Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: I know it seems strange that an Easterling would find life in Rohan a bit rural, but if you consider that Ragnar and his people lived in Dwarf-built halls, you must admit that wooden houses just cannot compete. J

The bonding ceremony between horse and Rider is taken from a RPG-site devoted completely to the Mark. The original site has been taken down years ago, unfortunately, but mirror sites of it still exist. Durwyn means “dear friend”.

Time: about four years before the Ring War

Beta read by Borys, thanks.

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Chapter Sixteen – Daughter of the Mark

The healers were aptly impressed by the news that the wedding would be held at the Courts; and so was Imogen herself. So far she had found life in the Mark to her liking. The buildings here could not be compared with the grim, Dwarf-made beauty of her father’s deep halls, of course, but they served their purpose well enough and the people definitely seemed happier here.

As long as she was allowed to keep her sword she was content.

The thought of seeing the Golden Hall of Meduseld was equally exciting for her and her brothers. It was something of a legend among the Rhunim yet they had never met anyone who would have actually seen it. They would be the first. That, in Einarr’s opinion, almost made up for having been exiled. Almost.

It was finally decided that he and Eiríkr would have their weddings in Stowburg, inside the smaller circle of the Clan. But that was fine with them. It was a private matter, after all, and they were happy enough to keep it private.

And so when the family left for Edoras a week later, Einarr and Eiríkr rode as married men accompanied by their beautiful wives, even if Birgid and Hemma chose to travel on carts. They were not as comfortable in the saddle as Imogen was.

Before that, however, Imogen was to receive her own horse – a gift from her future father-in-law – and for that reason Lord Hengest took her to the herds.

“But I already have a horse – one of the best our herds could offer,” protested Imogen.

“And no-one would expect you to discard him,” answered the Chief Stallion Master of the Mark seriously. “For the Men of the Mark, a horse is not simply a nameless animal, used to carry them and their goods, but a dear companion, held in high regard and cared for lovingly. We all know the importance of our horses and that we may one day be saved by them. Therefore we highly value the companionship with our steeds and strive to form a deep bond with them – a bond of equals rather than that of master and servant.”

Imogen frowned. “I do not pretend to fully understand your bond with your horses,” she admitted. “But I dare say that I always treated mine fairly and he always served me well.”

“Aye, but he has served you in many battles and is an ageing animal now,” said Lord Hengest. “He may carry you for years to come yet; however, his fighting days are all but over. You shall need a new horse: a young one that can be taught and bent to your own hand. Also, if you truly want to ride to battle with my son, your warhorse needs to be trained in the ways all horses of the Mark are trained. Otherwise you will be a hindrance for the other warriors.”

Imogen could understand that, and thus she followed him around the wall of the town to a flat plain at the side, where the stables and a training ground for the Clan’s horses lay. Beyond that lay a broad, flat valley, which seemed to be literally filled with horses. Looking up further the valley, Imogen realised that there were several groups spaced intermittently – based on their age and bred, most likely. But they were all beautiful. The glossy coats of bays and chestnuts gleamed in a reddish highlights; the blacks seemed almost blue in the midday sun, while the greys and whites and roans glistened like pearls.

“Behold the horses of Clan Éowain,” announced Lord Hengest with proprietary pride. “The Eastfold is the region of the Mark where all kinds of horses are bred, from light through the regular types to the heavy warhorses used by the West-mark cavalry.”

“Which type should I choose?” asked Imogen.

“It depends on how soon you believe you would need a proper war-horse,” replied Lord Hengest. “I can give you a made horse, if that is what you want. But if you accept a suggestion from me…”

“Of course I do, my lord,” said Imogen. “You are the Chief Horse-master of the Mark; you know better than I can ever hope to what kind of steed would serve me best.”

“In that case, I would suggest a two-year-old,” said Lord Hengest. “A yearling would be too young for your purpose; but the younger you get them, the deeper the bond with them can become over the years. We should also choose a stallion for you; they are better to be trained for war.”

Imogen nodded her understanding and laid a hand upon the fence. “How do I choose?” she asked.

Lord Hengest smiled. “You do not,” he answered. “They do. Just stay where you are. The horses will come and assess you; then one will give a sign of his acceptance.”

At first the young horses kept their distance, eyeing the woman whom they clearly recognised as a stranger warily. Imogen just stood there patiently and waited. After a while curiosity overcame their fear and some of them came closer, stretching their sleek heads out cautiously. One young stallion, a particularly beautiful blond chestnut with lighter than usual coat – though not quite a dun – and pale mane and tail was bold enough to almost touch her face with his velvety nose.

“This is Durwyn,” said Lord Hengest. “A very good bloodline. He seems to have taken a liking to you. Hold out your palm to him and remain calm.”

Imogen did as she was told, and the magnificent young stallion sniffed at her palm delicately; then he licked the salty sweat from her skin and allowed her to give him a good scratching between the ears and under the chin. Lord Hengest smiled in satisfaction.

“Very good. You may stroke his nose now. You clearly have been accepted.”

Imogen laughed in delight, stroking the young stallion’s wonderfully soft nose. Durwyn snorted in amusement, his large, liquid dark eyes sparkling. When she went on to scratch his lower neck and his chest, his lips got loose and wobbly with pleasure. Looking him over Imogen was very pleased with the choice; Durwyn was a big-boned, sure-footed horse – when fully grown, he would easily carry her even in full armour.

“That was fast,” commented Osred, the Éomaegister of Stowburg, clearly impressed. He had just finished his round and was coming out of the spacious stables, the pillars of which were as ornately carved and decorated as those of Heorot Hall itself. “Love at first sight, I would say. We can go on with the bonding ceremony at once, if you want to, my lord.”

Lord Hengest nodded in agreement. “Give me your hand,” he said to Imogen. “I will make a small cut in your palm and upon Durwyn’s neck; then you will press your hand against his wound, allowing your blood to mingle. That way he will become as a brother to you and will remain such ‘til his last breath – or yours.”

To Imogen’s surprise the horse endured the cut made upon his neck calmly, as if aware of its purpose. When she pressed her bleeding palm against the warm, trembling neck of the beautiful animal, she could feel that warmth spreading through her entire body, from the tips of her fingers up to the top of her head and down to her toes. She wondered if there was any magic involved or if she could merely feel the bond as one of the Mark was supposed to feel.

Lord Hengest watched her with an understanding smile.

“No magic,” he said. “This simple rite merely binds you into the family consisting of Riders and horses; everyone feels it when the bond is created. ‘Tis the proof that you have been truly accepted and are one of us now. Let us finish the ceremony properly.”

He cut a few strings from the pale golden mane of Durwyn, as well as from Imogen’s raven tresses, braided them together with nimble fingers and tied the circle of braided hair about Imogen’s wrist.

“You will wear this bracelet day and night ‘til your horse dies, be it from injuries sustained in battle, due to an accident or of old age or anything else,” he explained. “When that happens, it will be up to you to perform a last service for him. This bracelet will then be cut to mark the end of your bond, and it will be burned together with the horse, to show that you have given up part of yourself as a gift for a friend. If the horse’s body cannot be retrieved or burned, only the bracelet will be burned, symbolising the rite of releasing.”

“And if I die first?” asked Imogen quietly.

“Then the horse is free to choose a new master if he wants,” replied Lord Hengest. “Many of them, especially if the bond with their Rider was a long and deep one, do not survive the loss. Others, mostly the young ones that had been bound for a short time only, do, and are willing to go on. We never force them, one way or another.”

And so it came that by the time Lord Hengest and his family left for Edoras two days later, everyone in Stowburg knew that the horses had accepted the foreign bride of Elfhelm Hengestsson and therefore from now on she counted as a daughter of the Mark.

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

The road to Edoras, which had led them partially back over the very route Elfhelm and the Rhunim had come to Stowburg earlier, was uneventful and unhurried. The family and their retainers had travelled this distance uncounted times and knew by instinct how to pace their journey in order to reach The Courts on time.

After a few days they left the hill-country of the Eastfold well behind them and the White Mountains now loomed large before them, their high peeks capped with snow. It was a beautiful yet forbidding sight, Imogen decided that The Mountains of Nimwarkinh, although rising high above the plains of Rhûn, did not reach such heights as to bear snow over the whole year. She wondered what creatures might dwell above the tree-line, upon those icy peaks.

“We are almost there,” somebody said near her, startling her out of her thoughts.

Princess Idis, wearing breeches and a split-skirted kirtle of a deep forest green to enable her to ride in male fashion, with the running horse of the Mark emblazoned cunningly in white and gold upon her breast, had ridden up to her and was now pointing ahead, at the valley that had just opened up before their very eyes, with a distant green hill rising in its mouth, and encircled by a silver stream. Upon its brow, still far away, something glittered like gold in the sunlight.

“That is Edoras, with the Golden Hall of the Kings crowning the hill,” added the Princess. Her eyes gleamed, and Imogen suddenly realised that it probably meant more to her than to everyone else from the family. Edoras had once been her home, after all.

They still had a good stretch of the way laying before them, and Edoras even disappeared for a while as they rode among the trees, and then crossed a river called the Snowbourn at what appeared to be a well-used ford, But once they left behind the small wooded area on the other side, The Courts were back, high and proud, the gold-thatched roof of Meduseld shining like a beacon against the dark background of the mountain valley.

They had not quite reached the middle of the valley before they were intercepted by a large group of riders, wearing helms and mail shirts covering their knees, carrying shields and armed with with spears. They all wore the emblem of the King of the Mark – the running white horse in a green field – painted on their shields, signalling that they belonged to the éored that protected Edoras. They were tall and proud, a good head taller than the average Khimmer warrior, their golden hair floating behind them in two or more braids apiece as they rode.

Only one was not blond among them: the one with a dark horsetail trailing down from the top of his helm. That one Imogen recognised at once, despite the nose-piece that concealed half his face. It was Elfhelm.

He greeted his parents with the proper display of respect and his bride with obvious joy and relief – as if he had been worried that she might have changed her mind while they had been separated. Then he exchanged the usual warrior’s greeting with Einarr and Eiríkr, clasping forearms with them, and grinned.

“Ahaewan here,” he waved in the vague direction of a venerable-looking Rider who was obviously his second-in-command – all but begged to accompany me to welcome you all. He wanted to see the lady who had finally managed to make me come to my senses.”

“And now that I have I understand you, my lord,” returned Ahaewan, laughing. “In his place I might consider bending my head under the yoke, too.”

“It would do you a wealth of good,” commented Iminric, Elfhelm’s eldest brother. “Might cure you from your flighty ways.”

The others laughed, too, for Ahaewan was known as something of a skirt-chaser, which often drove his family to despair. Of course the Rhunim could not know that, thus they were a bit bewildered by the teasing.

“But let us not waste our time here,” continued Elfhelm. “Théoden-King has expressed his wish to see you at once upon your arrival. ‘Tis not a wise move to make a King wait.”

That was certainly true and thus they continued their way up the wale eastwards, where the steep green hill rose. Soon the Rhunim could see that the seat of the Kings of the Mark was a well-defended place indeed. A dike and a mighty wall encircled it, with a thorny fence upon the wall. Above the fence, the roofs of the usual longhouses could be seen, and in their midst, set upon a green terrace, stood aloft a great hall, thatched with gold. The sunlight gleamed upon the golden roof, drawing all looks immediately.

At the foot of the walled hill the path ran under the shadow of a number of high, green mounds that stood there like silent sentinels watching over the road. Upon their western sides the grass seemed white, as if covered with snow. When they came closer, however, the Rhunim could see that it was not snow but a great many small, star-shaped flowers that grew in abundance amid the turf.

“What flowers are these that they blossom bright like eyes in the grass?” asked Imogen in amazement.

“Those are the bright stars of evermind that the Stanlendigns call simbelmynë in their own tongue,” answered Lord Hengest quietly. “They blossom in all the seasons of the year, and grow where dead men rest.”

“Those mounds… they are tombs, then?” realised Imogen. Lord Hengest nodded.

“Aye; we are come to the great barrows where the sires of Théoden-King sleep.”

“There are not the same number of them, though,” commented Imogen.

“Nay,” agreed Lord Hengest. “Upon the western side are the nine mounds of the Kings of the First Line: from Eorl the Young through Helm Hammerhand. Upon the eastern side rise the seven barrows of the Second Line: of Fréaláf Hildeson to Thengel, with the oldest of the line nearest the hill upon which the Courts stand.”

“Many long lives of Men it is since the Golden Hall was built,” added Lady Imoleth. “Even though the Men of the Mark are a young people compared with the Stanlendings, the Mark itself has a long and proud history.”

The Rhunim nodded in understanding and they all passed the barrows in silent reverence.  Following the winding way up the hills, at least they came before the great gates and the broad, wind-swept walls of the Courts.

The gate guards, clad in bright mail like Elfhelm and his Riders, sprang to their feet and greeted Lord Hengest and his family by saluting with their spears, Then they hurriedly tossed the heavy gates open, so that the travellers could ride in, following Elfhelm, who had taken lead.

As soon as they had passed the gates, grooms and stable boys came running to take their horses and lead them off to the stables of Lord Hengest’s town house. The family continued its way on foot up to the Golden Hall, which stood on top of the flattened hill, surrounded by other buildings which formed a sort of larger courtyard. A bit like Stowburg, truly – only at a considerably larger scale.

The broad path leading up to it was paved with hewn stones and easy to climb, as it was winding gently upwards; in some places even climbing in short flights of well-laid steps. Imogen judged that even a sure-footed horse could have got up without much difficulty, if it had to. Still, it was easier to go on foot – and more interesting, too. She could get a better look at the artfully carved wooden houses along the path.

Beside the path a stream of clear water flowed in a stone channel, sparkling and chattering. Its source, a bright spring, gushed from a stone carved in the likeness of a horse's head at the foot of the green terrace upon which the Golden Hall stood. Beneath the stone horse-head was a wide basin from which the water spilled and fed the falling stream.

A high and broad flight of stairs of stone led up to the terrace, with a stone-hewn seat on either side of the topmost step. Upon those seats sat other guards, with naked swords laid upon their knees, the sword-hilts adorned with green gemstones. They had green shields, leaned against the side of their seats, with the sun blazoned upon them, and their long corselets were burnished bright.

As soon as Lord Hengest and his family stepped out upon the paved terrace at the stairs’ head, the guards rose as one, turning the hilts of their swords towards the guests in token of peace.

“Wilcume!” they called with clear voices in the tongue of the Mark. “Théoden-cyning gret his thegen freondlice. Hál wes thu.”

“Sy thu hál!” answered Lord Hengest in the name of the entire family, and the guards now unbarred the richly carved doors of the Hall, swinging the heavy wings slowly inwards, allowing the guests to enter.

Inside Meduseld seemed dark and warm; again, it was a lot like Heorot Hall, only larger and more ornate. The mighty pillars upholding its lofty roof were intricately carved and gilded, so that they glittered in the bright beams of sunlight that fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows high under the deep eaves, as if they had been encrusted in pure gold and many-coloured gems.

Above the fire pit, in which a clean wood-fire was burning, there was a louver in the roof, letting the thin wisps of issuing smoke out of the house, so that the air within remained reasonably clean. The sky showed through the louver, pale and blue. As Imogen’s eyes grew used to the semi-darkness, she saw the floor was paved with stones of many hues, depicting branching runes and strange devices intertwined beneath their feet.

Woven tapestries showing ancient legends hung on the walls, some fading with age, and some darkening in colour. One of them in particular caught the eye: a young, golden-haired man upon a white horse, blowing a mighty horn.

“Eorl the Young, who rode down with his Riders from the North to the aid of the Stanlendings,” murmured Lady Imoleth. “Thus he rode to the battle on the field of Celebrant… or so the songs say. That was the birthing day of the Mark.”

As they continued along the Hall they came, at the far end of it, to a dais with three broad steps, facing north towards the doors. In the middle of the dais stood a great, gilded chair, richly carved and painted; and upon the chair sat Théoden Thengelsson, the King of the Mark.

The sight of him shocked Imogen to the bone. This was supposed to be a King? Khimmer chieftains held power as long as they were still strong enough to beat any challengers in hand-to-hand combat. Were they defeated, they died – either by the hand of their opponent, or by their own. This man, however, was clearly no warrior any longer. He was bent with age; his thick, white hair fell in two long braids from beneath a thin golden circle set upon his brow. His beard, too, was snow-white, draped over his knees like a frozen waterfall. Yet his eyes still burned brightly, revealing a sharp and attentive mind.

One could easily imagine what he must once have been like by a glance at his right, where his son and heir was standing. Théodred the Brave, Crown Prince of the Mark, a tall, heavy-set man in his late thirties, with broad shoulders and a chest like a blacksmith’s bellows; a giant, even among his tall and powerful kin. His young cousin, Éomer, albeit a big man himself, seemed but a child next to him.

On the other side of the throne stood the ladies of the royal family. Lady Aud of the deep eyes, Prince Théodred’s wife, was tall, dark-haired and statuesque; even in her rich courtly attire, her broad shoulders revealed that she’d been wielding the sword for at least twenty years. She was very beautiful in her stern, intense way and would, no doubt, make a great Queen one day.

Next to her stood another tall woman whose hair was hidden beneath a crisp white wimple and the long white veil of a seer. Her golden lashes and eyebrows revealed that she was likely a blonde, too; her eyes a dark, greyish blue and her glance sharp and knowing.

“Lady Aelfgifu is one of the King’s nieces and the seer and wise-woman of the royal family,” explained Lady Imoleth in a low voice. “She is close to your age and very knowledgeable and open-minded. You would do well to win her as a friend.”

Imogen nodded obediently, even though she was somewhat unsure how to win a royal princess – and a scholarly one at that – as a friend.

The third woman was different from the other two; much younger, barley more than a girl. She was tall, too, but slender like a silver birch, delicately oval of face and dazzlingly fair. The sunlight glittered in her uncovered, waving hair that reached down almost to her knees like a river of pale white-gold; her eyes were dark blue like periwinkle flowers.

She was clad entirely in white, her robe girdled with silver; yet she seemed strong and stern as steel. She shared some vague likeness with Princess Idis – mostly in the exquisite beauty of her face – but her shoulders and hands revealed the warrior hiding behind the delicate surface.

“And that is Éowyn Éomundsdaughter, called the White Lady of the Mark, but also Steelsheen among the warriors, like her foremother, the wife of Thengel-king who was one of the Stanlendings,” said Lady Imoleth. “Young she still might be, but there has not been a shieldmaiden better with the sword among the daughters of the Mark for a very long time. She, too, is somebody from whose friendship you would benefit greatly… and she from yours.”

“How that?” asked Imogen in surprise.

Lady Imoleth sighed. “She is the only one from her generation to choose the sword; that makes her lonely at times. Other young ladies of her age do not understand what it is to be a warrior, while Lady Aud could almost be her mother. Also, one day she will have to lay down the sword to marry according to her status; probably someone from a foreign land. In that, too, she could find great support in you, as you know what it is like to leave everything you knew and loved for the good of your people.”

That was certainly very true, and Imogen nodded in agreement. Aye, she and the young warrior woman of Eorl’s House might have a lot in common indeed.

The other thegns and nobles of the court stood in small groups further down along the pillars with their families. Only one man – a wizened figure with a pale, shrewd face and heavy-lidded eyes – sat directly upon the steps of the dais, at the old King’s feet. He was clad in dark colours, black and dark, shadowy grey, and his long, unbraided hair was dark, too, albeit mixed with grey.

“Who is that?” asked Imogen quietly. The man made her uncomfortable, without her being able to name the reason for it.

“Théoden-king’s counsellor and caegheorde, Gríma son of Gálmód of Gálmódingsdale, Lord of House Feorware and part of the Wold,” replied Lady Imoleth. “Be careful around him. The King trusts him unconditionally, but no-one else does; he is shrewd and very dangerous, more so for someone new to the court.”

Imogen nodded her understanding.

“He reminds me of a poisonous snake,” she said, shivering.

“Which is exactly what he is,” agreed Lady Imoleth. “Avoid him if you can. If you cannot, answer his questions as simply as possible. If he thinks you a bit slow-witted, he might leave you alone, which is the best thing that can happen to you.”

In the meantime they had reached the dais, and the men all bent their knees before the King, while the women curtseyed deeply… with the exception of Princess Idis who hurried by the dark counsellor to kiss her father’s cheek affectionately. The King returned the kiss with obvious love and delight. He must have loved his daughter very much.

After a moment of hesitation Imogen opted to bend her knee as well. She might be a woman, but she still was a warrior; one who intended to wield her sword to protect the Mark. It was only proper to give the King of the Mark the warrior’s greeting.

“My King,” said Elfhelm respectfully. “May I present you my bride, the Lady Imogen, daughter of Ragnar the Smith from the Tribe of the Bear, the Lord of Nimwarkinh?”

The bright eyes of the old King searched Imogen’s face sharply, and she understood that he was by far not as feeble as he might appear.

“Wilcume,” he said in the tongue of the Mark; then he repeated it in Westron. “Welcome in the Riddermark, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter. Your marriage with the marshal of Edoras brings us some much-needed peace, and for that, we are grateful. ‘Tis my hope that you should find a home among us.”

“I shall see into that, Father,” said Princess Idis quietly.

The old King gave his daughter a gentle smile.

“I know that you will, my lamb,” then he turned back to Imogen. “I see you have brought family with you. ‘Tis always a good thing to have kinfolk with you when you come to live in a foreign land.”

“Unless they have come to spy upon us,” said the dark counsellor; his voice was dark, too, dark and hollow.

The King shook his head in mild disapproval.

“Let that be Lord Hengest’s concern, Gríma. I am certain that he is more than capable of reining in his own household.”

The counsellor did not seem happy with that but chose not to argue; at least not at the moment. The King nodded, clearly used to his orders to be followed, and turned to Imogen again.

“You will be cyn to the Lord of the Eastfold, one of the pillars of our throne; therefore we welcome you at the Courts. I understand that the wedding will take place in two days’ time, is that right?”

“Aye, my King,” answered Elfhelm.

“Then I wish you much happiness,” said the King. “Prince Théodred will attend to the feast in our stead, as we are not young and strong enough to sit through such long húsels any longer – unless we have to preside over them for the people to see us. But you have our blessing and you shall receive our wedding gifts as it is proper. May your shared lives be long and blessed.”

He rose, leaning upon his staff heavily. Both Lady Aelfgifu and Lady Éowyn hurried to his side to support him, but he waved them away.

“Leave me, my children. I may be old, but I can still move around on my own well enough… with just a little help. Come with me, Gríma. We have things to discuss.”

The counsellor, too, rose obediently, and as he stepped up to the King, Imogen noticed that he was slightly favouring one of his legs; probably as a result of an old injury or a deformed foot. The King leaned on his arm with his free hand, and together they retired to the royal chambers through one of the side doors.

Prince Théodred and Princess Idis looked after them unhappily, clearly worried about the counsellor’s growing influence, and Imogen understood that – appearances notwithstanding – not everything was well at the Courts.

But she would think about it alter. Right now, her main concern was her upcoming wedding and that she would not embarrass herself in the eyes of these foreign people. She was the daughter of Ragnar the Smith, and her performance would reflect on her father; on her whole tribe. She was determined to make them proud; even if they would not be there to see it.

~TBC~