The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[General Nimruzir]

Northern Rhudaur, night of December 12, 1347.

His agitation and worry apparent by his rapid pacing back and forth across the floor of his tent, General Nimruzir wondered repeatedly, "Where are Captain Gellamon and the two men-at-arms?" The Captain and his men had been at the Hillmen's camp for well over an hour, and General Nimruzir was growing more concerned with each passing minute. The General knew that with the rambunctious Hillmen, anything could happen in their camp. A quick tempered lot at the best of times, that night the wild Hillmen were screaming for blood. They were fired up over the arrest of a young man whom Lord Broggha had accused of spying and plotting to assassinate him. Nimruzir could hear the angry din of the camp all the way to his tent. "Why are they not back?" he railed to himself.

At the same time that General Nimurzir was wearing out a path in the floor of his tent, two young men were making their way towards the Hillmen's assembly area in front of Jarl Broggha's tent. Edging through the tightly packed throng, the men incurred numerous black looks and curses when they elbowed hostile hillmen out of the way. "Hey, watch it there!" "What do you think you are doing?" "That was my foot, you fool!" Angry hillmen raised their fists in the air, threatening black eyes and ruined noses. "Terribly sorry about that, sir! Truly an accident! Please forgive me!" the two offered in way of polite apology. Fortunately for them, Jarl Broggha had issued the order that there were to be no brawls, and that any man who started one would be severely whipped. With that threat hanging over them and the guards patrolling the restive crowd, no one dared disturb the peace.

Their grimy faces shadowed in the hoods of their cloaks, the two tried to blend in with the crowd. At last they reached the first row of the tightly packed crowd. "It is Ruscon all right," one of the two grimly whispered to the other.

"How did he get himself into this anyway, Helmir?"

"Who knows?" the other man shrugged. "But the most important question is - how do we get him out of it?"

"I do not know," the other man gave him a sorrowful look, "but we cannot do anything tonight.

"You know, Hammadhael, from this distance, I am sure that I could hit Broggha with my throwing knife. He would be an easy mark in the light from the bonfire." Nauremir's eyes glinted with hatred as he mentally measured the distance in Broggha's direction.

"You fool!" Hammadhael grabbed the other man's shoulder. "You tried to do that back at Dol Mithlad! Try it again, and you will get us all killed!"

"Wait!" Nauremir whispered. "Who is that man coming through the crowd escorted by Broggha's guards? It appears to be General Nimruzir!"

"Shhh, Helmir!" Hammadhael slanted a concerned look at him. "You are too loud! They will hear us! Be still!"

"With all this noise? I doubt that." Nauremir said sneeringly.

The crowd parted as General Nimruzir was escorted to the platform where Broggha held court from his portable throne. Standing beside the throne and looking out of place and uncomfortable were Captain Gellamon and men-at-arms Sadron and Lhawsion. The General nodded briefly to them as he walked up the steps leading to the platform. The three looked visibly relieved at his presence.

"Hail, General Nimruzir," Broggha exclaimed, holding his hand up in greeting. "This is becoming a regular occurrence," the giant laughed.

"Hail, Lord Broggha," General Nimruzir returned grimly, the furrows on his brow plowed deep with concern as he looked at the heavily guarded Ruscon. "Upon what grounds do you hold this man prisoner?"

"Why, General, this man - whoever he might be - was caught skulking about Lord Belzagar's tent where I was a guest tonight." Broggha leaned forward, resting his head on his hand, his fingers stroking his red beard. A satisfied, confident smirk was on his face, giving him the appearance of a man who thought he owned the world. "This knave had no business there. In light of the recent attempt to murder me at Dol Mithlad, I have every reason to believe that this might be the very man who tried to kill me."

General Nimruzir, his back as straight as a pole in spite of his years, met Broggha's gaze and held it unflinchingly. "My lord Broggha, if you will permit me, I will question the young fellow."

"Of course. I am as interested as you in learning this scoundrel's identity before he is executed." Broggha nonchalantly waved his hand in the direction of the prisoner, who stood at the center of the throng. "Guards, bring the prisoner forward!"

Two burly hillmen, spears at readiness, sneered at the prisoner as they dragged him to the foot of the platform and forced him to kneel.

"Young man," General Nimruzir asked sternly, "what is your name?"

"Sir," Ruscon held his head up proudly and looked the General in the eye, "I am Ruscon, a common soldier in the Army of Rhudaur."

"Very well, soldier," the General nodded. "Now you have been accused of a very serious crime - attempting to assassinate Lord Broggha. Are you guilty?"

"No, sir!" Ruscon answered emphatically, his eyes never wavering from the General's face.

"What accused criminal does not plead his innocence, swearing upon all the gods that his soul is as clean as the driven snow?" Broggha laughed arrogantly and looked to the gathered throng. As though primed to give the proper response, the Hillmen yelled lustily, laughing and ridiculing the General.

"If any man deserves to die, it is Broggha," General Nimruzir thought to himself. "But I cannot believe this earnest young soldier could stoop to murder. No doubt Broggha's men find the long days of this march tedious, and he seeks to give them the bloody sport they crave. This young soldier is to be their innocent victim. I cannot allow this to happen."

General Nimruzir waited until the uproar had settled down before speaking again. "My lord Broggha, if you will permit me to continue my questioning..."

"Go ahead, General. Question the fellow, but I do not believe that you can get the truth out of him this way," Broggha chuckled.

"Ruscon, what were you doing outside of Lord Belzagar's tent tonight?" The General looked at him intently, willing the young man to give a reasonable explanation.

"General, sir, I was restless and decided to take a walk around the camp. As I was passing along the side of the lord's tent, I was not paying attention and tripped over a tent peg and fell on the ground. You know it is dark between the tents." Ruscon shifted his position, moving his shoulders, trying to get relief from the pole which ground into his back. He tried to drown out the snickers and jeers from the crowd.

"Young man, think carefully. This is very grave business. Why were you so distracted?"

Ruscon swallowed hard. "Sir, I was thinking about a girl."

Broggha laughed uproariously, slapping his thigh. Gris and the other Hillmen guffawed, and soon the crowd was roaring with laughter. When the crowd had settled down a little, Broggha raised his hand for silence. "General Nimruzir," he said patronizingly, "it is obvious to me and everyone here that this soldier was eavesdropping outside Lord Belzagar's tent and was waiting his opportunity to do some mischief. Perhaps there were others with him, and they planned to fall upon us as we left the tent. I understand your concern in this matter. I am sorry, but for the immediate future, this man will remain my prisoner."

"Lord Broggha, I must protest. This man is a Rhuduarian soldier. Release him to my safekeeping, and upon my honor, I guarantee that he will not escape!" Though he was becoming frustrated, the old General tried to conceal it.

"General, I have spoken. This man stays my prisoner. Broggha's eyes were cruel over his hard mouth. You are welcome to stay and share a draught of mead with us, but this matter is concluded."

"Helmir, did you hear that?" Hammadhael whispered excitedly. "Ruscon is doomed! Under the guise of questioning him, these savages will torture him to death!"

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Nauremir hissed.

[Odaragariel of Mitheithel]

It was three days after her strange meeting with Nauremir. When next the Seneschal came to visit her, he brought the welcome news that her captivity was at an end, for the army had departed, and she knew Nauremir must have gone with them. The whole of the next day was spent in welcoming Odare as warmly as possible to make up for the earlier constraint. She found herself in the most luxurious room in the ladies' quarter, and understood that the Seneschal's cousin had been evicted for her. All this was very gratifying - she had never endured so much pampering in Cameth Brin, and the part of her that had been outraged at Daurendil's treatment of her gloried in these small triumphs. A cock crows loudest in its own farmyard; and Odare had thus expediently retired to her own more humble farmyard.

All the same, there was a sense of desolateness. It is hard to cut off ties that are of many years-standing, to have no news of friends one has had daily contact with. It was strange that here, in Mitheithel, no one was as interested in the small happenings of Cameth Brin as she still was. They were full of Broggha, but also full of their own peculiar problems, none of which interested her yet. Dinen in particular, seemed to be very taken up with his own interest, and that of Mitheithel; and Odare knew, none better, how little his consequence was before the king. He was forever trying to talk politics with her; and she was forced to do the same. He was sitting one day in an armchair in her room, as was his wont, and telling her some tale of the days when Mitheithel had been grander than it was now.

Odare nodded in silent sympathy, her mind however dwelling on the night she had seen Nauremir. A small voice in her mind, which she tried to shush into silence was wondering if the expression of fear on Nauremir's face when she had caught him skulking (there was no other word for it) in that dark corridor had had anything to do with the attempt on Broggha's life... but the army had departed the next day, and she had never had a chance to question Nauremir.

As always Dinen had by now found his way to his favourite topic - Broggha. He was calling Tarnendur an old fool for his faith in Broggha in the most polite, diplomatic way possible.

Just to amuse herself, she said, "I suppose the King has his reasons for trusting Broggha."

"Yes!" said Dinen half-angrily, "I can think of a few reasons. He is undoubtedly the most savage version of that most barbarous tribe, and that lends itself easily to trust. I daresay years of single-minded devoted service and years of friendship indicate unreliability. At least I suppose his son does not fear the Hillman."

She did not reply - when the topic of the crown prince came up, she preferred the frozen face approach. He went on, "Well, I don't want to criticise anyone."

There was a pause. Suddenly, as if making up his mind to ask something he had been afraid to for some time, suddenly blurted out, "My lady? Why did you come so suddenly? You're very welcome, indeed you always were. But after such a long absence, when we had begun to think you were never coming back, here you are in our midst, having managed to come in the most secretive, uncomfortable way possible." He had an expression of much curiosity, and also one of expecting a rebuke.

She sighed. She had been expecting to have to give an explanation sometime or other. She resolved to tell as little as possible. "I have to apologise first - for not coming all these years. I have been thrown in with the royal family so much, that all their ways have been my ways. I was too young to make any plans myself, and they never evinced much desire to travel much. And why did I come so suddenly? I quarrelled with them. I am telling you most frankly, but - " she intended to convey that he was to keep all this confidential, and indeed, Dinen had a very suitably solemn and trusting face on show right then. And she found no small explanation would do, and every new sentence begged a new justification, and thus she ended up telling it all."Well, I did not quarrel with them all. Mostly with Daurendil and a little with the King. There has long been some talk of making me Daurendil's wife, and THAT I fear can never happen. But otherwise, my relations with them are the same as ever. Except I was much too angry to stay, and so I came here, my only other refuge in the world."

With a solemn shake of his head, Dinen said, gravely, "You are always welcome to this refuge. Its doors will always open to recieve you." And wisely, he asked no more questions right then.

[scribe]

For anyone who needs it - before the jump to Dec. 29-30.

[Celemir]

Northern Rhudaur, near Dol Hithaer fortress, night of December 29, 1347.

For many days Celemir had been traveling north – first riding, now walking. Three days past Penmorva, one of the pack horses had stumbled on the ice and went severely lame. After much deliberation, Celemir decided to send all the horses back, under the guard of two men. The country had become totally deserted and desolate – not a village in sight, no food or fodder forthcoming. They have repacked most of their luggage in four backpacks, one of which Celemir was now hauling. Its straps made his shoulders, unused to such burden, quite sore. Sure, the packs tended to become lighter with each passing day as the supply of food dwindled, but Celemir’s strength was also ebbing.

At least now there was no question about following the right road. Celemir and his three remaining servants had finally reached the road from Dol Mithlad to Hithaer pass – and the beaten snow on the trail of the army was unmistakable. The roadbed and the area around were littered with discarded garbage, carcasses of fallen horses and occasional unburied human bodies – Hillmen always, Eru be praised. It was evident that the army fared not too well. Broggha seemed to be at least a day ahead, but Celemir decided to make a forced march and reach the army before midnight. His servants couldn’t keep up this pace, so Celemir ordered them to camp for the night and continued on alone, heading for the distant glow of countless campfires.. He was sick of camping in the open and was hoping for a shelter in one of the huge Dunedain tents..

It was nearing midnight when the mortally weary Celemir made it to the crest of a hill and beheld the army camp spread on a relatively level place among the foothills of the mountains. Outlined in the glow of the fires there were wagons, all sorts of makeshift shacks and tents made of hides, scattered on the snow. But further to the left there were orderly rows of large tents which Celemir identified as those of the regular army of Rhudaur. Dunedain, his kin, awaited him there, so, leaving the road, Celemir headed in this direction.

He soon found out that the camp was guarded. Dark figures were moving in pairs along the periphery of the camp, stopping periodically to warm themselves by the fires. Celemir approached the nearest fire and was hailed as soon as he entered the ring of light.

“Who goes there?”

The voice sounded oddly familiar. Celemir squinted at the sentry, his heart starting to race. The logs in the fire shifted giving more light.

Nauremir! What devilry was that? Celemir backed away in fear. “Go away, evil spirit!” he whispered. “Return to your crypt in peace and don’t trouble the living!”

The specter made a step forward calling his name. Celemir turned to run, but his feet felt like water. He sunk onto the melting snow and the darkness took him.

***************************************************


Northern Rhudaur, near Dol Hithaer fortress, night of December 29, 1347.

Nauremir knelt down over the unconscious body of Celemir, who had fallen into a swoon. He shook his old comrade's shoulder, gently slapped the side of his cheek. It seemed he often had that affect on people. Of course, that was the problem with being "dead."

Celemir's eyes slowly opened and then went wide with terror. "S-stay away, evil spirit!" he choked out, his voice rasping, as he slid backwards through the snow, using his hands and feet to push him along.

"Shh, my old friend," Nauremir whispered. "I am not an evil spirit!" Celemir was frightened near out of his mind, and Nauremir worried that he might start screaming out of his fear. That was the last thing he needed, for everyone in the camp to come running to see what the commotion was all about.

"Y-you are dead... you are supposed to be dead..." Celemir moaned over and over.

"You should not believe every rumor you hear." Nauremir wondered if he should dye his hair another color, for it seemed that of late too many people were guessing the truth of his identity. "Now calm down before you alert everyone here to your presence."

"How can it be that you did not die? A funeral was held for you... you were buried..."

"It is a long story, but know this: I am not dead! Only a few know that I really did not perish from my wounds at the hands of Broggha's henchman, and I trust you will keep that knowledge secret. My name is now Helmir; never call me by my old name when others might hear." He reached a hand down and hesitantly Celemir took it, rising swiftly to his feet. Perhaps too quickly, for spots of black and red danced before his eyes. Shutting them out, he clutched his temple until the feeling passed. "Are you all right?" Nauremir asked, concerned.

"Just a little dizziness, but it is passing... Helmir," Celemir replied, his tongue uncomfortable with calling the familiar by a new name.

A moment of silence passed, and then Nauremir asked: "So what brings you to the camp at such a late hour? Were you or your horse injured and this is why you were separated from the army?" He cocked his head slightly to the side, awaiting the answer.

**************************************************



“What brings me here?” Celemir repeated bitterly. “The King’s displeasure. What else could bring a free-liver like me to this wretched foolish winter campaign? My head and my fortune are forfeited, Nau, unless I perform miraculous deeds of valor and derring-do for the King and the Country…”

“How so?” Nauremir asked frowning. “And, please, call me Helmir” he reminded. They looked around, but there was no one else near the watch-fire.

Celemir, however, lowered his voice even further and whispered into Nauremir’s ear “Remember Daurendil’s wench, the red-head vixen? Oh, hell, you had already been dead before all this started!” Celemir stopped and scratched his head at the weirdness of his own words.

Nauremir winced. “I was not dead, only sleeping” he explained. “The witch Gimilbeth poisoned me. She wanted me to become her fawning slave, but I escaped.”

“You will have to tell me your story in full, later on. Otherwise it is hard for me to believe you truly alive after seeing you all blue and stiff-like there in the coffin.” Celemir grinned surveying his old friend doubtfully. “But well, back to the wench in question. Daurendil wanted her badly, but the hussy preferred one Eryndil, a thane’s youngest son, can you believe it?”

“That is hard to believe indeed, unless she truly loved the man. How did Dau take it?”

“Pretty badly, of course” Celemir smirked. “He became pitiful like a beaten cur. So we plotted to eliminate this Eryndil while he was giving us swordplay lessons. We took another of those poisoned orc-blades you had discovered in the Tower vault and smeared the grease on our swords. Daurendil was the first to try to wound the man, but he only got a sound beating himself and couldn’t land a single blow to draw blood. I was more fortunate. But then Rhaglas, who had been in the conspiracy, betrayed us to the King. I am loath to say that Dau took fright and abandoned me pretending it had been my own idea and he never knew a thing about it. So, I nearly lost my head to the butcher’s axe and was sent here instead.”

Nauremir’s face darkened – he liked Daurendil very much and it was hard for him to accept the Prince’s treachery. He shook his head. “Strange tidings you bring – but we shall have time to discuss it further. In a few minutes my watch ends. Go now and wait by my tent – it is the second from the right in the third row. I will join you soon and find you a place to sleep.”

“Yes, thank you, Helmir, I do need a sound sleep after all these exertions. In the morn my servants will join me. Then I have to go see old Nimruzir - he is the only one officially entitled to hear my full story. But I think I shall go to him the day after tomorrow. He will be nicer with the Yule feast approaching.”

“I doubt there will be any sort of a Yule feast here,” Nauremir laughed softly. “Not in such desolate a place with enemy in sight. At least not for us, common soldiers.”

[General Nimruzir]

Mountain above Dol Hithaer, morning of December 30, 1347.

They had camped the night before near the base of a mountain which commanded a view of the surrounding mountains, the foothills below Dol Hithlaer and the fortress itself. Far ahead of the army, they had ridden most of the night, for General Nimruzir wanted an early look at the enemy's defenses.

Before there was even the hint of dawn, they had risen from their furs, and eaten an austere breakfast of trail bread and tough, stringy dried meat. The frugal meal had been washed down with roasted pearl barley tea, one of their few concessions to indulgence. Though it had done little to warm their bodies and drive away the cold, the brew still had cheered them.

Far away to the south and east, the people commonly enjoyed real tea made from leaves harvested from bushes, not herbal infusions, with which most Rhuduarians, Cardolani, and Arnorians had to content themselves. Though such commodities were known in the North, usually it was only the men of means who were able to purchase them, for such goods were expensive. Occasionally traders with merchandise from these far distant places carried the coveted tea, and also coffee, among their wares. When they did, those able to afford them quickly cleared out their supplies.

Tea and trade were far from General Nimruzir's mind that morning. There were far too many serious matters to occupy his thoughts. He and his small staff of six aides and two guardsmen stood upon the brow of one of the nameless mountains which loomed over the grim fortress of Dol Hithlaer. Two regular soldiers of the Rhudaurian army had been left behind to guard the party's horses.

Led up the mountain by a scout who had grown up in this section of the country and was familiar with the more obscure trails, the General and his entourage had made the steep ascent. Though the General felt his age with every passing year, he had been proud that his brisk step was able to keep up with all but the younger aides. Only once had there been a problem. They had come to an icy stretch of trail, and the General's foot had slipped from under him, driving him down heavily on one knee. Captain Gellamon had reached out a hand to assist him, but the crusty old soldier declined, gruffly informing the Captain, "Thank you, Captain, but I am quite capable of standing up on my own. I am not an invalid!"

His dignity still intact, the General rose to his feet. He tried to hide the pain that he felt from his badly bruised knee and leg from the others, but the grimace on his face gave him away.

"General, are you all right?" a worried Captain Gellamon inquired anxiously.

"Certainly," he brushed him off with a gruff reply.

"General Nimruzir, it would be a simple matter to construct a stretcher..." Lieutenant Brûnnagor spoke up, but was quickly silenced by the scowl on the General's face. Abashed, the young officer fell silent and looked away.

When at last they had made their way to the mountain's top, the cold wind whistled about them, the bright winter sun providing little heat. Far below them lay a landscape of miniatures. Even the fortress, though its dimensions were huge, appeared as diminutive as a child's dollhouse. The orcs looked no bigger than ants which busied themselves about their mound. Inside the fortress itself, they saw a bustle of activity inside the inner bailey - orcs marched in orderly lines under the supervision of their officers; archers kept a vigilant eye upon the country around them; messengers went into the fortress itself and, returning again, disappearedthrough some hidden doorway; and over by the southern walls, Arnorian slaves seemed to be making some sort of repairs to the wall.

Though his eyes were quite bright and clear for a man of his age, General Nimruzir did not possess the acuity of vision that Lieutenant Brûnnagor did. The brightness of the day made his eyes smart and water.

"Lieutenant," the General's voice rang out, strong in the clear mountain air, "can you see what those wretched slaves are doing?"

"Aye, General," the Lieutenant promptly replied, pleased that the General had called upon him after his earlier rebuke, "part of the wall seems to have collapsed there, and the slaves are putting the stones back up. They seem to be shoring them up with added supports, but they have a long way to go before they can finish their repairs. The mortar will not be totally set for some time."

"Weakness in that part of the wall, hm?" the General asked, stroking his chin in thought. "Perhaps the Valar are with us."

***

Valley of the Rist Angsiril below the fortress of Dol Hithaer, afternoon of December 30, 1347.

Halfway down the mountainside, General Nimruzir and his party paused. Far below them, the forward elements of Broggha's hillmen drew into sight. By the time the General and his staff had reached the valley floor, the men were in the process of pitching their tents for the night.

Though he would not admit it, Nimruzir was suffering intense pain from his injured knee and leg, which had swollen alarmingly during the afternoon. Still he insisted upon leading his staff over to the hillmen camp. Soon they were entering the large tent of Sergeant Wulf, leader of the Hillman vanguard. Surrounded by scowling hillmen, the large man slouched in a camp chair and warmed his feet by a brazier. A sarcastic grin on his face, the hillman lumbered to his feet and greeted the General with a salute. The General frowned, for the gesture was far too casual to satisfy Rhudaurian army protocol.

"General," the hillman gestured to an empty chair, "take a seat."

"No, Sergeant Wulf," Nimruzir replied in a cold, polite voice, "I cannot stay long, but your courtesy is appreciated." The General's eyes scanned over the rugged men who surrounded Wulf. All of them were hard-faced, surly and openly contemptuous. "When do you expect Jarl Broggha?"

"Probably tomorrow at the earliest, but who knows?" the sergeant shrugged and resumed his seat.

"When he does get here, give him this message for me. It would be a good idea to position his catapults and trebuchets towards the southern wall of the fortress. The section there seems to be weak and vulnerable," the General said crisply, offended at the man's rude behavior. "My men and I observed some repairs being made on the wall along there. A breach might be quickly effected if he trains the machines there."

"I will give him your message, General," Wulf replied, looking none-too-impressed at the General's reconnoitering.

"Thank you. Now I must be going," he returned sharply. "May you rest well."

"Same for you, General." Wulf got to his feet. "You really ought to do something for that leg. Would you like for me to send the shaman over to see about it?"

"No, thank you, Sergeant. My leg will be quite all right." The General contained his irritation. He would never let one of the lesser men know how much his leg ached. "Good night." The General saluted and led his staff out the tent.

The orcs had braved the weak winter sunlight and clustered along the towering walls of the fortress. They looked over the parapet, jeering and making obscene gestures at the gathering force below.

Private Saakaf, eager for a view of the enemy, had positioned himself advantageously. He was close enough to overhear the commander of the fortress, General Nûlthrakal, as he conferred with his top men.

"General, what do you think?" inquired one of his staff, a runt of an orc who sported a golden earring in one ear and a chain of human teeth around his neck.

"Everything is going exactly according to the plan of the King," he chortled evilly. "We should be out of here in a few days, and Broggha will be hailed a hero."

[Eryndil]

Eryndil stood waiting beside the fire. On the hearth before him were the warming stones, just removed from his bed. The covers had been pulled back up to keep the warmth trapped beneath. Wearing just a white robe, he felt the chill night air creep around him, but he would not go into the bed yet – not alone.

The door opened and he turned toward it. There was Caelen, wearing the sleeveless white gown of a wedding night. It draped over the right shoulder and clasped at the other. For a few moments, or an eternity, they stood looking at one another. Looking mostly into one another’s eyes, but unable to keep from looking one another up and down as well.

At last, noting Eryndil’s eyes upon her figure, Caelen began slowly to turn around. When her back was toward him, she slipped the right side of her gown off of her shoulder, and it fell perilously below her elbow. She continued to turn, ever so slowly, until at last she faced him fully and then she stopped. Her right hand now reached up to her left shoulder and she unfastened the clasp. As she lowered her arm, the last obstacle keeping the gown about her was removed, and it fell to the floor at her feet.

Eryndil’s eyes grew wide, and he realized his mouth was open. Caelen smiled broadly and laughed lightly. Then she spun about once more, then again and yet again, quickly now - in all her glory. Then she stopped, the smile was gone and her face was intent. She sprang to him and threw open his robe. He wrapped its edges about her and they embraced. They tumbled backwards onto the bed, now laughing once more – both of them. Caelen began to kiss him – on his mouth… his neck… his chest… on…

- - - - - - -

Eryndil awoke with a start. It took him awhile to realize that it had been a dream, and it was still the last night that he would be an unmarried man. He went to the window and saw that all was quiet and dark. It was after the middle of the night then, for the moon had set. Just one more day! Tomorrow this time, what he had been dreaming about would come to pass! He looked more closely at the stars and judged it to be about two hours past night’s middle. It was still several hours before the sun would rise and the shortened day would start, and a few hours before the household would begin to stir.

It was still December 30, but soon it would be December 31. And at last light on December 31, he, Eryndil of Ostinand and Duinand, would wed Caelen of Tanoth Methed.

He grabbed his robe – not the white one waiting for tomorrow, but his everyday robe of dark wine, and pulled it on over his sleeping linens. He stepped quietly outside his door and down the stairs – but just down one level. He heard soft snoring when he reached the landing – that would be Gildurien. To the left and just ahead were the two doors in the front of the house. His sister Hendegil slept in the one to his right, but he paused outside the other, listening. He smiled to himself at the thought of Caelen sleeping inside. His hand began slowly to reach for the handle, but with an effort he pulled it back and turned again toward the stairs. On down he went, past the first floor and on to the ground floor. There he would wait, alone for awhile.

He saw the grand table in the great hall, where tomorrow they would have their wedding banquet. Right over there they would stand before all assembled and repeat the traditional vows of a Numenorean wedding. On the tables toward the front of the house were gifts which had been left by well-wishers for the past two days – most prominently the ones from Prince Daurendil – and that of Prince Mithrond of Mitheithel, now returned to his own home these past five days. Many of the other nobles in the city had made their appearance – those with whom the family had become acquainted since arriving, and so had Eryndil’s companions in service to the King: Lastorion, Rondaran and Naurlith. Even a few of Caelen’s friends from the Palace had come.

Eryndil thought he would be unable to sleep, but after re-kindling the coals at the fireplace he settled into a soft chair before it and propped his feet upon the fender. And soon slept took him for a few hours more, though what he dreamt of this time he could not say.

[Caelen]

morning of December 31st,
Caelen's room in Eryndil's house in Cameth Brin


Caelen opened her eyes slowly, and lazily looked around the room as she stretched and yawned. Then her eyes caught sight of her wedding dress, laid carefully over a chair, and her heart skipped a beat - it was her wedding day!

A myriad of thoughts and emotions crowded into her now wide-awake brain, jostling one another for her attention. However, her attention was caught by something by the door, and she sprang out of bed to investigate. It was a slip of paper, folded over and sealed, with her name written on it in Eryndil's hand. She eagerly tore it open and read:

"Today you awaken to my letter; tomorrow you will awaken to my kisses!

All my love always, Eryndil"


She smiled and shook her head at the wonder of it all. Who would have ever believed that she was going to marry? She, who up to just a short time ago was never interested in looking at men unless they were riding a horse (and then only to evaluate their riding!) And now here she was marrying, and a man who didn't ride as well as she did, at that! Well, he was good at plenty of other things, and she could always teach him how to ride better, she reflected. Then a sudden blush spread over her face as she remembered her teasing words to him about teaching her the art of lovemaking ... and suddenly a little of the old fear came back to her. Somehow, it wasn't quite so funny now - it's one thing teasing a man who is weak and bedridden, when your wedding night is weeks away, and quite another when suddenly it's your wedding day and the man in question has regained all of his strength ... and he was just such a big man, too ... even bigger than the man that had caused her to flee from her home a year ago ... even bigger than the men whose hands had grabbed at and defiled her body ...

But her father was a big man, too, and her mother unusually small and dainty, and as pictures of her loving parents came flooding back into her mind, suddenly a man's strength was put back into its proper perspective - it was simply a good thing when held by a good man, and a bad thing when held by a bad one. And Eryndil was a good man - her brother had said so - and had always been very tender and careful with her - and his strength had saved her life. But just wait until tonight! came the fearful voices again, along with vivid memories of the stallion that they had sold off because of his wild, uncontrollable ways while servicing mares. One of their favorite mares, cut and bloodied from his hooves and teeth, being quickly led away by her mother ... Callon and her father had had to use all of their strength and skill pulling the screaming, raging, lustful stallion off of the trembling, bleeding mare before he hurt her any more ...

"I've just got to stop thinking about this!" she said firmly to herself, but the fears didn't quite go away. Her nervous hands sought under her pillow and found Callon's old shirt from the days back at the palace, and she closed her eyes and held it tightly to her face. "Oh, Callon, you said he was a good man ... you said you wanted me to marry him ..." she whispered into the shirt as she breathed its familiar scent. "I'm betting my life that you're right, my beloved brother ..." She sat quietly on her bed for a few more minutes, then opened her eyes with a shaky sigh and looked at the other thing that she kept under her pillow - a handkerchief of Eryndil's that he had once used to gently wipe away her tears, and that she had managed to keep. She set her jaw and reached out for the handkerchief and brought that, too, to her face and breathed in its faint scent, and her body started to slowly relax.

And the morning sun, coming into her window, shown on her bright hair as she gently laid down her brother's shirt and held only to the handkerchief of her lover.

[Eryndil]

December 31 – Eryndil’s Home, Cameth Brin

For all the expectations and anticipations of the Big Day, as Eryndil remembered it later, it passed as quickly as lightning.

It started with a bright cheery breakfast. After Eryndil had cured his sleeplessness with a pre-dawn nap by the fire, Caelen had come down from sleeping in longer than usual. They had exchanged pleasantries and enjoyed the meal to start their day, together with Camglas, Rildorien and Hendegil.

Then they had separated for the remainder of the day – each mostly confined to their own chamber for the duration. Of course, this was a bit easier in that it was the shortest day of the year.

First they had time for some personal reflection. This didn’t last all that long though, for each soon had a visit from Rildorien, and also from Hendegil. Eryndil had a third visit – from his father.

Then came time for each to take a bath. Once the servants had prepared his bath, Eryndil bathed alone and finally had a bit of time to think his own thoughts. Caelen took her bath assisted by Hendegil and one of the servant girls

After the bath, they each dressed for the evening. Eryndil stood before a full-length mirror and pulled on his newly made clothes. Caelen stood patiently in the center of Hendegil’s room (her own was a bit small) as she was dressed and made up by friends and servants.

When a servant came to announce to Eryndil that Caelen was ready, he went to retrieve her. He himself was announced at the door, and after just a moment, it was opened and Caelen stood before him.

She was absolutely stunning. He told her so, but could never recall later exactly which words he had used.

The dress itself was mostly of a soft, pale green, with a silver sheen. The trim was mostly dark green, but accented with a deep blue. Eryndil then smiled at the cleverness of the tailor, for his own deep blue outfit was the same deep blue as her accents – and was itself accented with the very same soft green that served as the main color of Caelen’s. Both outfits had some silver about them, but Caelen’s was also trimmed with pearls – a rare commodity this far north. She had a headpiece that included some kind of tiara of silver and pearl, a sort of hat that shared the patterns of the dress (and allowed the tiara to be clearly seen in front, and a thin veil that matched the light green color. Eryndil saw that someone held a cloak that was a perfect match to his – deep blue on the outside, with the soft green lining the underside, only that his was clearly in the masculine style and hers in the feminine.

The dress was in the latest style to reach the court of Rhudaur. The neckline plunged a good deal lower than Caelen was normally comfortable with – indeed, that was the first thing Eryndil had noticed about the dress. She said something about the tailor having made some changes in that regard, but he told her not to be concerned about it. With pride he took her hand and placed it on his arm, then escorted her down to the banquet.

Only family and a few friends were present for the banquet itself. Sadly, Caelen had no family there. On learning that someone in Broggha’s household was a close relative of Caelen, Eryndil had sent her an invitation. Malaneth had replied with a congratulatory note, but stated also that she was unable to come. However, Eryndil was glad to see that Arinya and Wilwaren had come from the Palace to be with Caelen.

Eryndil followed the tradition of walking Caelen around the banquet table, introducing her to each person in turn as his bride, though all there knew her. When they reached Caelen's friends from the Palace, she returned the favor by introducing Eryndil to them as the man who had won her heart. Eryndil then assisted her into her seat at one side of the table, between his parents (her own family not present to fill those places of honor). Arinya and Wilwaren sat to the other side of Rildurien. Eryndil then took his place opposite Caelen. After this meal, they would always sit together (as they had before – although their living arrangement of late had been unusual for a couple to be married).

When the meal began, Camglas, to Caelen’s right, urged her to eat. “You’ll need your strength,” he said with a wink. Indeed, neither she nor Eryndil had eaten since breakfast. That wasn’t so long though, with the short day, and the sun still out for just a bit longer now. Still, after only a light breakfast, Caelen was rather hungry. She surveyed the fare on the table: roast fowl, sweetened yams, berry sauces, a dish of cabbage and potatoes, a pork pie, fruit preserves, nuts, fresh warm bread, cheeses.

As she began to fill her plate, Rildorien leaned over to whisper in her left ear. “Don’t eat too much, now,” she cautioned. And – was that a wink?

Neither really ate so much anyway, though the food was good. There was too much pleasant conversation around the table, too much of their attention was spent gazing across the table, and notice that the sun neared its setting came too soon (or, not soon enough, as the case may be).

Eryndil rose, walked around the table and drew back Caelen’s chair, helping her to rise. As they had agreed, they walked out the back of the house to the small open patio, which faced south. There, the last rays of the sun lit Caelen’s hair, seeming to draw out the flame within it.

“I wanted to see the year’s last light upon your hair,” began Eryndil. “It has been a wondrous year, and while you have lost much in this year, Caelen of Tanoth Methed, much indeed have I gained, most of all your heart. It seems fit that we should join here at Mettare – the year’s last light, and be together before the next year begins.”

It was mild for a Yule in Rhudaur, but the air was still sharp. In any case, the rest now joined them and gathered around them. They exchanged the traditional Numenorean wedding vows, and traditional gifts. Caelen had insisted on following the tradition with rings, though Eryndil had no idea how she could afford one for him.

After the last of the vows were said, even as the last rays of the sun faded into the west;

“…Unto myself I take thee,
Into my home I bring thee!”

Eryndil and Caelen embraced. Then they turned and smiled at the crowd, and bowed together, hand-in-hand. They were now man and wife.

In more formal circumstances, the newlywed couple would circulate and greet those at the banquet. In the country customs of both Eryndil and Caelen, the new couple would quickly depart with a wave and a chorus of good cheer, and still better jests following behind them. But tonight there was a Royal Ball, and Eryndil and Caelen were to attend.

First, all went back into the house and drank the health of the new couple with warm spiced wine.

Then the family gathered together at the front of the house and wrapped on their cloaks. Camglas’ coach awaited them all in front. Camglas and Hendegil were beaming, Rildorien was wiping her eyes. Gildurien seemed rather sheepish and quiet, Vilyandur seemed bored – as usual. In a low voice, Eryndil gave final instructions to the servants to move Caelen’s things to the place prepared in his room, and to lay out the gowns for their wedding night.

As they stepped outside, Camglas said to them all, “Well, we can all squeeze in at once – which I think a couple of us wouldn’t mind a bit. Or else we can take two turns. It wouldn’t be but a few minutes there and back.”

Then he turned to Eryndil, saying just loud enough that it was clear he intended Caelen to hear as well, “Coming home should be less difficult. I suppose you two may not be of a mind to stay the entire time. Just leave as you like, only remember to send the carriage back around for us once you’re home.” Then he added with a wink to Caelen, “And then, m’dear, as a good horse-woman, you can put Eryndil though his paces!”

[Wilwarin]

Cameth Brin, Eryndil’s house, December 31st

Wilwarin’s head swam, it had been quite a while since she had been to any social gathering, and she found she had missed it much. But a princess’ bodyguard just did not have social hours. She had been surprised, but pleased, to have received an invitation to Caelen’s wedding, even if they had only met but two weeks ago. Yet in Hendegil’s room, where Caelen was readied for her wedding, it came painfully obvious why. Caelen did not have any family with her, and precious little friends since the strange happenings with her brother and the prince after her arrival in the city.

At least she’d have some a new family soon, Wilwarin thought as they finished the last details of Caelen’s attire. And judging by Eryndil’s totally smitten look when he first saw Caelen in her wedding dress, their work was much appreciated.

Caelen looked quite stunning indeed, and her dress was as fine as Wilwarin had ever seen. She had already admired it when she, Hendegil and the others had help Caelen dress. And Wilwarin’s merchant’s eye had not failed to notice the exquisite quality of the fabric. It had made Wilwarin somewhat conscious of her own dress. Two weeks was short to prepare a proper outfit for a wedding, or rather, two weeks was short to prepare if the dress you wanted to wear no longer fitted.

She felt the blood rise to her cheeks when she thought about it. She had had a lovely dress she had wanted to wear, her mother had had it made for her before Wilwarin had come to Cameth Brin. It was an elegant orange dress trimmed with lace, barely wore once. But when Wilwarin had tried it on two weeks ago, she had been in for a nasty surprise.

It didn’t fit.

Much to her dismay, the months of training and exercise as bodyguard had given her muscle where there hadn’t been much before. She hadn’t realised it before, since she usually wore riding clothes while on duty. But in a close-fitting evening dress, the change was inescapable. And embarrassing.

So she had to have a new dress made, and due to time-constraint, not quite as lavish as she would have liked. The cut was fairly simple in light blue and yellow fabric, with only some lace at the collar. She had spent all her free time the last three days embroidering her dress with white and silver to improve it. In fact, she had even done some while on watch in the night. If any hill-man had tried to enter the Princesses’ wing then, he would have met some fierce resistance, not just for breaking in, but for having the sheer audacity to barge in on her while she was busy embroidering!

Still, Wilwarin was satisfied with the final result, the embroidery looked stylish and professional. Her aunt would have been pleased.

She followed the rest as they went down for dinner, Eryndil and Caelen walking ahead. At the table Wilwarin was seated next to Gildurien. Eryndil’s sister wore a lovely violet dress, with golden embroidery on the bodice and cuffs. But Wilwarin couldn’t help but notice how she kept glancing at the bride.

“She looks quite lovely, doesn’t she?” Wilwarin said.

Gildurien blushed, as if caught at something she shouldn’t be doing but made a non-committal sound.

“Caelen,” Wilwarin clarified, thinking Gildurien hadn’t understood her. “She looks beautiful, doesn’t she? Oh, I’d love to have a dress like that on my wedding! The fabric is absolutely exquisite, I daresay it comes from the weavers of Dol Aglardin, they’re quite famous for their fine weaves.” Wilwarin went on, unconsciously recalling information she had learned from her father’s trade. “And the pearls! I’ve never seen so many on a single dress. Where do you think they’ve come from? I think they’re possibly Gondorean river pearls, although I do believe there’s a sea pearl trade in Arthedain with Lindon.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gildurien said curtly and abruptly turned away to talk to the person on her left side, leaving Wilwarin somewhat confused. Had she said something wrong? If Gildurien didn’t think much of Caelen’s dress, why did she keep glancing at it? Surely she wasn’t jealous, Eryndil was her brother after all. Wilwarin understood jealousy, she still have some vague, jealous feelings over Caelen’s good looks. But whose wedding was this anyway? A bride was allowed to steal all the attention on her own wedding. With a small shrug Wilwarin too turned to another conversation.

~~~

Gildurien was annoyed, although she managed to hide it well. At last the silly girl next to her had stopped babbling about all the virtues of Caelen’s wedding dress. That horrible perfect dress.

Gildurien’s own dress was wonderful to see, the flowery golden embroidery beautifully made and the amethyst pendant she had chosen matched her outfit to perfection. But nobody ever remembered the second horse in the race, only the winner counted. Even with the ten golden crowns Gildurien had been able to spend on her own dress, she couldn’t surpass something the royal tailor had made with such fine materials. And as much as it bothered her to admit, her new sister-in-law was clearly the winner of this contest.

Why hadn’t the queen hadn’t put a stop to it, Gildurien thought angrily. She had written a lengthy report on Daurendil’s visit and the gift of expensive fabric, the queen should have ordered the tailor not to go ahead with the dress. Surely that should have been easy enough to do, the prince’s gift was unseemly. Was this the thanks she got for her efforts? She may have exaggerated just a little in her recounting in the last letter, but only to make the issues crystal clear for her Ladyship. And after delivering the letter, she had half-expected the King to even recall his permission for Eryndil's wedding, sending Caelen away in disgrace.

Unless, of course, Gildurien realised, the King and Queen were all to happy to have Caelen married and out of the way. There was no way she could wriggle out of this marriage, like she did the former! But that realisation did nothing to improve Gildurien’s temper.

[Tarnendur]

December 31, 1347 – The Tower of Cameth Brin

King Tarnendur and his family had dined earlier than normal and were making their way to the Tower – along with his attendants and all the officials of his realm who were then in Cameth Brin. The King himself was of the opinion that a monarch should make a grand entrance to an event of this nature, once all the guests had arrived. But on this occasion, he had bowed to the wishes of Queen Eilinel, and they would greet each guest as they entered.

There should be a good number of guests. All the nobles in town, or within a reasonable distance, had been invited, along with the landed gentry from within two days’ travel, and the gentry among the townsfolk of Cameth Brin – and a few from Tanoth Brin. Altogether, they might expect somewhere between 500 and 600 people, which would be about all that the ground floor and upper balconies of the Tower could hold - to allow a little space for dancing. There would be some few dozen in his entourage; the royal family and officials and so forth. Of the rest, probably one part would be of the nobility and two parts of the gentry. Then of course, plenty of guards on hand.

Tarnendur smiled at the thought of the coffers of gold and silver being carried along behind him. As a Yule-time gift, he intended to give one gold crown to each guest who was of a royal or noble family, and one silver penny to each from the gentry. Hopefully the gesture would serve him well among his subjects. It also had the advantage of counting exactly how many guests should be there, for he knew how many of each coin he started out with.

As they drew near the tower structure, Tarnendur paused to cast a glance up toward the High Chamber. A previous King of Rhudaur had dared build it in hopes of one day transporting the stone of Amon Sul here. But those hopes were dashed when Arthedain massed its armies on their border, and Cardolan’s forces were all deployed where they could cut off the stone’s passage over the Bridge at Mitheithel. So… the stone had remained in Amon Sul, and the High Chamber had remained unoccupied.

He sighed. The Wars of the Palantir had come to an end with the death of King Tarondacil – almost 100 years ago. But the effects of 300 years of bitter fighting, intermittent though it was, had been terribly destructive to the Dunedain Kingdoms, to Rhudaur most of all. He shuddered to think what would have been – if there would be anything at all left of Rhudaur – if the last battle of that war had been fought at the very gates of Cameth Brin. He thought too, what Rhudaur might be now if those wars had never been.

Queen Eilinel gently took his arm and he realized he had been standing too long, drifting in thought. He looked at her and smiled, and his thoughts returned to the upcoming Yule celebration. The smells coming from the kitchen brought a smile to his face. There would be no formal dinner, but folk would get hungry, and tonight they would have plenty to satisfy them. Looking ahead he saw that a small crowd had already gathered, although the sun had not yet set. Most were country gentry, he could see – threescore or so. Those nearest would generally come the latest, he thought ironically. He walked past the early-comers, waving and smiling, and promising them that they should be allowed inside very soon.

The doors opened wide before him and he and his party passed in. Orefim greeted him, assuring him that all was in readiness; food and drink, fires and decorations. An old gentleman nearby – one of the local gentry – had been selected to play Father Yule, and was dressed for the role. The coffers were made ready, with instructions for the telling out of the coins to the guests. Drinks were brought forth for the King and his family, and they all took their seats near the entrance: Tarnendur, Eilinel, Amantir and Tarniel, - still no sign of Daurendil - with ‘Father Yule’ at the inner doorway from the Vestibule into the Grand Chamber. He also would greet those who arrived, and give them 'warning' of the mistletoe hanging overhead. The King and Queen had been the first to give it due honors just after it was hung. Further inside, drinks and some of the early treats were laid out on tables - though not yet in the upper galleries, which would be opened once the lower floor began to fill.

Tarnendur sent a messenger up to hurry Daurendil once more and sighed. What on Middle-earth could be taking him so long? Amantir had made it down promptly enough.

The order was given for the musicians to begin. The doors were thrown open once more and the first of the guests were brought forward to be announced and to be greeted by the King and his royal family.

The Queen’s Yule Ball had begun.