Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 17 |
| Chapter Seventeen |
| Lothíriel and Finglor bore down on Cissy’s village at full tilt. Her vision through the water which flowed throughout the land gave her powerful insight as to the enemies’ location. Though the main force was gathering on the east side of the River Anduin in the Brown Lands, a smaller detachment had crossed over the great river, passing though not raiding the nearest villages, heading with purpose to the southwest. The sudden realisation that their course would lead them directly to Handlend Vale had caused Lothíriel a spasm of intense nausea. She had had no need to communicate her fears to Finglor, nor even to Geldsheen and Maela. Finglor was already astride Maela by the time Lothíriel had leapt on Geldsheen in a panic, and they had ridden as hard as they could push themselves and the two Mearas for Cissy’s village. As they rode through what had been a pretty and peaceful village, a few survivors came out from their hiding places outside the burnt wreckage of their homes to marvel at this imposing woman on her magnificent Mearas, accompanied by the intimidating hooded figure of Finglor on Maela. Comforted as they were by the presence of the Mearas, it took the villagers a while to recognise the female rider as Lothíriel, so much had she changed from her last visit there. One of the elders approached them cautiously. ‘Lady Lothíriel?’ she dared to ask. ‘Magreth,’ answered Lothíriel flatly. She was still absorbing the devastation around her in dismay. It fell to Finglor to address her for the answers Lothíriel was dreading. ‘Magreth, what happened here? Where are Cissy and her family?’ he asked as gently as he could. Lothíriel unconsciously held her breath as she prepared herself for the worst news. ‘Taken, my Lord Finglor. Cissy, her sisters and their children were taken. All the children were taken…’ Lothíriel released her breath with a tortured groan. ‘Cissy’s mother was slain.’ Magreth continued numbly, barely able to comprehend the disaster that had overtaken them. ‘We buried her this morning with those others of the village who did not survive the attack. They stayed a day and night, they seemed to be waiting for something. We came back out of the forest when we were sure they had gone for good, when they had burned everything for good measure.’ ‘This is my fault, this is my fault,’ Lothíriel lamented. ‘Tell me, did it seem to you that they Cissy’s family was specifically targeted? What happened to Alfrind?’ ‘It seemed that way, Lady Lothíriel. Alfrind was also taken. Cissy killed many men until they held knives to her sisters’ throats and she let them take her.’ Finglor and Lothíriel looked at each other both comprehending this had not been a random attack. They were undoubtedly heading into a trap. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Wold. One of the most beautiful and blessed regions of Rohan and yet one of the most sparsely populated. It was rich in produce, but most importantly, also populated by hardy boys and the beautiful blond-haired women so prized in the slave markets far in the east and the south. The Rohirrim had been overstretched all year and The Wold had been left vulnerable by the loss of so many Riders in the battles of Helm’s Deep and Minas Tirith. Aragorn had been sent word from the Elven lands of Lothlórien and King Thranduil’s realm that warned of a large Easterling force gathering to the east of the Brown Lands which seemed intent on raiding The Wold. It was rumoured the Easterling leaders believed the treaty with Dunland would not hold and the Rohirric forces would by necessity be split. Due to these reports, Éomer had instructed the Marshal of the East-mark, the doughty Elfhelm, to strengthen those crossings he had deemed most likely to be attacked. There were several possible crossing points of the mighty River Anduin, and all were still weaker than Éomer would have wished. He needed to make some choices, ultimately deciding to move the greater part of his forces towards one such crossing point until better intelligence was received from his scouts or from the Elven lords. They were less than two days’ ride from this crossing point when the Riders felt the horses become strangely restive and alert, so attuned as they were to their companions in arms. The unnerved commanders looked to their King for guidance. Instinct told Éomer to seek answers from his most devoted and trusted friend. Seeking insight, he nuzzled his head against the long nose of his noble horse, melding his consciousness with Firefoot’s as they both did unconsciously during their many battles together. ‘We must follow them,’ he announced turning to his Marshals. ‘They know where they must take us. The Mearas are coming.’ The men present looked at each other in wonderment but did not doubt their King. They understood their horses better than any. The horses of the Rohirrim had proved faithful and the men’s faith in their horses was absolute. ‘It’s Lothíriel,’ he told Erkenbrand and Elfhelm privately. ‘I have given up trying to understand how she always finds her way to danger. We must ride, they will guide us,’ Éomer said emphatically. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lothíriel and Finglor had tracked the raiding party, finding them just before nightfall. They were still several leagues from the river and the raiders had set up camp for the night in the protection of a long-abandoned fort within the forest rather than risk being caught in open ground by a force of Riders. Finglor insisted that Lothíriel got some sleep; they could both sense the Mearas and Éomer’s Éoreds approaching to their south. The first of the Mearas had already made contact with them. They could not move too early on the raiders but at the same time they could not allow them to reach the section of the plain where they could be seen from the eastern side of the river, which would alert the enemy forces on the other side to their presence. Finglor waited until Lothíriel had fallen asleep and he left her protected by the Mearas to investigate more precisely the strength of the raiding force. Dawn was almost breaking when Finglor woke Lothíriel gently. ‘It’s time to prepare for war, little one. This is going to be a long day. You will need to conserve your energy so do not overextend yourself against the raiders. Éomer and the Éoreds are close. I can hear them breaking camp. Where do you sense the others?’ Lothíriel quickly took her sword to the nearby stream and plunged it into the water and allowed her mind to be freed from herself. ‘An hour before high noon they will be in place. Shadowfax will draw the Mearas to him. They know what is needed of them,’ she replied. ‘You need to eat,’ he said practical as ever. ‘Go and wash and I will have everything ready and then I can tell you what I uncovered last night.’ When she returned, he made sure she consumed his famed Elven broth, one he would always prepare for her when they needed strength and stamina ahead of hard activity. After she had carefully finished the bowl, washed and packed it, Finglor presented her with a bundle wrapped in fine cloth. ‘I retrieved this from my visit to Sennebar over Hithui with Tuor and your father. It was made to fit the wearer. It was made by Celebrimbor, my kin, whom I loved, he was the best of us all…’ Finglor did not hide his deformed face from Lothíriel when they were alone together. She had insisted on that from soon after they first met. It was as with Éomer, she felt no shame or embarrassment with his nakedness nor hers. With Finglor, as with Cissy, she accepted him as he was. He was orc-like, defiled, his skin melted, but she only saw his soul and it was melded with her own. Yet this was something Finglor had never mentioned to her before. That Celebrimbor was his kin had surprised her and yet at the same time did not. It explained much. She knelt down before him, crying, finally understanding the greatness of his pain. Her arms wrapped around his knees until he knelt down beside her to hold her tightly to himself. ‘Don’t, Lothi. Don’t pity me my pain. I have done things for which I can never be forgiven, and I should never be forgiven. If I can in some way, in any way, atone, I will finally have peace.’ Kneeling beside her, gently stroking her hair, he explained not only his past but also hers. She clung to him, shedding bitter tears for him and for her forbearers until he was able to calm her. There were no more secrets; ignorant no longer of her purpose, she accepted what she had understood and who she was. It was time she truly became Alatariel. Unfolding the bundle he had taken from his travel sack, she recognised the brilliance of the material as she caught the first glimmer of it. As she stood to allow it to fall to its full length, she realised it was a suit of armour made from mithril, the rarest and most magical metal of Middle-earth, as fine and flexible as a spider’s thread but stronger than diamond. It was a second skin, lightweight but more impenetrable than dragon hide. Arrows glanced off it, no sword unless itself was made of mithril could pierce it. It had a name, this suit of armour, Finglor explained: Alataturë. It had been lost centuries before in the Kin-strife. Over seven hundred years Finglor had been incarcerated within the Fortress walls of Sennebar; he knew more than most about its secrets, but he had not known all. When he had left Lothíriel in Rohan, he had not intended to return to the Fortress of Sennebar itself, but he did return to his former prison, to retrieve what was rightfully his, and in so doing had uncovered far greater secrets. The Grand Master had taunted him with his possession of Alataturë, but Celebrimbor’s gift was only one of two great treasures to have fallen into the hands of the enemy that day when Osgiliath was overrun and the Dome of Stars destroyed. ‘Put it on, Lothíriel. You must face him. He will fear you in this, but he will still underestimate you and that will be his weakness. I cannot touch him, none of us can touch him. It has to be you. His enchantments will only allow you to pass through the vortex. This will protect you. Only you can destroy him. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Rohirrim swung north away from their route to the expected crossing of any enemy army, but none of the riders doubted their course. Their certainty and resolve grew as they were joined by the ever-increasing numbers of Mearas. It was a wonder to behold, the Mearas were riding to war with them, they were defending their homeland and there were hundreds of them, more magnificent and awe-inspiring than any Éorling could have imagined. The bards amongst them were already crafting the tale of the Ride of the Mearas, which would become Rohirric folklore alongside the Last Ride of Théoden King. Their horses followed the path through The Wold blazed by the Mearas as wave after wave of these breath-taking creatures overtook Éomer’s forces on their way to battle. There was no time for calm discussion of tactics before the fight, their horses had quickened their pace and focus. Elfhelm knew this country well. He shouted to Éomer that when they came out of the valley, they would be faced with an open plain of undulating pasture which led to the banks of the River Anduin. But there was no natural crossing place along that stretch of the river. The next most northerly crossing point was a good day’s ride. He could not understand why the horses were so determined to enter the plain. And then they heard it. The mighty Horn of Rohan could not have echoed across the land with such power. It was a battle cry that none had heard the like before, Éomer knew to whom it belonged and Firefoot flew ahead of all others in his desperation to reach her. As they galloped at full tilt out of the valley, the Riders saw the plain stretching out towards the river, and the wagonloads of blond-haired men, women and children encircled by a large raiding party of Easterlings. The raiding party had been double the size only minutes before, but half their number were being trampled underfoot by the huge horses, their own having fled in fear either with or without their masters. The raiders had been taken by complete surprise such was the speed at which the Mearas could move. Éomer saw Finglor battling to save one particular wagon of hostages with Easterlings swarming around it intent on killing those held within. Elfhelm shouted to him that he would take it, these were his people. Éomer was almost blinded by a flash of light as a figure aflame in the sunlight suddenly appeared behind a group of Mearas. He had found her. It could only be her; he recognised her fighting style. She was on foot in front of four huge Easterlings. The Mearas were circling her, not wanting to interfere. The battle was already over. Having seen the arrival of the large Rohirric forces, the remaining Easterlings had abandoned their fight and were begging for mercy. Lothíriel was screaming at the one remaining man standing, the proud chief of the raiding party. She had dispatched his three companions before Éomer could even reach her. The Mearas let him pass. ‘Why was this village targeted? Who ordered this attack? Tell me and I will let you live.’ The man looked at her in thinly disguised disdain. ‘He is waiting for you across the river, your Doom. He knew you would come. If this is all you have, you will not defeat him. You should flee little girl on your big horses. His power is too great. He controls the river. When he crosses, he will crush your little horsemen.’ Éomer had to stop himself from thrusting his sword, through the man, but Lothíriel only laughed. ‘He won’t need to cross; I will go to him. I will not suffer the land of Rohan to be defiled by his feet touching its soil. Éomer King, may I ask that you take this man as your prisoner, unless, of course, he prefers death, which I would happily arrange.’ She had not turned to look at Éomer as she did not take her eyes off the prisoner. Surrounded now by Erkenbrand’s men, Gamling dismounted to bind the man’s hands, as Lothíriel gradually came back to herself and to Éomer. ‘I must go to Cissy. Her mother was killed and a number of the villagers. I am sorry, Éomer, to have brought this on your people.’ He regarded her with compassion. He knew she would feel she was to blame for this loss of life, and he understood how hard that would be for her. ‘They would have come anyway, Lothíriel,’ he said trying to give her some comfort. She gazed over to the East where the great river coursed its way separating Rohan from the Brown Lands. ‘I’m not sure that’s true, Éomer. The hand behind this attack by the Easterlings came not from the East but the South, from the Grand Master of the Astari of Sennebar. His Chief Servant awaits over the river and over the river I will go.’ ‘And I will go with you,’ Éomer replied forcefully, taking her by both shoulders and making her face him. He could not read those blue green eyes, as he stared into them seeking answers. ‘I love you,’ she stated simply. He clasped her to him, his hand holding her head to his cheek as he let out shuddering breaths of emotion. ‘You must survive this, Lothíriel,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘whatever it is you must do, you must survive and come back to me.’ He cupped her head in both hands and gazed intensely into her eyes. ‘Tell me that when you are ready, you will return to Rohan and become my wife. Lothi, I will take no other woman to my bed and I want no other woman as my wife, my Queen, as the mother of my children. I just need to know you want this for your future.’ She took his hands in hers, her love for him shining through her eyes and said solemnly, ‘Éomer, King of Rohan, there is no other future I want, even if eternal life were offered to me, I have made my choice. It has always been you, from the moment I saw you in the House of Healing with your sister. I watched you, the way you cared for her, when you didn’t know I was there. But like you did then, I must leave to do my duty. This evil came from Sennebar and that fight is not yet over. It is my fight, Éomer, mine, Ottakar’s and Tuor’s. We are the last of the bloodline, we three. Gondor cannot have lasting peace until that which was taken from Osgiliath is returned. But I promise you, my love, whether the secrets of my past are revealed or not, within a year from today, I am yours.’ He took her hand and pledged himself to her. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Resolutely Lothíriel disengaged herself from Éomer to search for Cissy. Finglor was waiting for her and the King with Erkenbrand. ‘Gallend is coming,’ Finglor opened. A tautness crept over Éomer’s face as though disturbed by a painful memory. ‘You need to know the truth about him, Éomer. Yes, he is a spy, but he was a spy for Rohan and the best you have ever had. It was he, not me, who directed Leofric to the stream of Forthanc and told us of what awaited you there; it was he who brought us proof of Galbrand’s treachery and warned us that it was the Astari who were behind this raid on The Wold, and that there is an Astari even now in our midst who has been instructed to kill you - and Lothíriel if given the chance. Gallend saved the peace negotiated in Dunland, so you did not have part of your force diverted to deal with a retaliatory attack from Dunland. Théodred knew he was no traitor to your people. It was Gallend who warned Théodred of the threat from Saruman and brought him proof of Gríma’s crimes, proof your cousin couldn’t deliver because Saruman sent the Uruk-hai specifically to kill him that day. He always knew that Théodred had done everything he could to save his wife, he knew that, however much his father had tried to make it seem otherwise in his bid to turn Théodred and his son against each other. But Gallend also accepted that he could be a better agent for Rohan and Théodred if he pretended he blamed Théodred for her death, instead of the man who was truly responsible, his own father….’ Éomer listened attentively, absorbing the importance of this information. He looked for corroboration from Erkenbrand who nodded in agreement to all that had been said. ‘Why did you not tell me of this before?’ he demanded. ‘You are too bad a liar. It’s why I didn’t tell Imrahil half the things I have wanted to over the many years I have known him. Even Erkenbrand I only partially told the truth to in Dunland because I could see that Gallend would need men in place in Elbrond if he were to be able to go against his father. It is a compliment,’ he said sincerely, ‘to both of you.’ Unsure how exactly to take that, both men fully understood Finglor’s next comment, ‘And if we are to uncover this Astari assassin, we need Gallend here. He has the best instincts for falsehood of any man I have ever met.’ ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- She found her beloved Cissy tending to the Easterling wounded, aided by her two half-sisters. The Riders had rounded up all the surviving raiders. Finglor had barked instructions to Erkenbrand before the fighting was over to ensure none reached the point of the plain where they could be seen by the other side and he was counting the dead as well as the survivors. None had made it past the redoubtable Mearas. The freed villagers were being protected by the Mearas who would suffer none to go near them, only Cissy and her sisters were free to walk amongst the Riders. As Lothíriel approached them anxiously, Cissy looked up guardedly. ‘Cissy,’ Lothíriel eventually managed, her voice heavy with emotion, ‘can you ever forgive me?’ She regarded Cissy and her sisters nervously. ‘I brought this down upon you. I am sorry.’ Cissy stood up proudly. She had changed. Her female elegance, her natural femininity was glaring in its absence. ‘If it had not been our village, it would have been another,’ she said, her voice much deeper and harsher than before. ‘Lothíriel, my mother led the fight against them when they came. You know I had been training the women in the village. It should have been me leading them, but I was on my way to take something he had forgotten to Alfrind, who had gone out to hunt for boar with most of the other men of the village. I ran back when I heard the screaming. The women fought harder than they expected but they were going to be no match for these animals. You know I swore years ago I would not kill again when I chose to live my life as a woman, but when I saw them cut my mother down, a side of myself I had long denied existed overwhelmed me. I realised I can still kill, and as well as any man.’ Cissy’s sisters came to stand next to her. One nestled herself under one of Cissy’s strong arms and put her arm around her waist, the other took her free hand in hers. Éomer and Finglor appeared together seeking out Cissy for some answers. She bowed to them both and addressed them all. ‘My mother gave me two names when I was born, so that I could always choose who I wanted to be: a woman, Cisilith or a man, Hadán. From today, my name is Hadán. Éomer King, I will fight as a Rider of Rohan in the next battle if I have your permission? Lothíriel, I know this fight will lead us to Sennebar and I am coming with you. I will avenge my mother and my village. This, this is not a request.’ ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gallend had ridden straight to Erkenbrand as he arrived with Genting and Trondig just as Lothíriel left with Finglor and Hadán, now dressed proudly as a Rider of Rohan, his long hair shorn to man’s length. ‘Uncle, it is done. The Astari assassin, have you found him yet?’ Gallend demanded quickly as he sensed the Éoreds were readying to ride forth. ‘No. Finglor commanded that you and Trondig stay here and see what you can glean from the survivors,’ Erkenbrand replied quickly. ‘Genting, join my Éored if you have the stamina. We are about to ride to battle and I believe there is a large contingent of orcs to be had.’ Already on his chestnut Mearas Genting needed no further encouragement. They prepared themselves for battle. Gallend watched in wonder as the hundreds of Mearas lined up in front of over two thousand Riders. He could see Éomer clearly on a huge grey stallion, Moonsheen, son of Shadowfax, and several other men deemed worthy by the Mearas to ride them. Each horse had chosen the man, those they sensed had the blood of Éorl in their veins. It was an honour none would ever forget. Gallend cleared his mind of thoughts of the battle which was about to commence over the ridge and beyond his sight, although he would be able to hear its roar. For now he focused his extraordinary mind on the task at hand and accompanied by Trondig, he started with the Easterling prisoners. |