Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 8

Warning: this chapter contains discussion of still birth.

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Cheered to be unencumbered at last, Éomer continued his round of the hall, for he wanted to have a word with every guest, even if only a quick one. It would have been more pleasant with Lothíriel at his side, but after his frosty reception earlier on he didn't fancy trying his luck again.

The doors to Meduseld stood open. When he went outside to catch some fresh air, he saw the bael-fýr in the fields below still burning bright. The distant sound of singing floated up on the air. Inside the hall, one of the fiddlers launched into a popular drinking song and many of the men joined in, some decidedly off-key. Freawaru, Meduseld's cook, would be busy next day brewing her special tea.

When he went back inside, he saw that Elfhelm's wife had already left, taking her daughters with her, though a pouting Déorwenna still sat at the high table. Lothíriel and her friends seemed to have retired too, which was probably wise. He did not begrudge his guests the ale or the oblivion it brought, but he did not intend to stay to the bitter end either.

Hailed by Gamling, one of the men who had been driven back to the caverns with him at the battle of Helm's Deep, he stopped to have a word with the old rider. The man was still as spry as ever and never tired of telling the tale how he fought at the side of Gimli the dwarf.

But suddenly through the press of people he spotted a dark head amongst all the blond. What was Lothíriel doing still in the hall? Half hidden behind some pillars, she was standing with the other women in front of the tapestry of Eorl the Young on his horse Fréaláf, discussing something.

Excusing himself, he made his way towards her and saw her gesturing at the picture, bending forward to trace the interlaced patterns forming a frame around the tapestry.

He had nearly reached her when a group of riders staggered by drunkenly, Westfold men by their accent. Unaware of them, Lothíriel straightened up and took a step back. That moment one of them reached out and grabbed her round the waist.

"Come here, my pretty," he called.

With a curse Éomer sprang forward.

He was too late.

In one smooth motion Lothíriel hammered her elbow into the rider's throat. The man's head snapped back. She spun, kicked the man's feet out from under him and when he fell to his knees grabbed him by the hair and bared his throat. Steel glittered in her hand.

It happened so quickly, Éomer was still a few steps away. Everybody froze in disbelief.

Breathing fast, Lothíriel stared down at the man, who looked back, eyes rimmed with white. Instantly sober, he knew that if he made one wrong move, he was dead.

The hackles on Éomer's neck rose, as if in the presence of a wild animal. Lothíriel did not see them, she was caught in some vision all her own.

"Lothíriel," he said very gently.

She did not react.

"Lothíriel," he said again.

The blade at the man's throat trembled. She lifted her eyes, dark and enormous, to him. He knew that look, had encountered it before in men who had seen things that haunted their dreams.

He took a slow step forward and held out his hand. "Lothíriel, you are safe."

At the back of the motionless crowd Éothain made as if to interpose himself – he too knew how volatile the situation was, how unpredictable Lothíriel's reaction might be. Without looking at him Éomer shook his head and advanced another step. He was within reach of her knife now.