LOVE! Rohirrim Style

09 - How many Bottles of What on the Where?

“Ah! I thought I recognized the dulcet musical sounds of Elfhelm’s wife.” Gamling smiled. He leaned over to his wife. “Have I told you lately, how much I love you?”

At that moment, Elfhelm came from around a tent, took one look at who his wife – who in all honesty, was a stunning woman – was yelling at and made a beeline towards the king.

“Éomer, King! ‘Tis good to see you!” He took a hold of Firefoot’s bridle as the king dismounted. “Looking forward to your day of doom?” He leaned forward. “You can still get out of it, you know. We will let tell that you were lost in the caverns of the Dwimorberg, ne’er to be seen again.”

Éomer’s feet hit the ground and he took Firefoot’s lead. “I believe I shall be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Elfhelm’s wife’s voice hit a particularly screeching high pitch, causing all to shudder. “There are three rings in marriage. The betrothal ring, the wedding ring and then the suffering.”

“Who is she yelling at?” Aefre asked. “I feel sorry for the poor lad.”

“Fyren’s eldest, Fugol.”

“Oh. Never mind.” Fyren had been a loathsome Rider, not liked or particularly mourned much when he died at Pelennor Fields. Sadly, he left a barn full of wild children that the King agonized over in making sure they were taken care of. The majority - seven little orphaned Rohirrim - had stayed behind in Edoras with Gamling’s sister, Beornia and her two sons. The household was noisy, but healthy and happier than it had ever been and for all her bluster, it was obvious she adored her young charges. Two had gone to foster with Erkenbrand; he had twin sons of an age, but the two eldest boys had gone to Elfhelm, in hopes to keep either of them from following in their father’s footsteps.

“At least his younger brother learns from Fugol’s mistakes. Would that Fugal would learn from them.” Another string of foul language rose on the air.

“Elfhelm!” Gamling was aghast. “Does she kiss you with that mouth?”

It didn’t take long for Elfhelm to reply. “That mouth is quite talented. Especially at night in the dark.” He turned to Aefre who was smiling rather saucily. “I live for the night.”

“Oh, that was more information than I ever needed to hear.” Éomer had his fingers in ears, as if to clean them. He adroitly changed the subject. “Has Erkenbrand arrived?”

“No, but a rider from his holdings informed me he was bringing their brothers. Perhaps if I promise to allow them time together, it will sweeten Fugol a little bit.”

There was a crash of something large dropped. Or slung.

“Then again, maybe not.” Elfhelm dipped his head. “That boy has no respect for women.” There was now more cursing by more than one voice. “I better go break them up, before Lýðrest beans him into next harvest.” He turned to enter the fray, but added over his shoulder. “Not that I would mind, mind you.”

Servants took the horses and Éomer made his way through the encampment, nodding and greeting everyone. At some point, Aefre wandered off, to find Beornia and see who the group was still waiting on. Éomer stepped into his tent; the rugs laid thickly, a large pile in the middle, along with a mattress, pillows, and furs. Braziers were lit, giving the space a very cozy feeling. No one would believe it was still cool out. 

“It is too much. We cannot take this through the Dwimorberg.” 

“We do not intend to, Éomer. Small tents will be taken, along with some ground cover, but they will have to fit comfortably on the packhorses. Enjoy it while you can.”