Chapter 1 – Encounters

Inspired by “Betty Zane” by Zane Grey

            Ceorl, son of Aldor, moved into position; he was on guard duty for the afternoon.  He dismounted from his black horse, Fréa, to take his place beside the path leading out of Rohan into the forbidding paths of Ered Nimrais.

            It was a hot day; only the shade of the near trees cooled him, and that only slightly.  Fréa stood placidly by while Ceorl himself sat near the trunk of a rather large tree, straining his senses for anything out of place.  He was near dozing several hours later, but he roused himself quickly upon hearing a horse approaching at a swift pace.

            Quickly he sprang to a hidden place near the trail, prepared to accost the traveler when he should arrive, as was his duty.  He loosed his knife (made by the Elves and an unusual heirloom of his family) in its sheath and made ready for anything.  All his years of training by his father came to mind as he quickly planned his course.

            The rapid hoof-beats grew louder; he could feel them in the ground beneath his feet.  His muscles tensed and he pulled his feet closer under him, making ready to leap into the path. 

            The horse came around the bend – a tall, well-built grey – at a dead gallop, dripping sweat.  Ceorl watched for the moment he needed.  He could see that the rider bore no armor, definitely not a soldier, and his orders forbade anyone passing his post without signed behest from the King.  He doubted the rider had any.

            When the horse was nearly upon him, Ceorl sprung from his place next to the road and seized the reins in his left hand, his right ready on the haft of his blade.  The startled horse reared, and the young marchwarden pulled sharply down on the reins.  The flighty steed’s fore feet hit the ground, and Ceorl quickly moved his hand up the reins to a grip closer the bridle.

            The eyes of the rider blazed angrily from behind his hood as the horse sidled about, grunting and panting, his great sides heaving as he regained his wind.  Ceorl spoke softly to the horse for a moment, quieting him somewhat, before turning to the rider.

            “By whose command do you presume to cross the border of the Mark?” he demanded in an authoritative voice befitting his station.

            The rider threw his hood back, revealing the face and hair of a young, beautiful and very angry maiden.  Her blue-grey eyes were as leaping flame, yet cold as steel, and her long black hair, tied loosely back by a leather thong, gleamed in the bright sunlight filtering through the trees overhead.  Some of it came loose from its binding and fell about her face in dark wisps which she angrily shoved back with an impatient hand.

            “I go nowhere by anyone’s command, young man!” she said proudly, her chin lifting slightly.  “Often have I ridden this way unhindered and yet now you presume to stop me.  I tell you, it will take some doing!

            “I now ask you by whose command do you assume to keep me fenced in?  Surely you must have some semblance of authority else you would never dare to hinder me, nor would you even imagine laying hands upon my horse.  I say now, show me by what authority you brazenly accost me, else let me go, and at once!”

            He smiled slowly under her blazing gaze, and her rosy complexion grew ever darker at the impudence of the ignoble soldier before her.  “I have my orders, my lady.  I was sent here by my father, Captain Aldor of the Riddermark, to guard against anyone entering or leaving the borders.  We have been warned of enemy troops approaching the country.  Therefore no one, be it woman, child, soldier, royal or common shall be permitted to leave the borders without a strong guard or passage signed by King Éomer himself.”

As he talked he watched her face and saw the red fade to a shade of white.  She opened her mouth to say something but he interrupted.  “Show me your pass and I will let you through; if you have none, I must command you to return to your family and remain there until the danger is passed and once again we may travel in safety across our own bounds.”

Mutely, and yet still angry and proud, she turned her horse and, taking notice for the first time of her mount’s condition, walked him slowly back towards the city.  Ceorl watched her go, then walked over to where Fréa was tied.  He rubbed the blaze on his mount’s face absentmindedly.  His mouth was dry, not only from the talking he had done, but from the memory of her flashing eyes, her shining hair, her rosy face and her musical voice, so angry and haughty, yet somehow endearing and innocent.

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He had been on duty, and a very boring job it was too, for over five hours, and it was high time for him to head back.  He wished his replacement would hurry up and get there.

He tightened the girth on his saddle as the next placement rode up, a welcome sight.   

“How has it been?”

“Not much excitement yet today.  Good luck.”

Ceorl mounted with the ease of long practice, and gratefully trotted his horse towards home.  He was ready for a bath after sweating nearly the whole day through and he was hungry after his five-hour fast.

            Fréa, always a spirited mount, was just as ready to get home as he was, but Ceorl held him in, wishing to save his energy in the case it was needed.  It was well that he did.  As he neared the city, he crossed a small creek and was going on, when suddenly his horse snorted and pranced nervously about, not wanting to go forward.

            Ceorl, now wary, looked carefully around and noticed a man, obviously not of the Rohirrim, lying in the shallow water of the creek.  There was a bloody gash in his shirt sleeve and Ceorl could see another slight furrow on his head.

            He dismounted quickly and strode to the man’s side.  As he felt for a pulse, a muffled groan escaped the other’s lips and his eyelids fluttered.  Ceorl spoke quickly to him in Rohirric and then in the common tongue.

            The man’s eyes opened and he looked about him, pulling back from Ceorl’s grasp as he did so.  He cried out deliriously, “Adar!  Naneth!  Non egla?” Ceorl understood very little of the Elvish language and knew not what he said, so he simply disregarded it and set about binding the man’s wounds.

            The blood on his sleeve came from a small flesh wound, not serious, but it had bled freely; the furrow on his head was also shallow.  It had likely given him a slight concussion, no more.  The man would live, but he had lost a good deal of blood.

            Ceorl bound the wounds tightly with bandages all the Riders carried in their saddle bags.  When that was done, he put the man up onto his own horse and mounted behind him.  His steed snorted and shifted in protest of the added weight and the smell of blood, but Ceorl, having been trained by the best, held him firmly in.  “Stille nu, Fréa, faeste.” he said in his own tongue, urging him forward toward the city at a docile pace.  They arrived just as the sun fell behind the horizon. . . .

            Ceorl went first to the Houses of Healing.  There he gave his horse over to the care of the stable nearby and brought the wounded man to the Warden.  He was placed on a bed and his wounds were probed again.  When he was at last resting peacefully, the Warden turned to Ceorl.

            “Where did you find him?” he asked.

            Ceorl explained all about finding him and the trip back with him.  The Warden nodded and rubbed his chin, then he turned back the Ceorl.  “This is Belecthor, son of Lord Narion, a prince of Ithilien.  They are here in the city for a brief time.  His father and mother are in Meduseld with his sisters.  Make haste and call for them quickly.”

            Ceorl did go swiftly and arrived at the Palace in good time.  There he was directed by the guards to the West Wing.  He knocked on the door, suddenly conscious of his outdoor garb and how dirty he was after a long day outside.

            The door was opened by a tall man with piercing eyes.  His face was lined with worry.  “Oh, good evening.  I was expecting my son.  He was due back several hours ago and we have had no word of him.  With the alert out, his mother and I are very worried.”

            The man noticed he was telling a stranger his troubles and stopped suddenly, regaining his composure as a prince.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            “Yes my Lord.  I have word of your son.  He is in the Houses of Healing.  His wounds are not serious and no one knows where they were acquired.  The Warden commanded me to come to you.  You must hurry if you are to get there before nightfall.”

            Narion, son of Faramir, ushered Ceorl into the parlor where his wife was sitting, reading a book.  “Annariel!  Annariel, dearest, we must hurry.  Belecthor has been found!”

            The book was soon sitting on the table and the three went out.  Annariel called their daughter Morwen who quickly joined them.  Narion assisted his wife with her cloak and quickly put on his own; Morwen was assisted by Ceorl.  Then they all went out into the gathering blackness.

            Ceorl led them quickly and surely through the dark streets until they reached the Houses of Healing, which were really not far away at all, now that Ceorl knew his way.

            They arrived quickly and the warden led them to the bedside of their son.  Belecthor was now awake and aware.  His face lighted with joy when he saw them.  “Mother!  Father!  Morwen!”

            They went quickly to his side and fell into his embrace, although gently for fear of hurting him.  His mother sat on his bed, stroking his forehead and holding his hand, his father stood over them with his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and Morwen sat happily in a chair on the other side of his bed.  All were smiling.

            Ceorl turned to go when Belecthor noticed him.  His forehead wrinkled in thought, then recognition flooded his face.  “Wait!  Do not go!  I remember you, but the memory is faint indeed.  It was you that found me and fished me out, though I was barely aware at the time.  All I remember are your face, kind words and gentle touch, not the place nor the time.  Pray tarry a while longer.”

            “Yes indeed,” spoke up Narion, removing his hands from their resting place on his wife’s shoulder and moving over to Ceorl.  He placed his hand on Ceorl’s shoulder now.  “Do not leave yet so soon.  Remain a while longer, yet.”

            “Really, my Lord, I would prefer to stay and make sure that all is well, but. . .”

            “Papa,” spoke up Morwen.

            “Yes, my dear?” he answered, turning his head in her direction.

            “Perhaps he could go tell ‘Rilian that Belec is found.  She would want to know.”

            “Yes,” said Narion, turning back to Ceorl.  “My elder daughter is visiting with a friend.  Would you, if it will not inconvenience you, go and find her?”

            “Most certainly, my Lord.  Where is it that I would find her?”

            “She will no doubt be at the palace, in the East Wing.  When you get there, go to the side door on the right of the wing.  That leads into the parlor where I’m quite sure the girls will be.  Just tell them that Hirilian is wanted.  She will, no doubt, want to know where and why.  Just give her the facts and, if that is not enough, tell her that she is to come to the Houses of Healing at once, by strict order from her father.”

            “I will go at once, my Lord.”  Ceorl stepped back, turned sharply and walked swiftly and quietly away.