The Ride of The Rohirrim

Tired as she was Beléniel could not sleep. The grunts and snores of the men who slept all about her as well as the soft conversations of those yet awake intruded. No, not exactly true. It was the low timber of one voice that kept her from the restorative powers of sleep. As she lay curled beneath her cloak she watched the way the dark of night and amber of the small fire played light chases shadow across his features. Her gaze followed the breadth and width of his shoulders and chest, the strength in his arms even when they rested across his knees. Though his long golden hair was partly tied back some strands escaped with wild abandon, tangling in the trap of his beard and mustache. One strand fascinated her most. It had curled into his mustache, and the end caressed his full bottom lip. He had wonderful lips, and she found herself envying that one strand.

He had a strong face, and his carriage was confident and controlled. He was a leader; of that there was no doubt. Her gaze fell to his hands. Those were hands strong enough to control a steed, wield a sword, and yet gentle and deft enough to tend a wound. She could easily remember the slightly callused heat of them against her skin, making her feel as though he harnessed the power of the sun in him and burned her where he touched.

Lifting her gaze she felt her stomach constrict and drop when her eyes connected with his intense stare. Warmth flooded her and heated her face. Slowly she turned her back to him, and forced her eyes shut.

Across the fire Eomer spent some time with his men discussing their next moves. Had they not found the wounded female they would have continued to ride north. He could not, in good conscience, leave a wounded woman alone for the night with Orcs roaming the land. His mind was not entirely on the discussion. He was distracted knowing she lay only several feet away. Something about her made him anxious. It was not entirely a bad feeling, but it made him restless. He wanted to leap atop his horse and race away, and yet he wanted to remain and watch over her. Indecision had never been a problem with him before now. He was a leader and therefore had to be a quick thinker. Their lives depended on the confidence of his decisions. Why did one female tilt his world so and leave him confused?

His men moved off, each smiling secretly when they saw their leader’s eyes return again and again to the wounded woman. Eomer felt her eyes upon him, and found her gaze wandering his form. His stomach tightened, and a pounding resulted in his chest. That anxious feeling swelled within him, and he was about to rise when she turned her back to him. Hands clenching he made himself remain where he was. After what seemed hours he finally got some rest.

…

“Where is the woman?” Eomer demanded once he saw she and her belongings were missing.

One of his men nodded towards Edoras. “Gone. She bid I give you her thanks, and her promise that she will comfort your sister with your words.”

While his men mounted he hesitated a moment. How could he have let her leave alone for Edoras? She would find no protection there. He also suspected that the one she was seeking was Aragorn, and that one was gone to Fangorn Forest. He had not told her where to find him. Going to his mount he tightened his jaw, and leapt into the saddle. “Ride north. I will catch up with you momentarily.”

“Do you go after the maiden?” one of his men asked.

“I cannot let her blindly go to the king. I do not know if the one she seeks is still at Fangorn, but I can guide her towards that way to find him.” He turned his steed’s head and set it to a run. Behind him he heard the calls of his men to their horses to set them off.

She had moved faster than he had anticipated, but finally saw her in the distance and urged his mount faster. She halted and faced him as he neared. Eomer noticed she still relied on a thick branch as a walking stick to lean upon. “The one you seek. Be his name Aragorn?”

“Yes.” Her heart had begun a painful race within her chest when she saw who bore down upon her. He had expertly reined his horse in inches from her, and now she had to crane her head back to meet his gaze. “You have seen him?”

“He traveled with an Elf and a Dwarf. They followed a band of Orcs, which we had slain two nights hence at Fangorn Forest. I do not know if there they remain, but that is where they were headed.”

“Thank you.” She turned to continue on her journey.

“You will travel long and far upon foot, and the land is yet unsafe.”

She paused, and nodded. “The warnings are appreciated, but nothing can be done of it. I have no horse, and would not ask a Rider of Rohan to relinquish his. Far have I come already, and far yet must I go until my quest is done. Perhaps this mission the Orcs are upon will keep them from my path.”

“And perhaps not.” He nudged his horse closer and held out a hand to her. “Come. I will take you as far as I dare.”

Beléniel paused, lifting her violet gaze from his outstretched hand to his face. “And your men?”

“I have sent them ahead, and will catch up to them when I am certain you are safe.”

“And your duty to Rohan and your men? Would you abandon those to aid one lone woman?”

“Not abandon, but simply delay.” Waggling his fingers to urge her to take his hand he hefted her up behind him. “Are you ready?”

Adjusting her bow and sword she pulled the walking stick across her lap and wrapped her arms about his waist. “Lead on.”

The horse leapt forward and bounded eagerly across the rolling land that was Rohan. He was a confident rider, controlling the animal easily, and knowing when to let it have its head. It answered the slight pressure of his knees in its flanks and of the reins as only a true destrier trained for battle could. She was a firm believer that an animal’s form and power were reflective of the owner’s treatment. Eomer obviously treated his beast well. Thinking of the horse kept her from thinking of how good it felt to hold him, or how powerful he felt beneath her hands.

“Do you always rescue maidens in distress, Lord Eomer?” If she kept talking perhaps he would not hear that her heart beat louder than the hooves of the horse over the ground.

His eyes hardened as they scanned the passing land. His face felt warmer, and he had not known the juvenile affliction of blushing since he was a boy teased by one of the more aggressive maidens who had cleaned the Golden Hall. “Only heathens would leave a maiden to die.”

“Ah, but you did not know I lay wounded. Nor did you know if I was sent to distract you or kill you. ‘Twas a chance you took, my lord.”

He reined the horse in so hard that it reared. Only by tightening her hold on him did she remain precariously perched behind him. Turning in the saddle to meet her gaze he glowered at her. “Was it a ruse to separate me from my men? Are you here to do mischief for Saruman or Sauron? Tell me quick.”

“Do you believe your judgment to be false or deceiving? I felt in you an honorable man who knew the measure of a man.” She shook her head. “Had I been sent to kill you, my lord, you would be dead now. If you mistrust me leave me here. I will continue on alone.”

She did not flinch as he deeply searched her eyes for any sign of deception, and found none. With a grunt of satisfaction he turned, and set his horse into motion once more. “Who are you?”

“I have given you my name…”

“Nay, maiden. Your name does not tell me who you are.” He guided the steed over terrain that to many others would seem endlessly similar. Rohan was his home. He guarded and protected it, and had spent many days exploring it as a boy. He knew it as he knew his own heart.

“I am Beléniel, daughter of Elrohir. I am a ranger of the north, and seek my brethren.”

“You are Dunedain?” he demanded, once more startled by her words.

“I am daughter to a Dunedain, his blood flows in my veins.” She thought of her father, one of Elrond’s twin sons. Elrond, her grandfather, was half Elf. Her own mother was of the race of Man. She knew the Dunedain would soon depart to meet up with Aragorn, and she and her companion had been sent to warn him of this fact.

Eomer felt the heavy silence she fell into, and he did not pry. He knew the weight of troubling thoughts. There were things you could not control, and the worries often bore you down to leave you struggling to carry them. After a while he felt her lean into him, and he knew she rested. She was still weak from her wound. He was loath to wake her, and did not want to admit that it was partly due to the fact that having her trustingly lean into him made him feel protective and tender towards her. Not unwanted sensations, and yet foreign to him. He had never lacked for female attention when he wanted it, but never had he felt any kind of tenderness towards one. It was somewhat disorienting, though pleasantly so.