Which death is preferable to every other?

The unexpected.

(Gaius Julius Caesar 100BC – 44BC)

The first two duels took their course, blow-by-blow, as Éomer had foreseen. The Gondorian knights had expected to compete in a friendly encounter with the intention of enjoying themselves, showing off their skills and entertaining the onlookers. The only concession the Rohirrim made to the friendliness of the spectacle were the unsharpened edges and rounded points of their swords. They fought to overcome and defeat their opponents by hook or by crook. Some feeble recreation was foreign to their nature.

He had probably collected as many of his scars on the training field as he had on the battlefield. Unconsciously Éomer rolled his shoulders as the muscles tensed in remembered pain. Physical pain had been part of his life for a long time. He had tried to avoid the pain of the soul – only to learn that no-one was able to avoid the inevitable.

The first two men of Gondor, one of Aragorn’s guard and one Swan Knight, went down and admitted defeat rather quickly and, without a doubt, utterly surprised by the total ferocity with which their Rohirric challengers had struck out at them.

Whilst the man from the coast limped off the field, holding his shield arm pressed stiffly against his chest, his Lord turned towards his son-in-law, “Éomer, your men do know that this is supposed to be a good-natured sparring match, do they not?”

“Well, at least I thought somebody had mentioned it to them,” Rohan’s King replied wryly. “Perhaps I had better talk to Ceorl before the next round begins.”

“Nonsense,” Gimli, standing next to the seated Imrahil, bellowed his protest right into the Prince’s ear. “Not a hair on anyone’s head had been harmed. It’s just some skirmish. I should show them how a dwarf fights.”

Éomer had to stifle his grin at seeing his father-in-law crossing his eyes and giving his head a little shake. “I am afraid, my friend, today you are not allowed to participate. It is strictly between the members of the guards.”

“And what is that Prince doing amongst them? He is no guard, but he is allowed to fight.” Gimli gave an outraged snort, “I am being discriminated against.” By now the Rohirrim had learnt how to deal with their new neighbour. From somewhere a beaker of ale was passed to the Master of Aglarond, who, at its sight, decided to drown his sorrows. After a deep gulp he just mumbled on, his words disappearing into his beard.

When Éomer made a move to rise from his chair, intending to have a word with his overzealous riders, he was stopped by the High King. Aragorn had placed a hand on his arm.

“Do not intervene. I think by now the defendants have comprehended that their challengers do not regard this as some sort of child’s play. The next one is prepared. They are seasoned warriors, who have proved themselves in battle and should be able to stand up to any challenge. If you take action in such way as to order your riders to hold off, they will feel shamefaced.”

“Very well.” Éomer relaxed back into his chair. He turned towards his wife who was sitting on his other side. He didn’t believe that she overly appreciated this display of unleashed force. She had informed him that, for her, the duel of two warriors stood less for an exhibition of the art of fighting as for the quantity of unnecessarily sustained injuries.  Therefore he wasn’t surprised to find Lothíriel’s gaze not on the ‘wigræden’, into which Ceorl had just led the next two opponents, but fixed on a small group nearby. One of the healers of Edoras was treating the Swan Knight, whose shield arm had taken a serious beating. He had lost hold of the handle for just an instant and his guard had slipped. His Rohirric adversary had taken that as an invitation to vigorously attack his unprotected shoulder. The blunt sword had, no doubt, caused a severe contusion.

Éomer leant over to her. “Do not worry for your father’s men, Lothíriel. Ærwin certainly knows how to patch up the casualties from this training field. He has done it for at least three decades.”

“I hope for the men that he does more than just patch them up,” Lothíriel murmured. “I have not met Master Ærwin yet.” There was a note of reproach in her voice.

“The opportunity to introduce him – or his fellow healers - to you, has simply not arisen.” As a matter of fact, he had avoided letting her get anywhere near the healers of Edoras. After what he had seen happen the previous day when her thirst for knowledge had got the better of her and he had had to prise her away from the craftsmen, he downright feared her – inevitable – first meeting with the healers. And it had to be taken into consideration that Ærwin was not another Berenwald. Éomer had the uneasy feeling that the narrow-minded man would dismiss any knowledge a young woman, of less than a third of his age, might have to impart. That she was his Queen would be nothing in her favour, but rather add to his preconceptions. Before he introduced Lothíriel to the old healer and his two fellows, he needed to talk to her.

For a third time Ceorl raised the truncheon, awaiting his signal. Éomer gave it, returning his attention to the ‘wigræden’.

Aragorn was proved right. The knights of Gondor had finally understood that they were not here to fiddle with their swords. Their champion for this round was Ochadrion, Captain of the Royal Gondorian Guard. He was a tall, powerfully built man who during his last stay in Rohan had befriended Éothain. Although back then he hadn’t been a match for the Marshal at a carousal, on the ‘wigræden’, however, he proved himself to be an adversary who had to be taken more than seriously.

The battlefield, where death could fall upon a man from anywhere, required from the warrior more than just skills and valour. When surrounded by foes and predators, who had only one purpose, the purpose to kill, his best chance of survival were his instincts. They had to lead him and he had to trust them.

In a single-combat two men faced each other totally alone. Here they could take the time to observe the opponent, to assess him, to find out his strengths and his weaknesses. A combatant needed to bring his way of fighting in line with his adversary’s, exploiting and utilizing a chink in his armour. A duel demanded not only power and skill but also patience and adaptability.

Ochadrion had definitely all the attributes to make an accomplished duellist and it was obvious to the onlookers that his challenger fought with fervour but without a strategy. The Gondorian captain had the overview, the experience and was mindful of conserving his strength.

This fight lasted longer than the two earlier ones, but only because surrender was an utterly foreign concept to the Rohirric rider and the shouts of encouragement from his kinsmen kept him going when it was no longer possible to overlook the fact that he was at the end of his tether. Only when his guard slipped for a mere instant and his opponent unhesitatingly used that opportunity to put the rounded point of his sword against his throat, was he willing to call for peace. He let his sword fall to the ground and lowered his shield.

Ochadrion acknowledged the acceptance of his win and held out his hand to help his adversary to his feet. The man retrieved his sword and the warriors saluted their kings and walked, both limping now, off the ‘wigræden’, accompanied by the applause and cheering of the crowd.

“You were right. They woke up,” Éomer addressed Aragorn. “However, I hope you are equally aware that after that defeat the next rider will put in an even greater effort to overcome his opponent. That might bring about more serious injuries.”

“They are grown men, on both sides,” the High King decided. “They must know for themselves how far they can go. They can call for peace at any time.”

“The crowd will spur their kinsmen on,” his friend warned him. “They might have come here with the genuine intention of being fair and impartial, but the longer the ‘behourd’ lasts, the more excited they are going to get.”

Aragorn chuckled. “They are already quite excited,” he replied in a dry tone. “I heard a few words that I have never come across before and I am not certain if I need to know their deeper meaning.”

“What kind of words?” Lothíriel asked, leaning forward in her chair and looking quite interested.

“Ah...” Gondor’s King averted his gaze and glanced at his friend, seeking help.

Éomer smirked at him, but then turned towards his wife. “Lothíriel, there are so many words to keep in your head, ones which you will need in everyday conversation. I think the sort of terms Aragorn was referring to, should be put aside for later . . . much later,” he added under his breath.

“How much later?” she promptly wanted to know. Not that he had truly believed a vague answer would satisfy her.

“How about a hundred years?” Éomer suggested, perfectly conscious of the fact that many ears were attentively listening to this exchange between King and Queen.

“Hmm!” Lothíriel tilted her head contemplatively. “Are you saying those kinds of words are inappropriate for a young woman but commonly used by grandmothers?”

What Éomer really appreciated about his kinsmen was the fact that they would never dream of pretending not to be eavesdropping on what was basically a private conversation – although it was, of course, conducted in public. He’d better get used to performing on this kind of stage: however he needed to remind Lothíriel at the first opportunity that each word of hers would be listen to and evaluated.

“My Lady, you certainly do not need any additional sort of  - dubious - vocabulary to keep yourself in a debate,” he assured her. “You are perfectly able to twist and turn anybody’s words to your requirements.”

“Indeed, I have from good authority that I possess a quite capable tongue.” She smiled at him amiably. “Nevertheless, I am always at pains to improve myself.”

“The eagerness for the improvement of your own person holds hope, no doubt.”

“You should consider it yourself, my Lord.”

“There is no danger of you backtracking on this little dispute?” Éomer asked in mock resignation. 

Lothíriel pretended to ponder the question, tapping a finger on her chin. “Absolutely none," she then confirmed.

“Are the King and Queen of Rohan in need of an impartial arbiter?” Gandalf inquired helpfully from where he had settled in a slightly rickety armchair next to the High King. “As the duels have so far been decided in an abundantly clear fashion, I am gladly poised to offer my impartial verdict in other respects.”

“We’ll think about it,” Éomer turned this kind offer down, glaring at his chuckling counterpart from Gondor, who had – after all – brought this whole banter about with his unguarded remark. One had to be careful about any word uttered in Lothíriel’s presence.

“That the necessity of having an impartial arbiter on hand has arisen after only two days of wedded bliss would have to be considered as evidence of incompatibility,” a voice from behind them rang out.

Éomer couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He had happily forgotten about that one. Actually, he would have preferred to be able to happily forget about Prince Elphir for the rest of his life.

“Muzzles,” he murmured in Rohirric. “That family should - at least temporarily - be provided with muzzles.”

Those in his close vicinity, who were in command of the tongue of the Horselords, heroically struggled to keep their laughter inside, whilst his wife frowned at him disapprovingly. Or perhaps - if this was his lucky day, which he doubted - her disapproval was rather directed towards her perpetually surly brother. Be that as it may, those watching the ‘behourd’ from the stand had been given the unexpected opportunity to enjoy not only the swordplay to the full but also the wordplay of the newly extended royal family. Imrahil hadn’t promised too much. Éomer was just relieved that Erchirion had chosen to keep his younger brother company whilst Amrothos waited for his turn against Éofor. Otherwise he would have shoved his oar in, long ago.

He thought it was about time to direct the general attention back to the battleground where Ceorl was waiting for him to signal his assent for the next bout anyway. 

This time it became brutal. The two combatants were not what one would describe as graceful or swift fighters. In principle both simply didn’t budge and just went for their opponent with one powerful blow after the other, blocking the ones struck at them with their shields. Under these onslaughts the stout hides, which covered the face of the shields, soon split, the metal rims dented and finally the lime-wood planks began to splinter. Both men were breathing hard, panting and groaning with each blow they dealt or took. Dark colour suffused their faces; sweat was running into their bulging eyes.

It was one of the most brutish and artless duels Éomer ever had the misfortune to witness and far from an uplifting sight. He heard a disgusted sound coming from Lothíriel and glanced over at her. Her expression was so thoroughly repelled and disapproving and at the same time disbelieving that it was yet again a bit comical. She sensed his gaze and turned her head to look at him.

“I suppose this is not the best example of what you might call the art of fighting?” The sarcasm in her tone was hard to miss.

“When you come across an Orc it is better not waste your time with fancy swordplay,” Gimli took it upon him to reply. He had finished at least another beaker of ale and was now devoting himself to relieving a basket of its contents - small loaves of spiced bread. Éomer would have appreciated a piece or two himself. His dwarfish friend dipped some bread in an earthen pot, which contained onion relish, before waving it through the air - the spectators behind him would need to check their clothes and their hair for the strong smelling spread. He went on, “He is just out to disembowel you, thrust his blade into your gut.” He shoved the piece of bread into his mouth, chewed a couple of times and then swallowed. “You’d better be quick and beat him to it. Cleave his skull or slit his throat.”

Éomer had watched Lothíriel during Gimli’s lesson in fighting Orcs. She hadn’t batted an eyelid at the grisly details, just listened politely.

“The entire point is,” she stated in a no less pontificating tone after Gimli had finished, “that there is no Orc in the ‘wigræden’ but two men with all the finesse of two rams during the rutting season.” She stopped herself, gyrating her hand with a slightly embarrassed gasp for breath. Éomer grinned. It seemed that sheep had to be counted amongst those common animals she had been used to observing.

At that moment the Gondorian knight struck a blow at his adversary’s shield, both men grunted loudly under the strain of the onslaught.

“Not to mention the sort of noises they are making,” Éomer murmured.

In retaliation the Rohír dealt his opponent a strike so forceful that the shield the Gondorian had raised to cover his upper body and head swung back heavily and the metal rim cracked against his forehead. The man staggered back, barely keeping on his feet. Immediately blood poured from a wound. His brows were already much too soaked by sweat to protect his eyes from the bright-red stream. It was just a matter of moments before he would be nearly blinded by it.

“Laceration,” Lothíriel diagnosed laconically. “I doubt that the blow was hard enough to cause a concussion. However, as I said only yesterday, head wounds tend to bleed excessively. Perhaps helmets would have been a good idea.”

“You just said no concussion,” Gimli grumbled dismissively, and then added after a contemplative frown, “My Lady.”

Nobody paid him any attention because the events on the battleground once more drew the interest of the spectators. The Rohír had every intention of making use of the obvious disadvantage that the head-injury was causing his opponent. He put his entire weight behind his shield and threw himself against the other man. Impaired by his blurred vision and taken by surprise by the unconventional manoeuvre, the Gondorian faltered and reeled backwards. Trying desperately to keep his footing, he just managed to avoid landing on his back and instead hit the ground hard on his bottom. 

“Very likely a sprain of his tailbone,” Lothíriel murmured absent-mindedly in a tone she would have probably used in a treatment chamber, her fingers flexing on the armrests as if she were palpating a body for injuries.

Éomer heard chuckles coming from Aragorn and Gandalf and a disapproving snort from Elphir. He turned to cast the Prince a look and saw Legolas standing next to him. This was one of the rare occasions that the Elf did not find it easy to keep his usual serene countenance. Éomer caught Imrahil’s gaze. His father-in-law was sitting on his daughter’s other side and with his eyebrow crooked, he silently seemed to recall his words of this morning: yours to deal with.

Rohan’s King didn’t mind at all.

The next single-combat was a rather dull affair. Grimbeald, the Rohirric fighter, was a heavy-set, clumsy man, who usually avoided moving much without his equally heavy-built equine partner beneath him. Together they were a force of nature; on foot the man was as agile as a tree-trunk. Why his comrades had chosen him to represent the Royal Guard in the ‘behourd’ was a mystery to Éomer. But then, when Grimbeald got something in his head, it was nearly impossible to argue him to the contrary. They had probably just followed the line of least resistance and had let him have his way.

Fortunately for him, his kinsmen had decided that this was the right time to pass around food and drink. There was a lot of movement in the crowd, the spectators giving their best attention to the eatables and mostly ignoring the current events on the ‘wigræden’. Nobody appeared overly affected when their champion went down with an audible thud after a comparatively short fight. He had just stumbled and tripped over, no doubt surprising his opponent. The Gondorian looked as if he was prepared to help the other man back to his feet and resume fighting, but Ceorl moved in quickly and declared him the winner.

Filled stomachs put everybody in a cheerful mood and good-natured hoots accompanied the combatants’ efforts in the sixth duel. Both were well matched regarding their physique and their agility, but the knight of Gondor definitely had trouble getting used to the short Rohirric sword and the non-existence of a cross-guard. He was neither able to hold his adversary at a distance nor to utilise the actual advantages of this type of sword - its great flexibility, which enabled the adept warrior to hack, slash and thrust effectively in rapid succession. Growing tired, after having had to block many more blows than having had the chance to hand out, he finally received one against the side of his head and passed out, falling down like a felled tree.

Beside Éomer, Lothíriel, who during the fight had occupied herself mainly with picking tiny insects out of her tea, shot up from her chair with a choked exclamation. The mug landed in the grass at her feet, the spilled tea soiling the hem of her gown. Éomer reached for her hand and urged her back into her seat. Her slim hands wrapped themselves around the armrest in a firm grip.

“Lothíriel, there is nothing to worry about. The blow was not that bad,” he assured her.

Acwulf, the Rohirric fighter had gone down on his knees to check on his defeated opponent. He looked rather dumbfounded, obviously not having expected such a resounding success from his manoeuvre.

“Not bad?” Lothíriel stared at her husband as if she was doubting that she got his words right. “That blow was executed with enough power to cause a concussion. A serious concussion,” she added to make sure he got her point. “Furthermore it was carried out with the broadside of the blade against his ear. His eardrum could have been affected, a rupture actually, which might cause a conductive hearing loss on that side.” She had been watching more attentively than he had given her credit for.

Again she made a move to rise, however this time she was held back by Imrahil.

“My Dear, there are the healers of Edoras around who have had a fair share of these kind of injuries,” he reminded his daughter, gesturing towards the ‘wigræden’ where two men had joined the combatants to take care of the unconscious man. “And believe me, Garavon has a rather hard skull. It is unlikely that a single blow will put him out of action for too long.”

His predication proved to be accurate. The Gondorian, a Swan Knight, sat up and shook his head a few times before he climbed, with the assistance of his helpers, to his feet, able to leave the battleground on his own and accompanied by a relieved clapping from the onlookers.

Lothíriel watched with a doubtful frown but she stayed in her chair.

“An external head wound bleeds strongly, but the slight bleeding from a ruptured eardrum can easily be overlooked. It is also known that a perforation of the eardrum can lead to infections later, which can induce, for reasons we do not know, vertigo and instability, often accompanied by nausea.”

Éomer took her hand and found that it was trembling ever so slightly. She was truly concerned about the man. “If it sets your mind at rest you can have a look at your father’s guard after the ‘behourd’ has come to an end. There is only one more pair of contenders to compete against each other and then – if it is your wish – we can pay our respects to all today’s combatants and you can see if they are all well taken care of.”

She smiled at him, weaving her fingers through his and leant closer. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Please believe me, it is not that I regard the Rohirric healers to be incompetent. But they are men who consider this to be hardly more than some friendly scuffle. A tiny disregarded wound – disregarded even by the wounded himself out of pride – can turn out to be most harmful.”

“I know you would never malign a fellow healer.” He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “And I equally know – we both do – that sometimes a man has to be bludgeoned into having a wound properly treated.”

“Indeed, we do know that all too well,” she agreed, her voice so low, he had to guess those words more than he could actually hear them, but the gleam in her eyes was warm and unmistakably beguiling. When had been the last time a woman’s smile had made his heart miss a beat? He couldn’t remember. Probably never before. And as soon as Lothíriel truly comprehended what effect she could have on him, he was going to be in trouble.

“You should soon be able to put your healing skills to a more appropriate use as our brother is the next in line to brag and boast about his swordsmanship.”

Something about Elphir’s malcontent voice made all the fine hairs at the nape of Éomer’s neck stand on end. Once more he turned around to look at Lothíriel’s eldest brother. The only agreeable thing he had ever heard being said about the heir of Dol Amroth was Aragorn’s assessment that he was a brilliant administrator and a loyal liegeman. That he seemed to be at constant odds with his youngest brother said a lot about Amrothos. As hard as Éomer found to accept it, most notably it said a lot of positive things about Amrothos.

Paying no regard to the fact that he was under the blunt scrutiny of Rohan’s King, the Prince carried on bestowing his opinion about their sibling upon his sister.

“As Amrothos finds it necessary to make a fool of himself by taking part in this sort of crude posing, you will undoubtedly have enough to do patching him up afterwards.” He gave another of his disapproving snorts. “I will never understand how a Prince of Dol Amroth managed to grow up with such an unfortunate lack of tactfulness.”

“Something I have been wondering about as well,” Éomer remarked wryly and turned to his father-in-law. The Lord of Belfalas appeared to be holding back a smile. “Imrahil, I think my opinion about Amrothos is on the point of reconsideration and I concede that I might have been wrong. Perhaps we may indeed discuss your request later.”

“The bane of the one who bugs me shall not be my bane?” Imrahil inquired, a glint of mocking amusement in his eyes.

“I would not go that far,” Éomer replied, warding off the feigned enthusiasm.

“What are you talking about? What request?” Lothíriel demanded to know.

Somehow her apparent unawareness of her father’s latest scheme didn’t take Éomer by surprise. Although he very seldom seemed to interfere in his children’s quarrels, Imrahil had the really bothersome habit of making plans without involving those who were actually affected by them, namely the aforementioned children. He wondered if Amrothos already knew about the good fortune his father had planned for him.

“Have you found the opportunity to discuss your idea with him?” he asked in all sarcastic friendliness.

“Discuss what idea with whom?” Lothíriel asked impatiently. She didn’t like to have her questions ignored.

“The term discussing would be too far-reached,” Imrahil admitted, as always his unflappable self.

“I was suddenly overcome by such an inkling.” Éomer was truly delighted about this development. That the Prince hadn’t told the primarily concerned person about his – abstruse – scheme could only mean one thing, that Amrothos would be everything but overjoyed by his father’s machination.

Between them Lothíriel let out an irritated breath. “What are you talking about?” she repeated. “Father?”

Imrahil opened his mouth to answer – at least Éomer thought he intended to reply to Lothíriel’s probing question - but was interrupted by the appearance of the last pair of combatants on the ‘wigræden’.

The ‘ōretta’ led Amrothos and Éofor to the battleground.

At the sight of her brother, Lothíriel seemed to forget – for the time being – about her query. She eyed him with a mixture of vexation, apprehension and affection. In whatever shape Amrothos would emerge from the ‘behourd’, after she had taken care of him as a healer she was likely to give him a good bawling-out in her capacity as his sister.

Besides the reception of the usual applause and cheering, this time the duellists were also greeted by a chorus of high-pitched acclamations, unmistakably from the mouths of young females. A notably loud squeal came from just behind them where Marshal Elfhelm and his family had gathered to observe the event. The shrill sound of rapture merged into a low wail of pain. Éomer assumed that Cynewyn hadn’t shied away from using a reasonable amount of force to bring her eldest daughter to her senses – or at least to shut her up.

For the last time Éomer gave Ceorl the signal to let the duel begin.

As the defendant Amrothos had the right to the first blow. The shield rather negligently raised so that it barely covered the left side of his torso, he advanced nonchalantly towards his opponent. The sword swung casually in his right hand and he made no move to strike out. He gave the impression that he intended to exchange a few pleasantries with the other man instead of well-placed blows. And indeed, although nothing could be heard over the noise of the crowd, one could make out that his lips were moving.

Éofor, who was, due to the rules, not permitted to do anything but keep up his guard, looked increasingly irritated and the same went for the spectators. The shouts of encouragement from them were more and more interlaced by impatient hoots and annoyed whistles. Amrothos didn’t appear to be bothered at all. He kept talking.

Éomer heard noises of irritated amusement coming from around him.

Aragorn chuckled. “You certainly remember,” he addressed his younger friend, “Faramir once mentioning that his cousin is able to talk anybody into the ground. We may be given the chance to witness such an occasion.”

“An unusual approach to single-combat. As far as I recall, it has not been seen in Edoras ever before,” Éomer stated and then added with malicious satisfaction, “And Éofor looks as if he might explode at any moment.”

The High King slanted him a shrewd glance. “From this joyful gloating I gather your captain has not been in your favour lately?”

“Since last night’s dancing, to be precise,” Gandalf supplied obligingly.

“Ah!” Aragorn grinned. “Now I know what you had to discuss with Erchirion so urgently this morning. So brothers do make fine allies?”

Éomer decided to just mutter something incomprehensible. He cast a look at Lothíriel to find that she hadn’t paid any attention to this last exchange of quips. She was watching her brother. As an addition to the other emotions a faint bemusement was now displayed on her face.

“Good grief! He is playing the idiot again,” Elphir hissed, apparently mortified by his brother’s latest exposition.

If Éomer had learnt something about Amrothos then it was that he didn’t do anything without a purpose – although that purpose was not necessarily easy to pinpoint. Suddenly he received the impression that the Prince was not playing at all but explaining something. He had rested the sword against his shoulder, even using it absent-mindedly to scratch his back, whilst he kept on talking at Éofor, whose face had, by now, become bright red. The fair complexion, which so many of the Rohirrim sported, was not exactly advantageous under circumstances like these. His mood was easy to guess: the man was furious.

Éomer had no doubt that at this very moment Amrothos was explaining to the Captain of his Guard why he intended to make kindling of him. He only hoped – for Lothíriel’s sake - that his brother-in-law was not suffering from an overestimation of his own capabilities.

An instant later the Prince demonstrated that at least he was fast; bloody fast, as Éomer had to grant him. One moment his entire body language had been one of blasé attitude, a heartbeat later his lax grip around the hilt had tightened and his sword cut through the air like a flash of steel. Startled dismay showed on Éofor’s face and he was just able to bring up his shield to block the heavy blow. He staggered backwards and the Prince struck out again, aiming for the lower leg of his opponent, a weak spot in any warrior’s defence. Once more the captain’s move was more one of desperation than a collected evasion manoeuvre. Amrothos did not hesitate to use the moment the other man needed to regain his bearings and landed another tough stroke, hitting the rim of the shield.

At last the Rohír recovered from the surprise of the sudden attack and from the swiftness and preciseness of it. He put all his power behind his counterstroke and once more the Prince baffled him and the spectators when he parried it with his blade instead of his shield. The physical strain that this move required was clearly shown by the blood that surged to his face and the baring of his teeth. His features contorted painfully but his wrist proved to be strong enough to withstand the impact. Amrothos slid out of danger with the same light-footedness he had displayed on the dance floor the previous evening. Freeing his blade, he deftly sidestepped the rider on his right and in the same motion swung around and dealt a fourth blow. Éofor had barely the time to bring up his sword to protect his head, and again steel clashed on steel.

The crowd expressed its satisfaction at the turn of events, now cheering both men equally. 

After the first encounter of close-in fighting the combatants had drawn back, protection and offensive weapon in place, observing each other; assessing. The captain was having – without a doubt - to admit to himself that he had misjudged the apparently feeble prince from the coast. And that made him even more furious, his mood heated by Amrothos’s perky smile.

Whilst the combatants circled each other, Éomer turned and gave Lothíriel a searching glance. Her eyes were focused on her brother, but she looked as cool and untouched as the snowy peaks of the Thrihyrne. He gazed at her hand that was lying, apparently relaxed, on the armrest. However, a slight trembling of only the middle-finger told him that she was not nearly at ease as the composed mask on her face suggested to anyone watching. Gently he put his hand over hers.

“Do not worry. He is good.”

“He is an idiot.” Her eyes didn’t move from the ‘wigræden’ were the weapons clashed anew, but Éomer kept his gaze on his wife’s flawless profile.

“No, he is not. He is just playing the idiot.”

From Elphir came a contemptuous sniff, but Éomer’s reward was a tiny smile curving, for a moment, the corners of Lothíriel’s soft mouth. Her fingers shivered beneath his. They were cold and he clasped them with his larger, rougher hand to warm them.

At first sight the advantage on the battleground seemed to lie with Éofor. He was the taller of the men, although just by an inch, and of heavier build, so height and weight and reach were all on his side, and there was no questioning of his skill and experience with the shorter Rohirric blade.

Amrothos was leaner and he had already impressively demonstrated that his lightness lent him speed and agility. His swift opening attack had shown that - though he should be more used to fighting with the long-sword, the weapon of the Swan Knights – he knew quite well how to handle the blade of a mounted warrior. However, his greatest asset was undoubtedly his unpredictability. As nerve-racking as his usual quirky behaviour was, he did prove that he could also drive an opponent on the battleground easily mad by smiling at him audaciously and obviously commenting on  - or rather taunting – the other man’s efforts.

He induced the captain to overhasty manoeuvres. Éofor attacked him relentlessly, not caring about conserving his strength. Amrothos on the other hand, after the first quick succession of blows in his opening charge, contented himself with being on the defensive, evading and parrying the strokes dealt at him with light-footed ease. The sun was high and hot and he was sweating but he still had his breathing under control. On the other hand the Rohír was already sucking in the needed air through clenched teeth.

“What is he doing?” Éomer heard Lothíriel whisper. “Why is he making him so angry?”

“Angry men grow careless.” He let his thumb glide down to her pulse. How did she manage to appear so perfectly poised while her heart was racing?

“Angry men are dangerous.”

“Angry men tend to behave like idiots.”

Once more he succeeded and made her smile. She turned to look at him. “I shall remember your words, my Lord, and so shall you,” she teased. But then the warmth faded from her eyes, to be replaced by wariness. Her attention was drawn back to the ‘wigræden’ where Éofor had just attacked again.

It was a feint, apparently striving to breach Amrothos’s defence with a stroke delivered from below with the edge of the blade, but in a blink of an eye the Rohír had changed his grip on the hilt, charging into a stabbing attack that aimed to compass the other’s shield and to drive the point of the blade into the pit of his opponent’s sword arm.

Amrothos only narrowly escaped the powerful thrust, his greater agility saving him. He threw up his sword, parrying his opponent’s flourish. He escaped a bind by sliding his sword’s point out from underneath Éofor’s blade. The Rohír couldn’t break the forward movement after his forceful lunge and crashed with his shield against the slighter built Prince. It verged on the miraculous that Amrothos was able to hold his position without toppling over but the pressure of the greater body mass made it difficult for him to keep his balance. But obviously he had learnt the lessons any good sword instructor should have drummed into his apprentices’ heads: one needs to counter the opponent’s action with a complementary reaction; strength is countered with weakness, and weakness with strength. Unfortunately this simple principle was too often forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Amrothos remembered and quite suddenly ceased his counter-pressure by executing a swift, complete turn around his sword arm. He then used the momentum of the rotation to strike the Rohír, who on his part was thrown out of balance, across the back. Éofor’s yelp was a mixture of pain and rage and probably the latter enabled him to come around with the force of a battering ram. He used his shield to knock his opponent’s guard aside. The force of the blow thrust the rim of his own shield into Amrothos face, cracking the bridge of his nose and his right brow.

“Hoom,” Gimli rumbled and sounded for the moment rather like Treebeard. “That does not look good for the lad.”

Not that the dwarf was so very wrong in his estimation, but feeling Lothíriel’s hand trembling with strain, Éomer wished he had kept that comment to himself.

However, once more Amrothos managed to do something perfectly unpredictable. He hurled his shield like a disc at his opponent, hitting the utterly surprised Éofor squarely in the shoulder of his sword arm. The following onslaught surprised him even more.

Holding the weapon with both hands now, with the hilt at chest height as if he were wielding a long-sword, Amrothos delivered blow after blow in rapid succession, not leaving his opponent the time to collect himself, let alone find a way to counter-attack. He drove the Rohír before him, hacking, slashing, thrusting, slicing, his blade bending under the force of the blows it dealt. Amrothos pursued the other warrior with a determination and ruthlessness Éomer had not thought his apparently blithely unconcerned brother-in-law had in him. But then he recalled a memory: he had seen the Prince fight this way before. At the Black Gate where he had fought to kill or to be killed. And suddenly Rohan’s King was overcome by the suspicion that today his captain’s life was only saved by the fortunate fact that the weapons in this ‘behourd’ were unsharpened.

He wasn’t the only one who sensed a defiant, cold fury in Amrothos. Gimli bent forward over the backrest of Éomer’s and Aragorn’s chairs.

“Why do I have the feeling that this is something personal?”

Elphir forestalled anybody who might have made a reply to the dwarf’s query, “Because it is.” For a change he sounded puzzled – and worried – instead of indignant. “But only the Valar know what he has done this time.”

What he – Amrothos - was doing right now was pressing hard, driving his opponent back. And the backwards-moving Rohír couldn’t see that behind him was a stumbling block in form of the Gondorian’s discarded shield. A sudden backward lunge made him stagger onto it. He twisted his ankle and slipped. Still parrying, he fell and threw up his sword. Amrothos following stroke took the weapon out of his hand. Sprawled in the dust, the rider wasn’t ready to give up yet. He let his shield go and rolled to make a grasp for his blade, but the foot of his opponent came down on his wrist, nailing it to the ground. In the nearly dead silence that had spread over the place with the intensifying of the duel, one could hear a crack and a moan coming from Éofor. 

The Prince pushed the rounded point of his sword against the man’s neck. He was breathing heavily, his teeth bared. Blood ran out of his nose and from his brow, blending with the sweat and dust that marred his handsome face. Either he kept his right eye closed to prevent blood and sweat flooding it or it was already swollen shut. 

“Do you call for peace?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse from the exertion, but came loud and precise.

Éofor hesitated with his answer, no doubt finding it difficult to admit his defeat. Ceorl was already standing halfway between the entrance and the combatants, waiting to declare the end of the duel. Amrothos shifted a little bit more of his weight onto the foot with which he held the other man’s wrist down, murmuring something that was inaudible to the crowd. Finally the Rohír yielded.

“I call for peace.”

“And I shall grant it to you,” Amrothos replied endearingly, taking his foot off the hand. “Would you mind holding that for me?” he addressed the approaching Ceorl, passing him his sword.

Only now did the crowd abandon its perplexed silence. All broke out in loud cheers to salute the winner of this combat that – as everybody had comprehended – had been different from the previous ones. It had been more heated, and interspersed with unexpected tension between the two opponents.

Amrothos stepped aside, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. Lothíriel shot out of her armchair, nearly toppling it over. Before Éomer had a chance to react she had crossed the couple of yards to the edge of the stand and – bracing herself with one hand in the grass – hopped down the bank into the ‘wigræden’. Dumbfounded, her husband stared after her.

“One has to give your children their due, Imrahil.” Gandalf had a smile in his tone. “They are quite agile and always good for a surprise.”

“You take the very words out of my mouth,” Éomer affirmed that assessment dryly, walking up to the edge of the stand to watch Lothíriel examining her brother.

She had his jaw in a firm grip, with thumb and forefinger of her other hand tenderly probing his nose.

“Ow! Lothíriel, that hurts,” he protested, batting her hand away.

“Of course it hurts.” She batted right back. “A broken nose does hurt. You need to sit down. Not here,” she added when he made a move to lower himself to the ground. She caught his face between her palms, tracing the rim of his eye with a sensitive finger tip.

“Ow! Stop poking your finger into my eye.”

“I am not poking anything into your eye. I am just trying to establish if there is a fracture to your thick skull, namely frontal bone and malar bone.” Again he whined. “Do not be such a mollycoddle, Amrothos,” she scolded, disregarding his fretful grumble.

“So the children are already having fun again.” All of a sudden Erchirion stood next to Rohan’s King, eyeing his siblings with his usual laid back countenance. 

“If I remember correctly what you told me this morning then it was supposed to be all about fun,” Éomer replied. “It could have ended badly.”

“The funny thing is - things never end really badly for Amrothos.” This one must have inherited his imperturbability from his father, who had just joined them, his eyes also on his two youngest.

“I suppose you are not going to tell me what this was all about?” Imrahil asked mildly.

“No,” Erchirion answered in the same friendly tone. “I do not think you truly want to know.”

There was a short pause. “My only solace is that one day all of you will have children of your own,” the Lord of Dol Amroth remarked philosophically. “And then I will sit back, watch and gloat.” He turned to leave the stand, walking over where the combatants of the ‘behourd’ gathered amongst their comrades. After hesitating for only an instant, Elphir joined him without making any further comment.

Éomer spotted Elfhelm’s wife further up the hill. She was shepherding her offspring back to the guesthouse where the family were staying. Merewyn looked rather reluctant to follow her mother, gazing back over her shoulder all the time, only to get dragged away by an adamant Cynewyn. The little chatterbox seemed to be suffering from a serious bout of infatuation.

“Éomer, where did you put my satchel?”

He turned to find his wife standing below him, her head at the height of his shins. She had her head tipped backwards in order to look up to him, her hands on her hips.

“Your satchel?” he asked, somewhat slow on the uptake.

“The satchel with the remedies.” She tapped her foot impatiently, “I need to clean Amrothos’s wounds and tamp his nose. It is still bleeding. And then I would like to have a look at Captain Éofor’s wrist. I think Amrothos broke it when he stepped on it.” She glanced over to where the man was limping off the battleground, holding his right hand pressed against his chest.

That was quite certainly the last thing he wanted, Lothíriel caring for the cursed captain. Amrothos had followed his sister and was now standing right behind her, rolling his good eye at her words. The other had indeed swollen grotesquely, the lids the colour and shape of a ripe plum. He wiped the trickles of blood from his nose with the sleeve of the tunic he wore under his mail-shirt.

“Do not do that,” his sister rebuked him. “It is too dirty.”

“Why do you two not come up here where Amrothos can sit down whilst you treat him?” her husband suggested.

“You are so good to me, brother,” Amrothos sighed, in all likelihood knowing that it wasn’t necessarily in the fore of Éomer’s mind to be good to him. He wanted to get his wife as far away from the captain as possible and having her back up with him on the stand again gave him a fairer chance to handle her – though he’d better never phrase it that way in her presence.

Lothíriel regarded the compound. The entrance through the palisade was on the opposite side to the stand. She would have to cross the training field and then walk all way around to get back to the place from where they had been watching the ‘behourd’.

“That is an absurdly long trek.”

“Perhaps you should have taken that into consideration before you hopped down there,” Éomer pointed out and couldn’t resist adding, “You nearly gave poor Elphir a fit.”

The glare she had directed at him was turned towards Amrothos when he muttered something sounding like “Just nearly? What a shame!” He grinned at his sister; however his smile, as swollen and smeared with blood as his face was, had lost some of its charm.

“Why do you not heave her up, whilst I give her a shove from the bottom?” he addressed his brother-in-law.

“By all means feasible,” Éomer nodded, but Lothíriel was everything but agreeable to such a plan.

“I will not be hoisted anywhere by the two of you.” As a precaution she stepped away from the bank and out of Amrothos’s reach. “That would be perfectly undignified.”

“You have already lost your newly acquired queenly dignity when you threw yourself down here,” her brother assured her ungratefully. “Whatever, please make up your mind. I am bleeding to death.”

Erchirion had watched the whole episode with his arms crossed. “Dearest, why do you not give Éomer and me each a hand and we will pull you up in as dignified as possible a manner. There is no need for Amrothos to shove you from behind.”

Every now and again, a notion consolidated with Éomer that he could learn from observing Erchirion managing his kin. Lothíriel seemed to consider his suggestion, eyeing indecisively those of the earlier onlookers who still gathered on the stand. Like Aragorn and Gandalf, who were in conversation with the Marshals of the Mark, everybody was occupied reminiscing about the ‘behourd’. In the end her dedication as a healer, heightened by her concern for her brother, won.

“Very well.” She outstretched both her arms. Éomer and Erchirion took hold of them and lifted her easily upwards and she even appeared to have enjoyed it. “That went smoothly,” she declared with a giggle. “Now, where is my satchel?”

“Beneath your chair.”

“Good! Now get Amrothos.”

 “Your wish, my Lady, is my command.” Éomer had already given his salute to her back.

Together with Erchirion he bent down to offer the other brother a hand and when he gripped them, they hauled him upwards. He landed with a stifled groan between them, pulling a face. “I am very much obliged.” He cautiously fingered his nose. There was a lot of blood. “There goes my beauty,” he sniffled and sauntered off to drop on the chair Éomer had earlier abandoned. He let his head come to rest against its back so his sister could take care of his maltreated face.

Watching Lothíriel who began carefully to clean his face with some liquid she got from her satchel – and listening to Amrothos moaning and groaning – Éomer recalled the events having led to the necessity of it. He let out a low chuckle.

“Your words have come true. He is indeed very proficient in surviving the wrath of men he has insulted.”

 “I am afraid a cure for his indefatigable tongue has not been found yet.”

“An effective weapon. Had there been walls on the battleground, Éofor would have been up at least a couple.” A very agreeable mental image.

“The Captain underestimated my little brother.” Erchirion shrugged his shoulders. “And so did you,” he added in mocking accusation.

To contradict that statement would have come close to a lie, so Éomer simply mirrored the shoulder shrug. “However, I have always wondered what he is camouflaging behind this annoying façade of his.”

“Primarily resentment at the ill fate of being a third son.” When Rohan’s King didn’t respond because he wasn’t quite comprehending what Erchirion was trying to tell him, the Prince continued, “The first is the heir, the second the spare and the third . . . somehow not included in any greater scheme. We Gondorians hold a rather static view about the way of the world. We like things to stay well sorted and are ill at ease with somebody who does not conform to the universally acknowledged requirements of our society.”

Suddenly something began to dawn on Éomer. Less than a year ago Imrahil had argued with him that a headstrong and unconventional Lothíriel would be much better off married to him than to a Gondorian nobleman. And now he intended to dump his idiosyncratic youngest son on Rohan. What did that say about the perception the Lord of Dol Amroth had about the land of the Horselords?

Erchirion had tilted his head, studying him. “You look like a man for whom the scales just fell from his eyes,” he remarked with his usual astuteness.

“From the point of view of a Rohír your entire family is rather out of the ordinary.”

“Does that conclusion include my sister?”

Both looked over to Lothíriel who had tamped rolled up gauze up Amrothos’s nose and was now dabbing something around his injured eye. She leant over him, concentrated on her deeds, totally immersed in what she was doing. Her thick plait had fallen forward over her shoulder; it swung with each of her movements and the wind had again managed to wrestle fine strands free from the braiding, which now framed her beautiful face.

His. His alone and his to keep.

“She is endued with many assets, enough to balance any quirks. For her, I am even willing to come to terms with Amrothos.”

“I am certain your wife will be overjoyed to hear that,” Aragorn addressed him from behind. He laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And so will Imrahil.”

Éomer decided not to respond to the smirk that accompanied his friend’s words. But he saw Erchirion’s eyebrows going up quizzically. The Prince had caught on to the emphasis his King had put on the last part of his statement. Well, it wouldn’t be him who illuminated Erchirion – or Amrothos for that matter - about their father’s scheming. He had no inclination to get between the lines.

Fortunately Aragorn had something else on his mind. “I intend to go and meet the combatants to salute their efforts. Will you come with me?”

Éomer saw that his Marshals were already on their way. Gandalf was in their company. Legolas had gone with Imrahil and Gimli had hardly waited for the end of the last duel before he rushed over to give the combatants his verdict.

“Of course I will go with you. It was my intention anyway.”

“And I will come as well, “Lothíriel announced. She had finished treating her brother and stashed her remedies back into the satchel. “I wish to have a look at Garavon’s eardrum.”

“There cannot be too many men around who have wives that are interested in other men’s eardrums,” Amrothos remarked, stepping next to his brother. With tamps up his nose his voice sounded rather mumbled and the cleaning of his face hadn’t really done anything for his looks. The oil his sister had dabbed on the marred parts gave it an unhealthy shine.

“You do look awful,” Éomer informed him.

“Nothing serious,” Lothíriel reassured everybody, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. “Just a broken nose. But stepping so unnecessarily on Captain Éofor’s hand might have fractured his carpal bones. I had better have a look at it.” With those words she started towards the crowd that had gathered behind the stables, somewhere amongst which were the injured combatants.

Before Éomer had the chance to protest – let alone to think about something remotely cogent to restrain her from her aim – Amrothos gave a lengthy moan, much higher pitched than his usual voice, rotated on his heels and sank backwards against Éomer. Utterly surprised, only his quick reflexes made Rohan’s King catch him under his armpits before he thudded onto the ground.

Thunderstruck Éomer stared down at the figure that hung with closed eyes in his arms like a wet rag. A glance at Aragorn told him that his friend was not less flabbergasted.

“Amrothos!” There was an undertone of panic in Lothíriel’s voice as she rushed back at her brother’s side.

“Could it be that there is more to his injury than a broken nose?” Erchirion inquired, his concern not sounding overly convincing to Éomer’s ears. “Perhaps a concussion?” the Prince supplied, giving his brother-in-law a wink.

“There was no obvious sign,” Lothíriel murmured more to herself. “Amrothos, can you hear me?”

The answer was pitiable groan. If Imrahil was searching for a meaningful occupation for his son, he should perhaps consider the travelling folk. The Prince had all the talents required to make a jester. 

“Sometimes the degree of an internal injury shows itself only after the strain of the battle has worn off.” She was checking her brother’s ears, probably for some bleeding she might have overlooked. “He might be suffering from some trauma.”

Although he was quite glad that she had forgotten about her quest to take care of Éofor, seeing her so obviously distraught over her brother gave Éomer doubts about the appropriateness of the means.

“Amrothos?” Lothíriel tried again. “Please, open your eyes . . . eye.” Her brother complied with yet another variation of a moan. He rolled his fit eye a bit around before he focused on his sister. She raised her hand, holding up three fingers. “How many?” she asked.

“My vision is suddenly blurred, but I think three . . . yes, three.” Another wretched groan.

Éomer dared a glance at the King of Gondor. Aragorn had a hand shoved into his hair and his eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. Éomer couldn’t blame him. He himself, on the other hand, had an odd feeling of unreality.

“I do not think it is too bad,” Lothíriel seemed to be a bit easier. “The physical strain in general might have contributed to this bout. He needs a good night’s rest. I will go and find Mistress Ælfgyth to have his bed prepared and see if there is somebody who can keep watch over him if necessary. Erchirion, as soon as he no longer feels giddy you will accompany him to his quarters. Éomer and King Elessar, you might go and join the combatants. Your assistance will not be needed.”

With that conclusion she turned and walked briskly up the hill towards the Golden Hall. The men looked after her.

“I suppose all of us have been issued our assignments,” Aragorn remarked in a deadpan voice. “Perhaps we’d better comply with those directions.”

Éomer glanced down at his brother-in-law who was still hanging in front of him in what had to be a rather uncomfortable position for an – allegedly – seriously injured man. “What do you call this unique performance?”

“How about The dying Swan?” Amrothos suggested.

“I beg your pardon?”

"Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!” His head dropped lifelessly forward.

Now it was Éomer’s turn to groan. He looked at Erchirion for help, but the latter just shrugged his shoulders once again. His next words left Rohan’s King undecided if there was any sanity left in his vicnity.

"More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise," Erchirion declaimed, addressing his brother.

“Let me guess,” Éomer asked resigned and not really interested. “More Berendirith.”

“No,” Amrothos replied in a quite lively way, having overcome his dying stage. “Dorveleg. A contemporary of Berendirith, but a second-rate poet in my opinion.”

Éomer just dropped him and turned away, ignoring the affronted “Ow!”

“Let us go, Aragorn.” Without waiting for a response, he jumped down the bank and marched acrossed the field towards the stables. After a few long strides he heard Aragorn’s chuckle just before he caught up and fell in step beside him.

“Admit it, Éomer. You have grown fond of them.”

Had he? Bema grant him mercy. He had!

“That only proves that insanity is contagious after all.”

And he was doomed.

TBC

The silver Swan, who living had no Note,

when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.

Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore,

thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:

"Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!

"More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise."

Orlando Gibbons (1583 – 1625)

Orlando is a varient of Roland, meaning ‘famous land’; in Sindarin it would be Dorveleg