The Ride of The Rohirrim

The sudden halting of the horse woke Beléniel. Disoriented a moment she tilted her head, and found her gaze resting on Eomer’s rugged features. His gaze was hard and intent, and not focused upon her. A frown knitted her brows together, and she realized he had her before him. She recalled being lifted behind him so how she ended up in the warm comfort of his arms she could only guess that he had shifted her before him when she slept.

He felt her eyes upon his face, and he took his time before looking down at her. “They are not here.”

Startled from admiring him she focused upon their surroundings. A forest loomed before them, and tiny tendrils of smoke still rose from a pile of burnt remains. She figured those had been the Orcs he and his men had slain. Reluctantly she moved from the solid wall of his chest and swung a leg over the head of the horse to dismount.

He let her slide down to the ground; despite an insane urge to tighten his hold upon her and keep her still a while longer. He watched her carefully pick her way about the site of the battle, her plait falling to her breast as she bent low to the ground in spots. Finally she rose and faced the trees. “None dare enter Fangorn Forest. Many who have never returned,” he told her.

“And yet Aragorn and his companions ventured inside.” She returned to the horse, and reached up for her sword and bow.

Eomer caught her hand. “Would you also enter the forest and never be seen again, maiden?”

“If I must,” she replied.

“Then a dark day indeed this is.” He let her take her things. “I cannot follow you. This is where we part ways, Beléniel, daughter of Elrohir. I wish you luck in your quest, and pray the forest will not hold you with its evil.”

Violet eyes met dark ones. “You have been more than kind and patient with me, Eomer, master Rider of the Rohirrim. I will find my way to Edoras, and to the Golden Hall. I will deliver your words to your sister.” Twirling she marched into the forest.

Eomer sat upon his horse, both still and silent for long moments. Long after she entered the forest and disappeared from sight. Heaviness weighed upon his breast, and he spun the steed about and raced away as though trying to outrun the sensations she had engendered within him.

…

The forest seemed to shift and speak to itself as she carefully picked her way beneath its bows. Uneasiness steadily crept into her being, making her feel cold and very much alone. Alert to all sounds and movement she felt almost skittish. There was a darkness hanging over the forest, one that felt ancient and full of rage. It was not easy to find the trail left behind by a Man, an Elf, and a dwarf. It seemed to overlap another trail of smaller prints. She had heard that the fellowship, which had left Rivendell, had contained several Hobbits, of Halflings. Why the fellowship would come to Fangorn Forest she could not figure out. After a while she paused, noticing the lone Elvish arrow that lay upon the bed of leaves and pine needles.

“A battle?” she spoke softly, searching for clues. Faster she walked, following the steps over roots and finally out to sunlight. She had left the forest, and here she found the tracks of three horses. Glancing up she estimated the hour by the sun in the sky, and began to walk.

The sun had long set when she came to the village atop the outcropping that jutted up before the backdrop of the snowy peaked mountains. “Edoras,” she breathed, wincing at the pain from her wound. Reaching a hand inside her cloak she felt the warm stickiness of fresh blood. Pushing forward she climbed and saw no one.

The Golden Hall’s doors opened beneath her hands, and she suddenly faced several armed men. “I have come seeking the Lady Eowyn.”

Eowyn frowned, her chin lifting as she regarded the cloaked figure. “I am she. Speak,” she ordered.

Pushing her hood back Beléniel nodded. “I am Beléniel, daughter of Elrohir. May we sit to speak, Lady?”

Eowyn’s eyes widened to find the stranger a woman. A woman who carried a sword and a bow, and who she now noticed looked pale and worn. “Let her pass,” she ordered, and taking the woman’s arm led her to the long table.

Beléniel caught her arm before she could move away. “I bear a message from your brother, Eomer,” she whispered softly.

Eowyn’s heart pounded. “You have seen him? He is well?” She had worried for him after learning of his exile. He may be a warrior, a Rider of Rohan, but he was still her brother.

Beléniel did not hear her. Her face broke into a tired smile, and she rose slowly and stiffly. “Aragorn…”

Eowyn scowled, and stepped aside so the woman could rise and move towards the men who had just entered the Hall. The men halted, and Aragorn hurried forward when she called his name. “Beléniel! What do you here? Is it your father? Elrond? Is it…?” The thought that anything could have happened to Arwen choked him, and the words caught in his throat.

“My father and his kin are well,” she replied. “The Dunedain sent two of us to find you. They will soon ride south. The time is short, and they will come when you need them.”

“Two?” Gandalf arched one bushy white brow. “Two you said, and yet one only do I see.”

“My companion fell,” she replied. “We crossed paths with a band of Orcs. Like none we have seen before, these traveled in daylight, and seemed intent on some nefarious mission. Barely did I escape with my life, and they did not pursue.” She touched Aragorn’s arm with sympathy. “Take comfort in the fact that Anathan fell swiftly, and suffered none.”

“You are hurt,” the blond Elf noted, seeing the bloodstained shirt her now open cloak revealed.

Aragorn scowled. “How long have you traveled with such a wound?” he demanded.

“’Twas tended to,” she assured him. “A merry trail you led me on, and I began to fear the Dunedain would find you long before I could.” She let him lead her to a seat, but when he tried to part her shirt to examine her wound she flamed. “Though healer I know you to be I will not permit you to undress me before a Hall of people.”

“I will tend to her,” Eowyn neared.

“I will be near should you need me,” Aragorn swore. “Be easy with my kinwoman,” he told Eowyn. “Stubborn and hard she may be, and loathe to admit when she is in deep pain.”

Eowyn’s breath came more easily, and she nodded. His kinwoman? She led Beléniel out a side hallway to a room. “You are kinwoman to Aragorn?”

Beléniel nodded as she slowly and painfully removed her cloak and shirt. “My father, Elrohir, is son to Elrond who took in Aragorn when he was but a child and called him his own son. Always has he been an uncle to me.” She noticed the blond woman’s pale face warm as she bent to examine the wound.

“You said you had word from my brother, Eomer?”

“He warns you to take care of the worm, and guard well against it. He also sends word that he is well, and thinks of you.” She let the other woman make her recline upon the bed and begin to clean the wound. “He tended my wound when he found me.”

Her eyes flicked upwards to the violet ones watching her. “Eomer? He could not tend a prick upon his finger.”

“And yet gentle was his touch when he cleaned and bandaged my wound,” Beléniel stated. “He worried for you, Lady, and to repay his kindness I swore to bring you word of him, and to be certain giving you this word would not endanger you nor him.”

“The danger is gone,” Eowyn replied. Her brother had done a good job tending the wound, but it should have been sewn or cauterized. “We will need to sew the wound shut, or cauterize it.”

“Sew it,” Beléniel told her. “I will not have anyone branding me with a hot poker.”

“Very well.” Sitting back Eowyn prepared the needle and thread. “He looks well, and is not simply telling me he is to ease my fears?”

“He looked well to me,” came the reply.

“Good.” She faced the female ranger. “You carry weapons. Can you use them?”

“There is no point in carrying a weapon you cannot use,” Beléniel replied.

“So you are a warrior?”

“I am a Ranger, like my father before me, and several of my kin. My mother was of the race of Man, and passed into death when I was but a small child. I barely remember her. My father took me to Lothlorien to be raised with his sister, and she and I would walk into the woods and use sticks as swords. Long hours we would battle, and my grandmother would chastise us for the welts we carried and the cuts we suffered. The Lady of the Forest would smile and bid her leave us in peace. My grandfather would not suffer us learning the ways of the warrior, but we did. My aunt and I went down separate paths. She remained in Rivendell, and became the Lady there. I took to the road and became a Ranger.”

Eowyn envied her that freedom. Her uncle, the king, had let her learn the skills of swordsmanship, but ever treated her as the fragile lady of the Hall. She wanted the freedom to do as this remarkable female ranger did. “I envy you,” she admitted. “You are not tethered by the chains of your womanhood. You travel, and fight. None would gainsay you raising your sword to protect your people. You are not expected to remain in a prison of a Hall to cook and sew and hopefully one day bear children.”

Beléniel shook her head. “We all carry chains of one sort or another, Lady Eowyn. You see this Hall as yours. I did have to learn the womanly arts. My grandmother would not let me know only the skills of weapons. There is nothing to envy of having to kill.”

“And what is your chain?” Eowyn asked, not wanting to admit she felt chastised as though she were a child being reprimanded by a parent.

Beléniel shut her eyes. “I am ready for you to ply that needle, Lady.”