LOVE! Rohirrim Style

09 - How many Bottles of What on the Where?

Éomer was still taking it all in; the time and effort that went into the ensuring of his comfort; the grandness of it. With a derisive snort, he exited the tent and back into the cool breeze. He found a fire, with a fresh pot of caffe and poured himself a mug. He waited for Gamling to fill his before he headed to the entrance of the Dwimorberg. 

“There is already whispering about it.”

“There are no ghosts.”

Gamling took a sip, savoring the bitter heat of the drink. “Aye, I know that. But they are still whispering.”

“Make sure there are plenty of torches made up and that each rider has one or two. Not every one has to be lit when we go through it.” He thought for a moment. “It will not hurt if the more antsy ones have had a little bit of hard ale.” He looked at Gamling hard. “How well does Aefre hold her ale?”

“Aefre out-belches me.” 

Éomer stared. “Why do my Marshals insist on telling me things I do not need to know?” 

“Because you ask.”

*** 

True to Aefre’s prediction, it took three days for everyone to arrive. Panniers and saddlebags were packed, repacked, redistributed. Women, especially the daughters, were wringing their hands at the imagined wrinkles and damage to their clothing. One captain was overheard telling his seventeen summers old daughter that if he caught her so much as making eyes at a guard from Dol Amroth, she was going straight home. He did not elaborate on how she was going to get back home, but by Béma, she was going home!

Fugol and his brothers were sent to back to Elfhelm’s under his steward’s charge. He let Fugol see him hand over the keys to the stockade to ensure proper behavior. Erkenbrand’s twin sons were sent as well, with quiet orders to keep the two younger boys out of trouble and out of Fugol’s way if things turned ugly.

By early dawn’s light, the fourth morning, the packhorses were lined up. The Riders were spaced between supply animals and the women. Breakfast had been partaken of and after saying their farewells, they began to mount up. Éomer heard a soft groan. 

“Lady Aefre? Are you feeling a-right?”

Aefre stretched her back and listened to her spine crack. “My back is a might sore, but nothing that will not be stretched out.”

Éomer was immediately concerned. “Did you not sleep well? Were your furs not to your liking?” He caught the sly shared grin between his Marshal and his wife. A slow, dawning smirk spread over his face. “A-haaa.” He shook his finger. “Never mind.”

The caravan began to line up and torches were handed out. As Éomer made his way to the front, he heard grumbling from some of the younger girls.

“Are you Rohirrim?” he asked one solemnly. She appeared to be thirteen summers.

“Yes sir.” The girl bowed her head, cowered and embarrassed that her king singled her out. No doubt her glaring da would be hissing in her ear when Éomer passed. 

He angled Firefoot closer and whispered, “I am scared too and I am leading this party.” He nodded towards the front. “Would you like to ride with me a ways?”

Her eyes widened. “Really?” 

“Really.” The girl reined her horse from the line-up and followed the king to the head of the line. “What is your name?”

“Cyrtenes, daughter of Cáflic, but my brothers call me Níetan.”

“Your brothers call you ‘Little Beast’?” Éomer clicked his tongue in disapproval. “How many do you have?”

“Five. I was the last.” She sighed as only a young teenaged girl could. “They tell me I will not amount to anything.”

“And yet, who is riding in front with the king?”

Her grin lit the sky.

“Éomer King!” Elfhelm hollered good – naturedly as the two moved ahead, “my messenger tells me the paths are crunchy with the dead!”

Cyrtenes looked over her shoulder. “Crunchy with your fear, maybe!”

The ‘oohs’ could be heard echoing throughout the line and the King knuckle – saluted her. “Good one!” 

As the sun rose behind them, they entered the pass, a servant at the mouth of the cave with a lit torch, lighting every other torch in the line. The carvings and warnings at the entrance remained, and Éomer paused not only in fear – for these were the Paths of the Dead – but also to bolster his composure. The way was narrow and he turned to Cyrtenes. “Stay behind me and watch the ceiling. You are to tell those behind you to duck when necessary.” He nodded to the servant. “Take a lit torch, little one.” He ducked his head and entered the hollow.

The morning light did not go far into the cavern and Cyrtenes was glad not only for the nearness of Rohan’s King, but also that he let her hold the torch. They wound their way slowly, deeper into the recess. 

Messengers who used the enclosed pass told Éomer that they learned not to look down or to the side, simply straight ahead. He remembered that advice too late, when a bony arm suddenly jutted from the wall. He skittered to the side, only to hear Firefoot’s hooves…

…crunch.

Béma, look at the skulls… 

He heard Cyrtenes gasp.

“Cyrtenes, I want you to focus on the ceiling and no lower than the back of my saddle.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was no sound, save for the occasional ‘duck your head, rider’ and the crunching of bone beneath the horses hooves. One would have thought the remains of the dead would have been pulverized by now, but the sound echoed grotesquely throughout the cavern. After a time, a different sound made its way to the front of the line.

“Cyrtenes, what is the din behind us?”

The girl yelled to the back, the question repeating itself over and over until the answer came back in similar fashion. “They are singing.”

Éomer smiled. Singing. The Rohirrim always sang; in battle, in happiness, in sadness. Of course they would sing during unsettling and fitful times. “Tell them to sing louder, so we may join them.”

Within minutes, Éomer and Cyrtenes were singing along with gusto, their voices echoing ahead.

…96 bottles of mead on the wall, 96 bottles of mead

take one down, pass it around

how many bottles of mead on the wall?

*** 

Deep in the mountain, behind the rubble, the ruins, a solitary ghost sat on a rock. For some reason, he had not paid attention to the call of the King of the Dead, lo, those many moons ago. He had been long enamored of the colorful geo-stones deep in the mountain and missed it. He missed the going to war and being released with his brethren. There was no chance the King of Gondor would return to release just him. So now he sat, way high, watching the singing Rohirrim ride through the ruins. He propped his bony chin on his hand.

“I hate the living.”

*** 

tbc

***