who gazed at him with barely blinking eyes.
“What say you, brother?” his bright eyes said, though no Gondorian would have asked the question directly.
Éomer inclined his head and drew the mûmak to him. The wood was smooth and soft, if such a thing could be said of wood. He hazarded a smile.
“Thank you, my brother,” he said, running a finger over the mûmak’s ear. “I shall be happy to keep this on my desk—as a reminder.”
(1) Wold ponies are like Shetland ponies in our world: small, fluffy, and hardy, with shorter legs than a typical horse. This is my headcanon, not anything Tolkien actually ratified. Back