#thorongil

All about her sat men and women of the Mark, honored guests, her father and his royal retinue. A great victory had been won, and now the people applied themselves to enjoyment with all the same zeal they had brought to the battlefield. Heaping trays of food crowded the big wooden tables, and cups were in every hand, sloshing fragrant mead over their rims with each enthusiastic slap of a back, guffawing laugh or dramatic sweep of an arm as the victory was retold and embellished in a hundred different variations. But amidst all this laughter, frivolity and singing, a prickly air of barely suppressed vexation hung about Théodwyn, who found herself trapped at the very end of a long bench with only the displeasing company of the traveling warrior Thorongil at her side.

She barely knew him, it was true. But she knew enough to have already sniffed out that there was just something off about the man. She had felt it from their very first meeting, a troublesome little current of suspicion that swelled up any time she was in his presence and plagued her like a pebble in her boot or a scratchy woolen dress that itched her arms and neck. She struggled to put into words exactly what he’d ever said or done to raise her ire, and yet it was there all the same. It was an impulse, a visceral response coming not from her head but from her gut, and Théodwyn always trusted her gut. He might have been full of courtly words and clever ideas, but when he spoke she only ever had one reflexive and immediate instinct. Liar.

Disliking him proved a lonely proposition, but it was one that she clung to all the more stubbornly as he inexplicably gained more and more respect among her countrymen. He had already risen from humble soldier to a captain who rivaled their own marshals for rank and authority, and all while fighting with them only intermittently between lengthy sojourns to Gondor and who knows where else. It was galling to Théodwyn to watch the whole of the Mark be taken in so thoroughly by this dodgy stranger who was skillful with a sword and even more skillful with a secret. But at least she knew that Théodwyn, daughter of Thengel, would not be so easily fooled.

Her present seating predicament was no doubt the work of her mother, who pushed Thorongil into her path at every opportunity in the hopes he’d take a liking to her. She doubted that she’d ever be able to curb Morwen’s unsubtle attempts at matchmaking, but she could at least ensure that Thorongil himself saw no hope in it. She wanted nothing to do with him, and she would give him no cause to think otherwise by engaging in the charade of courteous small talk now. It would be a shame to sacrifice a much anticipated feast night to hours of tedious silence, but that was a sacrifice she was wholly willing to make, if only she could get him to still his own tongue as well.

Fortunately, years of being forced to listen to her older sisters drone on about her failings in matters of etiquette and propriety had prepared her with a trusty strategy for just such an occasion. She would make a game of finding increasingly off-putting ways to ignore whatever was being said to her until the speaker simply gave up in fruitless exasperation. It nearly always worked, and she was certain it would work again tonight.

Thorongil had spent enough time among the nobility of both Mundburg and Edoras to know the art of polite conversation, and he was certainly trying his best with her now. He began with charming anecdotes and tales of faraway lands, and when they failed to yield any reaction, he pivoted to other approaches. Poems he thought she might like, gracious questions about her own thoughts and opinions, even a few clumsy attempts at mild flattery to engage her interest. But she steadfastly refused to give him anything in response. She pretended not to hear his words, or she yawned loudly over his voice, allowing her eyes to wander off as if in search of better amusement. When that ran its course, she instead stared silently and intensely at a single point just beside his mouth and laughed to herself when he began self-consciously dabbing at the perfectly clean spot with his napkin, increasing the urgency of his efforts with each apparently futile attempt to tidy whatever had caught her focus.

It was diverting enough for a young woman with no other option for entertainment, but, alas, it did not seem to have the ultimate desired effect because he continued on gamely with fresh topics no matter how outlandishly she resisted the conversation. She was considering, then, the most melodramatic means by which to feign a fainting spell when her mother managed to catch her eye from across the room, sending her a look more pointed than any sword or spear. Don’t be rude, Morwen mouthed clearly, and then set her lips into a straight line of the most disapproving sort.

Théodwyn had seen that look often enough to know what it meant. Her mother had always allowed her some measure of freedom to do and say what she pleased, as the fifth and female child of a royal house shouldered few responsibilities or expectations. But Morwen’s patience was not infinite. She could be pushed too far, and much sooner than Thengel, who was notoriously easy on his youngest child. My little joy, he called her, even when she had ceased to be so little. His doting affections, though, would still yield to the demands of his queen on questions of proper ladyhood for their daughters, and so if Théodwyn was to avoid punishment after the feast, she knew she would have to at least give the appearance of compliance with Morwen’s wishes.

She cut her eyes back over to Thorongil, who was now yammering on about some horse that belonged to an elf he claimed to know. No doubt he thought horses were a good topic for any conversation in the Mark, and, in all honesty, it did sound like quite an impressive animal. She made a mental note to ask the royal horsemaster later about this so-called ‘elf-horse’ and whether he had ever heard of such a thing. But in the meantime, if she would be forced to talk to this most dubious of men, she would do it on her own terms rather than his.

“I’m told you’re not originally from Gondor,” she said abruptly, interrupting him mid-sentence. “And yet you bear a Sindarin name.”

He looked up in surprise at the sound of her voice at last. “That is true,” he answered.

“So if you’re not from Gondor, then where is your home?”

“In the north.”

She arched a brow. “Could you perhaps be more specific? The north is an awfully big place.”

“It is. And I have lived in many parts of it over the years.”

He maintained a placid expression, but she had the distinct sense that he knew his answer had been evasive. Indeed, for a man as famously talented as he was, evasiveness seemed to be his strongest skill. He had been coming and going from the Mark for years, and yet all anyone knew for sure about him could be recited in half a minute’s work. To accept such an outsider without any real sense of who he was or where his loyalties might lie was absurd to Théodwyn even if no one else seemed to share her concerns in this particular case.

“Who is your father then?” she persisted.

“He died when I was still a child.”

“That does not answer my question.”

He shifted uneasily in his seat. Of all the things he’d expected of Rohan’s youngest princess, an interrogation was clearly not one of them. “It was long ago and far from here. Would his name even mean anything to you?”

“That depends on what name you give. Why don’t you try me?” She stared hard at him for a moment, and when he mustered only a sheepish smile in response, she waved a hand in frustrated dismissal. “Yet another secret of the mighty Thorongil. Add it to the pile.”

“Have I perhaps done something to offend you, Lady Théodwyn?” His hand drifted back to the spot by his mouth, giving it one last quick brush with his fingers. “If so, I give you my sincerest apologies and assure you the offense was entirely unintentional.”

“I doubt that very much. Because what primarily offends me is the way that you continually appear here every so often to ingratiate yourself with my father and the lords of this land, all while lying to them at every moment. That seems quite intentional to me.” Her eyes narrowed, and she dropped her voice, leaning in closer to him to be heard. “I don’t know who you are, but I know that your name is not Thorongil. That is plain enough to see, even if everyone else around her refuses to see it. You are not who you claim to be. And because a good man does not tell falsehoods to those he calls friends, I can only assume that you are not a good man. For all I know, you seek to take advantage of my father somehow.”

“I have no such intention, I promise you.” He spoke sharply, and for the first time, he looked her directly in the eye. But his tone immediately softened. “I imagine that you are not inclined to believe my word alone, but I hope that my actions, at least, would support me. I’ve fought alongside the Rohirrim for years now, and always with loyalty and distinction. Can that not be enough?”

“For some, it is,” she conceded. “For me, it only makes your incessant need for secrecy all the stranger. If you’re really our friend, you should not fear to be honest with us. But I can see that we are not going to resolve this here tonight.” She stole a glance in her mother’s direction only to find Morwen’s gaze as much on her as ever, though now she looked pleased and even hopeful. That satisfied little smile, the proof that she was getting her way, irked Théodwyn all the more, and she turned back to Thorongil determined to provoke him further. “In that case, then, the other point of contention between us is my mother’s desire that I marry you.”

His cup was at his lips, and he choked on the mouthful of ale he’d just swallowed. “Oh,” he stammered out after much coughing. “I… I am very flattered, Lady Théodwyn. Truly. And I—”

Her laugh cut off his fumbling words. “You seem to have confused my mother’s will for my own, Thorongil. Or you assume that my own will doesn’t matter.” She made a tsk’ing noise and shook a finger at him. “That may be how they do things in your homeland, wherever that is, but here in the Mark a woman cannot be forced into a marriage she does not want. And I don’t want to be married to you. I can’t even imagine why my mother thinks it’s a good idea. You must be nearer my father’s age than mine, after all.” She paused to eye him appraisingly. “How old are you anyway?”

He looked away again. “Older than you. How much older is difficult to convey. The question is not as straightforward as you might think.”

“Is it not? I was born 17 years ago and so I am 17. Do numbers work differently where you’re from?” She smirked, reveling in his discomfort. “In the north?”

“You seem determined to make this conversation difficult for me.”

“Well I’m certainly not trying to make it easy. If there is one thing you take from this dinner, I hope it is the crystal clear understanding that I don’t need some mysterious sword-for-hire with unstated motives to come in and sweep me off my feet. It doesn’t matter how badly my mother wants that to happen. So if that’s what you’re looking to do, you can go back to Gondor and try your luck there instead. I hear Denethor’s wife is unhappy. Maybe you could please her? She’s got questionable enough taste in men to take a shine to you. But as for me, I intend to marry a man of the Mark. One who is very clear about who he is, what he wants and why he does what he does.”

Her eyes strayed across the room, and he followed them to Éomund, seated beside his father amongst the men of Aldburg.

“So you wish to be closer to Éofara’s son?”

She looked away quickly, mortified, and though she commanded herself not to blush, that only guaranteed that the blood rushed to her face all the faster. A harsh retort came to her lips, some cheap barb about Thorongil’s stork-like legs or his scraggly beard that even the Rohirrim stableboys could best — anything to distract from the embarrassment of having her feelings perceived, and by the worst person she could imagine. But at the last moment, she held back her insult. Embarrassment aside, she didn’t want to give up a chance to talk further of Éomund, as such chances did not often present themselves. And what did it matter if Thorongil knew of her attraction to the dashing young rider from the East-mark? His own vexing presence was soon to be gone anyway, heading out on some self-indulgent seeker’s journey to Rhûn. She abandoned any attempt at nonchalance and turned to face him instead. “What do you know of Éomund?” she demanded.

“A bit. He rode with his father in the last few campaigns I joined alongside the Rohirrim. He seems a good man, if overly impetuous.”

“Here in the Mark, we call that spirited,” she said hotly.

He smiled and held up a hand of conciliation. “Spirited indeed. Are you well acquainted with Éomund yourself?”

“Sadly no.” She knew him best from events like this one, where she watched him from a distance and admired his bold and confident manner. Surrounded by men much his senior, he still looked every bit their equal, and his uncommon bravery in battle was already well known in many corners of the land despite his relative youth. But she had not often been able to contrive a reason to speak with him, and when she had, her mother had been there to ensure that nothing particularly interesting was said by either party. “I believe his éored keeps him quite busy. He is very passionate about his duties and is rarely enough at leisure to pursue other interests.”

“He looks at leisure now,” observed Thorongil.

He wasn’t wrong. Watching Éomund from the corner of her eye, he looked the very picture of relaxation, laughing and stretched back in his chair with one large hand behind his head and the other wrapped around a mug. But he was also on the far side of the room, about as distant from her as was possible in the big, timbered hall. She sighed. “You’re right. And yet, my mother has seated me next to you and not to him.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded his head, as though some decision had been reached in his mind. “I trust in the judgment of your good lady mother in seating her own parties, but perhaps she was unaware that I have need to speak with Éofara before I leave for my eastward journey.” He tossed his napkin onto the table in front of them and came to his feet. “It’s a timely need, one that I fear can only be met by evicting young Éomund from his place so that I may occupy it in his stead.” He paused and then smiled. “In which case, of course, he would be more than welcome to take my own seat.”

She looked up sharply, surprised. “You would send him here?”

“I would.”

It was a kind offer, she couldn’t deny, and he had given it with neither condescension nor mockery. In fact, if anything, he looked sympathetic, as though he knew what it was to be kept separate from someone the heart was attached to. It was almost enough to make her feel some friendly affection for him, though she certainly would not permit herself to go so far. He was still a dishonest itinerant of unknown intentions, after all. “Maybe you are not entirely an ill,” she allowed with some reluctance, and he laughed.

“Maybe not.”

**********