Cushions, Chapter Eighteen. The Paths of the Dead.
Here is the next chapter - I haven't managed to squeeze all the rest of the story into it - there was just another twist or turn too many to fit.
Chapter Eighteen, The Paths of the Dead
Rated PG. Éomer/Lothiriel, Éowyn/Faramir
Words, this chapter 2,800
Beta'd, as usual, by the assiduous speakr2customrs
Disclaimer as chapter one.
Previous chapters are HERE
Since the big fight, and then those walking trees arriving and the Boss disappearing, life had not been good. Not that most orcs had long memories, but there was a general feeling that it didn’t used to be this bad.
They’d been on a raid to find something to eat; a couple of horses would be good but there were none around. The new boss, one of the Uruk-Hai who had killed all rivals, said look for women, too, for breeding. But they’d not seen any of them, either.
Now they were resting in a deep gulley, away from the sunlight, and even here there was a problem as a whole lot of those bloody Men on horses, with their armour and their spears, had turned up and seemed to be determined to stay. Too many to fight.
Still, there was a cave, or something, further up this gully. Best retreat into it before the horse men noticed, and wait until they went away…
……………..
The party from Dol Amroth had travelled up the Ringlo valley, and then turned northwest and continued through Lamedon. Most nights they had been able to stay with one landowner or another. Lord Angborn had even urged the Prince’s family to stay longer, in the fortified city of Calambel, so that he could hold a feast to honour both Prince Imrahil and Princess Lothíriel as she went to become Queen of Rohan.
But Father explained that he had already sent word to Edoras, saying when he expected the party to reach the Path Beneath the Mountains, and it would be a very poor showing for the bride to arrive days late for her wedding; especially when she was marrying the King of Gondor’s greatest ally.
The tents had, in fact, been required only for the past couple of nights and, as the weather held very fair, camping then had been no hardship. Lothíriel’s young nephew made everyone smile with his enthusiasm.
Lothíriel was glad they had not camped at the Stone of Erech; it was a strange, forbidding place even in the sunlight of early afternoon when they had passed it. That had been yesterday. Today they had continued to climb, and the mountains were ever closer and closer. Lothíriel let her mind drift off, thinking of the most recent letter from Éomer and how good it would be to see him again, when there was a sudden flurry of activity at the front of the party. It didn’t seem to be a cause for worry, no-one was drawing weapons, and soon word came back that the standard of Rohan had been spotted fluttering in the breeze a little way ahead.
Four young Riders had already set up their tent and unsaddled their horses on a reasonably flat area of ground. Cwenhild made her way to the front of the party and spoke to them before coming back to where Lothíriel waited.
“Éothain sent them through to wait for us. The entrance to the Path is less than an hour’s ride from here, but it would be late at night by the time we would emerge into The Mark, and so it is better to camp here tonight and go Beneath in the morning. They will lead us through, as they have all acted as messengers on this route and know the way better than most. Éothain said they were to tell us we will be welcomed properly at the other end.”
That made sense; better to set up camp here, in the daylight, than try to get organised for the night on the far side.
By the time the tents were pitched, the horses tended and tethered to a line, and a meal prepared, the sun had sunk beneath the mountains. There was an autumnal chill in the air and Lothíriel was glad to wrap a cloak around her shoulders and sit near the fire.
Cwenhild went to talk to the Riders; Lothíriel did try out her newly learned Rohirric on them, for a few minutes, but they all looked at their feet and answered in as few words as possible. She decided that, as they had answered her simple questions (“What is your name? Whereabouts do you live? Which is your horse?”) she must have got the words right - they must just be rather embarrassed to chat to their future queen. As Cwenhild was sharing her tent, for company, if there was anything important she would doubtless tell her. As she undressed Lothíriel wondered why it had been Éothain that had sent the escort rather than Lord Erkenbrand who was, after all, Marshall of the West-Mark. But, in the end, Lothíriel was already half asleep by the time Cwenhild joined her.
Next morning there was a sense of excitement about the camp, as well as a sense of apprehension about the ride beneath the mountains, and any question about who had sent the escort was forgotten. Eventually everything was packed, Alphros was sitting firmly in front of his father having been reassured that, if they met any stray Dead warriors who had somehow missed the call to follow the King, Daddy and Grandpa could keep him safe. His baby sister was slung in front of her mother, rather than the nursemaid who often carried her, and the ride began.
The Rohirrim had already arranged a supply of torches at both ends of the Path. With everyone suitably equipped the journey through the darkness got underway. It was not as unpleasant as Lothíriel had expected; the torchlight threw odd shadows, but also highlighted mineral patches that sparkled, and areas where they were riding through high, echoing, caverns.
The attack, such as it was, came as a complete surprise.
They were in a narrow, tunnel-like, area which their guides had told them was quite close to the end. It was just wide enough for two horses to ride abreast although there were glimpses of occasional side openings here and there. Lothíriel was riding quietly beside Cwenhild, in the middle of the party, just behind Elphir and his wife with their two small children, when there was a sudden flurry of movement and from nowhere an orc threw itself at Miraina and grabbed her leg.
The guards in front of them could not easily turn back, the guards behind them could not get past, and Elphir could only clutch at his wife and baby daughter with one hand whilst trying to steady his small, screaming, son with the other. At least Alphros’ screams quickly alerted everyone else in the party to the problem.
Lothíriel was directly behind her brother and felt helpless but, as more orcs appeared, Cwenhild somehow urged her horse into what little space there was and it reared up to bring its front hooves down on the one that held Miraina’s leg.
Both the guards ahead and behind dismounted quickly, swords drawn; more guards, and a couple of princes, were with them almost immediately, carrying both swords and more torches. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. Only then did Lothíriel realise that Cwenhild was slumped in her saddle; when she had urged her horse to rear up to attack she had hit her head on the low roof.
It was difficult to assess Cwenhild’s injury by torchlight. One of the guards got up behind her and, moving through the rest of the main party, made haste to the daylight that was only a few minutes ride away.
By the time Lothíriel emerged into a narrow gorge, lit by the sun directly overhead, there appeared to be half an army of mounted Rohirrim waiting for them. At first it seemed as if everyone was milling around, and she had trouble working out what was happening, but then the familiar figure of Éothain approached with Father.
“Princess Lothíriel,” he said. “I can only apologise for the attack. Éomer King will doubtless make me wish I had never been born for not preventing it. He had expected to be here, but went to Aldburg and must have been delayed.
“The Royal Guard,” he indicated the Riders, “will mainly accompany your party to the home of my law-parents. Some will remain and ensure the Path is cleared and safe. I am taking Cwenhild ahead myself. Not only because she is my wife’s sister but also because I have the fastest mount, and the sooner the healer sees her the better.”
“I… how is she?” Lothíriel asked.
“We have put a patch on the bleeding, it may well need stitches. She is aware when we talk to her, but confused.” He bowed his head slightly then said, “I will see you when you arrive at the hold.” Adding, as if he had just remembered it, “My Lady Princess,” he turned his horse and hurried to gather Cwenhild up and set off.
The main party moved more slowly out of the gorge and then regrouped. There were the family, three servants, and their escort of twelve Swan knights, and now it became clear that they had been joined not by half an army, but by a further eight Riders, as well as the four who had ridden through the Path with them. Six others had gone in through the gorge to check that there were no more orcs.
Communication was more difficult than expected, with no Éothain and no Cwenhild (no Éomer either… Lothíriel had rather expected that he would be there to meet her). The senior members of the Royal Guard spoke some Westron, but Lothíriel was the only member of the contingent from Dol Amroth who spoke any Rohirric at all. However, eventually refreshments were taken, everyone took their places in the expanded company, and they began to ride through the country that would become Lothíriel’s home.
One of the senior members of Éomer’s Royal Guard rode beside Lothíriel and her father, and pointed out landmarks, but the only other things Lothíriel learnt from him was that he had fought in Éomer’s éored on the Pelennor and at The Black Gate, that he was honoured that Marshal Éomer, no, Éomer King, had asked him to be in the Royal Guard, and that he had expected the King to be with them, but he had gone to Aldburg and, when he had not returned, Éothain and the King’s advisors had decided the remaining Guard members should come for the Princess as arranged.
He cast no light on why Éomer had gone to Aldburg, but then Lothíriel had not really liked to ask. It must have been something important, she decided.
It was almost dusk when they approached a good-sized, solid, house surrounded by a defensive wall and outbuildings. Lothíriel knew, from conversations with Cwenhild, that the family were not noble, but were well regarded yeomen landowners. Cwenhild’s father, Cena, had been in Théoden King’s Royal Guard which is why Cwengyth, Cwenhild, and their brother, had lived in Edoras as children, returning to the hold only on the death of Cena’s father.
The Knights and Riders were soon making their way to the paddocks and outbuildings, and the family group approached the house, to be met outside the door by Éothain and a grey haired, serious looking, man who introduced himself as Cena and welcomed them to his home.
“How is Cwenhild?” Lothíriel asked.
“The healer is sitting with her,” Éothain answered. “She is asleep but he says he is not worried, and she should wake in the morning, but will need to remain in her bed for another three days at least.”
“Valar be praised!” Lothíriel said. Then thought she probably should have thanked Béma, now, but she didn’t think he’d mind sharing her thanks with his kin.
Before she could ask him anything more, particularly if he was expecting Éomer to arrive soon, Cena’s wife Hild joined them and, in a mixture of Westron and Rohirric, insisted that Lothíriel, Miraina, the children, and the maids come with her as they would surely need to wash before they did anything else.
As Éothain hurried off to organise the overnight encampment for the Riders and Knights, and Cena beckoned the princes to join him, Lothíriel did as bidden. The interior of the house was clean and comfortable; there were a number of pieces of well-polished, beautifully carved, wooden furniture and the walls were half panelling, with the upper walls plain white enhanced by woven hangings. She remembered Éomer’s comments about his cousin organising the whitewashing of walls, and the cleaning of hangings, and thought she might have a better idea, now, of what the interior of Meduseld might be like.
As her hostess showed her to a room on the upper floor, she waved her hand at the door beside the one she opened for Lothíriel and her maid.
“Éomer King will sleep there,” Hild said.
At last… an opportunity to ask.
“My lady Hild, do you know what has kept Éomer King at Aldburg?”
…………………..
The six horsemen were just entering Harrowdale, and were still some five or six miles from their destination. It was now almost dark and they had slowed to a walk as the ground under-hoof was uneven. Éomer felt he was chomping at the bit every bit as much as Firefoot had been doing when they had, eventually, left Aldburg. He had sent a messenger to Edoras to let his advisors - and all of the guests from Mundburg if they had arrived - know that he was going straight to Harrowdale.
He had been so determined to meet his bride before she rode through the Paths of the Dead and yet he hadn’t even managed to be waiting for her when she first set foot in The Mark. He hoped she would forgive him. Actually, he thought, if Éowyn finds out that I will greet Lothíriel and her father having camped out and neither washed properly, nor changed my clothes, she will probably need to be begged for forgiveness too.
By the time they reached Cena’s hold it was easier to see as the moon had risen and the sky was clear. The fires and lanterns of the men camped around it made it easier to spot as well.
They were challenged and asked to identify themselves, as was only right, and then held up for what seemed like endless minutes whilst he was given a report of the attack on the Gondorian party within the Paths. He was glad that no-one was badly injured, but very annoyed that Éothain had not searched the way thoroughly. Although, he thought ruefully, at least Éothain had made sure the Royal Guard was in the right place even if this particular royal personage hadn’t been.
Finally he got to the house where both Cena and Hild welcomed him, looking worried, and he asked about Cwenhild out of politeness and listened, somewhat impatiently, to their answers.
All the time the main thought in Éomer’s mind was ‘Where is Lothíriel?’
Then he saw Imrahil approaching, alone. He looked very stern. He must be angry about the orcs not being apprehended before they could attack his family. Éomer didn’t blame him.
“My apologies for being delayed, my friend,” Éomer said. “Is Lothíriel all right? Has she retired early to her bed?”
Imrahil looked even more stern, and didn’t answer directly.
“A word, Éomer, if you would.” He gestured to a door.
There was no sign of Éothain, and Cena and Hild seemed to be avoiding his eyes. Feeling rather like he used to as a teenager, when Théoden called him into his private quarters to admonish him for some misbehaviour, Éomer followed Imrahil into the quiet room. Surely Imrahil was not so annoyed by the orc attack that he was going to try and cancel the wedding?
His first urge, once Imrahil did speak, was to laugh at the joke. Until he realised the prince was serious.
“Lothíriel has shut herself in her room and refuses to come out. She says she will only come out when we are all rested and ready to return to Dol Amroth, and has asked me to inform you that she no longer regards herself as betrothed to you.”
“What? I know that I should have been there to meet her, and I will certainly expect a very good reason from my adjutant to explain how you could have been attacked in that way… but to call off our wedding?”
“The orc attack was simply one of those things that happen. Lothíriel is more sensible than to be put off her intended course by something like that. No, it is your absence or, rather, the reason given her for it, that has upset her. I must admit I find it hard to believe of you, but she seems quite convinced.”
“But what else could I do?” Éomer was genuinely puzzled by this turn.
Imrahil gave him an odd look before replying, “Do you then, deny, that you were delayed by some jaunt with your mistress? Or, even worse, that you are considering marrying this woman instead of my daughter?”
…………………………..
Come on - they keep on misunderstanding things - you didn't expect this to all go smoothly, did you?
Feedback is wonderful - and do please point out errors.
Chapter Eighteen, The Paths of the Dead
Rated PG. Éomer/Lothiriel, Éowyn/Faramir
Words, this chapter 2,800
Beta'd, as usual, by the assiduous speakr2customrs
Disclaimer as chapter one.
Previous chapters are HERE
Since the big fight, and then those walking trees arriving and the Boss disappearing, life had not been good. Not that most orcs had long memories, but there was a general feeling that it didn’t used to be this bad.
They’d been on a raid to find something to eat; a couple of horses would be good but there were none around. The new boss, one of the Uruk-Hai who had killed all rivals, said look for women, too, for breeding. But they’d not seen any of them, either.
Now they were resting in a deep gulley, away from the sunlight, and even here there was a problem as a whole lot of those bloody Men on horses, with their armour and their spears, had turned up and seemed to be determined to stay. Too many to fight.
Still, there was a cave, or something, further up this gully. Best retreat into it before the horse men noticed, and wait until they went away…
……………..
The party from Dol Amroth had travelled up the Ringlo valley, and then turned northwest and continued through Lamedon. Most nights they had been able to stay with one landowner or another. Lord Angborn had even urged the Prince’s family to stay longer, in the fortified city of Calambel, so that he could hold a feast to honour both Prince Imrahil and Princess Lothíriel as she went to become Queen of Rohan.
But Father explained that he had already sent word to Edoras, saying when he expected the party to reach the Path Beneath the Mountains, and it would be a very poor showing for the bride to arrive days late for her wedding; especially when she was marrying the King of Gondor’s greatest ally.
The tents had, in fact, been required only for the past couple of nights and, as the weather held very fair, camping then had been no hardship. Lothíriel’s young nephew made everyone smile with his enthusiasm.
Lothíriel was glad they had not camped at the Stone of Erech; it was a strange, forbidding place even in the sunlight of early afternoon when they had passed it. That had been yesterday. Today they had continued to climb, and the mountains were ever closer and closer. Lothíriel let her mind drift off, thinking of the most recent letter from Éomer and how good it would be to see him again, when there was a sudden flurry of activity at the front of the party. It didn’t seem to be a cause for worry, no-one was drawing weapons, and soon word came back that the standard of Rohan had been spotted fluttering in the breeze a little way ahead.
Four young Riders had already set up their tent and unsaddled their horses on a reasonably flat area of ground. Cwenhild made her way to the front of the party and spoke to them before coming back to where Lothíriel waited.
“Éothain sent them through to wait for us. The entrance to the Path is less than an hour’s ride from here, but it would be late at night by the time we would emerge into The Mark, and so it is better to camp here tonight and go Beneath in the morning. They will lead us through, as they have all acted as messengers on this route and know the way better than most. Éothain said they were to tell us we will be welcomed properly at the other end.”
That made sense; better to set up camp here, in the daylight, than try to get organised for the night on the far side.
By the time the tents were pitched, the horses tended and tethered to a line, and a meal prepared, the sun had sunk beneath the mountains. There was an autumnal chill in the air and Lothíriel was glad to wrap a cloak around her shoulders and sit near the fire.
Cwenhild went to talk to the Riders; Lothíriel did try out her newly learned Rohirric on them, for a few minutes, but they all looked at their feet and answered in as few words as possible. She decided that, as they had answered her simple questions (“What is your name? Whereabouts do you live? Which is your horse?”) she must have got the words right - they must just be rather embarrassed to chat to their future queen. As Cwenhild was sharing her tent, for company, if there was anything important she would doubtless tell her. As she undressed Lothíriel wondered why it had been Éothain that had sent the escort rather than Lord Erkenbrand who was, after all, Marshall of the West-Mark. But, in the end, Lothíriel was already half asleep by the time Cwenhild joined her.
Next morning there was a sense of excitement about the camp, as well as a sense of apprehension about the ride beneath the mountains, and any question about who had sent the escort was forgotten. Eventually everything was packed, Alphros was sitting firmly in front of his father having been reassured that, if they met any stray Dead warriors who had somehow missed the call to follow the King, Daddy and Grandpa could keep him safe. His baby sister was slung in front of her mother, rather than the nursemaid who often carried her, and the ride began.
The Rohirrim had already arranged a supply of torches at both ends of the Path. With everyone suitably equipped the journey through the darkness got underway. It was not as unpleasant as Lothíriel had expected; the torchlight threw odd shadows, but also highlighted mineral patches that sparkled, and areas where they were riding through high, echoing, caverns.
The attack, such as it was, came as a complete surprise.
They were in a narrow, tunnel-like, area which their guides had told them was quite close to the end. It was just wide enough for two horses to ride abreast although there were glimpses of occasional side openings here and there. Lothíriel was riding quietly beside Cwenhild, in the middle of the party, just behind Elphir and his wife with their two small children, when there was a sudden flurry of movement and from nowhere an orc threw itself at Miraina and grabbed her leg.
The guards in front of them could not easily turn back, the guards behind them could not get past, and Elphir could only clutch at his wife and baby daughter with one hand whilst trying to steady his small, screaming, son with the other. At least Alphros’ screams quickly alerted everyone else in the party to the problem.
Lothíriel was directly behind her brother and felt helpless but, as more orcs appeared, Cwenhild somehow urged her horse into what little space there was and it reared up to bring its front hooves down on the one that held Miraina’s leg.
Both the guards ahead and behind dismounted quickly, swords drawn; more guards, and a couple of princes, were with them almost immediately, carrying both swords and more torches. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. Only then did Lothíriel realise that Cwenhild was slumped in her saddle; when she had urged her horse to rear up to attack she had hit her head on the low roof.
It was difficult to assess Cwenhild’s injury by torchlight. One of the guards got up behind her and, moving through the rest of the main party, made haste to the daylight that was only a few minutes ride away.
By the time Lothíriel emerged into a narrow gorge, lit by the sun directly overhead, there appeared to be half an army of mounted Rohirrim waiting for them. At first it seemed as if everyone was milling around, and she had trouble working out what was happening, but then the familiar figure of Éothain approached with Father.
“Princess Lothíriel,” he said. “I can only apologise for the attack. Éomer King will doubtless make me wish I had never been born for not preventing it. He had expected to be here, but went to Aldburg and must have been delayed.
“The Royal Guard,” he indicated the Riders, “will mainly accompany your party to the home of my law-parents. Some will remain and ensure the Path is cleared and safe. I am taking Cwenhild ahead myself. Not only because she is my wife’s sister but also because I have the fastest mount, and the sooner the healer sees her the better.”
“I… how is she?” Lothíriel asked.
“We have put a patch on the bleeding, it may well need stitches. She is aware when we talk to her, but confused.” He bowed his head slightly then said, “I will see you when you arrive at the hold.” Adding, as if he had just remembered it, “My Lady Princess,” he turned his horse and hurried to gather Cwenhild up and set off.
The main party moved more slowly out of the gorge and then regrouped. There were the family, three servants, and their escort of twelve Swan knights, and now it became clear that they had been joined not by half an army, but by a further eight Riders, as well as the four who had ridden through the Path with them. Six others had gone in through the gorge to check that there were no more orcs.
Communication was more difficult than expected, with no Éothain and no Cwenhild (no Éomer either… Lothíriel had rather expected that he would be there to meet her). The senior members of the Royal Guard spoke some Westron, but Lothíriel was the only member of the contingent from Dol Amroth who spoke any Rohirric at all. However, eventually refreshments were taken, everyone took their places in the expanded company, and they began to ride through the country that would become Lothíriel’s home.
One of the senior members of Éomer’s Royal Guard rode beside Lothíriel and her father, and pointed out landmarks, but the only other things Lothíriel learnt from him was that he had fought in Éomer’s éored on the Pelennor and at The Black Gate, that he was honoured that Marshal Éomer, no, Éomer King, had asked him to be in the Royal Guard, and that he had expected the King to be with them, but he had gone to Aldburg and, when he had not returned, Éothain and the King’s advisors had decided the remaining Guard members should come for the Princess as arranged.
He cast no light on why Éomer had gone to Aldburg, but then Lothíriel had not really liked to ask. It must have been something important, she decided.
It was almost dusk when they approached a good-sized, solid, house surrounded by a defensive wall and outbuildings. Lothíriel knew, from conversations with Cwenhild, that the family were not noble, but were well regarded yeomen landowners. Cwenhild’s father, Cena, had been in Théoden King’s Royal Guard which is why Cwengyth, Cwenhild, and their brother, had lived in Edoras as children, returning to the hold only on the death of Cena’s father.
The Knights and Riders were soon making their way to the paddocks and outbuildings, and the family group approached the house, to be met outside the door by Éothain and a grey haired, serious looking, man who introduced himself as Cena and welcomed them to his home.
“How is Cwenhild?” Lothíriel asked.
“The healer is sitting with her,” Éothain answered. “She is asleep but he says he is not worried, and she should wake in the morning, but will need to remain in her bed for another three days at least.”
“Valar be praised!” Lothíriel said. Then thought she probably should have thanked Béma, now, but she didn’t think he’d mind sharing her thanks with his kin.
Before she could ask him anything more, particularly if he was expecting Éomer to arrive soon, Cena’s wife Hild joined them and, in a mixture of Westron and Rohirric, insisted that Lothíriel, Miraina, the children, and the maids come with her as they would surely need to wash before they did anything else.
As Éothain hurried off to organise the overnight encampment for the Riders and Knights, and Cena beckoned the princes to join him, Lothíriel did as bidden. The interior of the house was clean and comfortable; there were a number of pieces of well-polished, beautifully carved, wooden furniture and the walls were half panelling, with the upper walls plain white enhanced by woven hangings. She remembered Éomer’s comments about his cousin organising the whitewashing of walls, and the cleaning of hangings, and thought she might have a better idea, now, of what the interior of Meduseld might be like.
As her hostess showed her to a room on the upper floor, she waved her hand at the door beside the one she opened for Lothíriel and her maid.
“Éomer King will sleep there,” Hild said.
At last… an opportunity to ask.
“My lady Hild, do you know what has kept Éomer King at Aldburg?”
…………………..
The six horsemen were just entering Harrowdale, and were still some five or six miles from their destination. It was now almost dark and they had slowed to a walk as the ground under-hoof was uneven. Éomer felt he was chomping at the bit every bit as much as Firefoot had been doing when they had, eventually, left Aldburg. He had sent a messenger to Edoras to let his advisors - and all of the guests from Mundburg if they had arrived - know that he was going straight to Harrowdale.
He had been so determined to meet his bride before she rode through the Paths of the Dead and yet he hadn’t even managed to be waiting for her when she first set foot in The Mark. He hoped she would forgive him. Actually, he thought, if Éowyn finds out that I will greet Lothíriel and her father having camped out and neither washed properly, nor changed my clothes, she will probably need to be begged for forgiveness too.
By the time they reached Cena’s hold it was easier to see as the moon had risen and the sky was clear. The fires and lanterns of the men camped around it made it easier to spot as well.
They were challenged and asked to identify themselves, as was only right, and then held up for what seemed like endless minutes whilst he was given a report of the attack on the Gondorian party within the Paths. He was glad that no-one was badly injured, but very annoyed that Éothain had not searched the way thoroughly. Although, he thought ruefully, at least Éothain had made sure the Royal Guard was in the right place even if this particular royal personage hadn’t been.
Finally he got to the house where both Cena and Hild welcomed him, looking worried, and he asked about Cwenhild out of politeness and listened, somewhat impatiently, to their answers.
All the time the main thought in Éomer’s mind was ‘Where is Lothíriel?’
Then he saw Imrahil approaching, alone. He looked very stern. He must be angry about the orcs not being apprehended before they could attack his family. Éomer didn’t blame him.
“My apologies for being delayed, my friend,” Éomer said. “Is Lothíriel all right? Has she retired early to her bed?”
Imrahil looked even more stern, and didn’t answer directly.
“A word, Éomer, if you would.” He gestured to a door.
There was no sign of Éothain, and Cena and Hild seemed to be avoiding his eyes. Feeling rather like he used to as a teenager, when Théoden called him into his private quarters to admonish him for some misbehaviour, Éomer followed Imrahil into the quiet room. Surely Imrahil was not so annoyed by the orc attack that he was going to try and cancel the wedding?
His first urge, once Imrahil did speak, was to laugh at the joke. Until he realised the prince was serious.
“Lothíriel has shut herself in her room and refuses to come out. She says she will only come out when we are all rested and ready to return to Dol Amroth, and has asked me to inform you that she no longer regards herself as betrothed to you.”
“What? I know that I should have been there to meet her, and I will certainly expect a very good reason from my adjutant to explain how you could have been attacked in that way… but to call off our wedding?”
“The orc attack was simply one of those things that happen. Lothíriel is more sensible than to be put off her intended course by something like that. No, it is your absence or, rather, the reason given her for it, that has upset her. I must admit I find it hard to believe of you, but she seems quite convinced.”
“But what else could I do?” Éomer was genuinely puzzled by this turn.
Imrahil gave him an odd look before replying, “Do you then, deny, that you were delayed by some jaunt with your mistress? Or, even worse, that you are considering marrying this woman instead of my daughter?”
…………………………..
Come on - they keep on misunderstanding things - you didn't expect this to all go smoothly, did you?
Feedback is wonderful - and do please point out errors.