Help was summoned by a letter.
Minas Tirith, Gondor
III 2509
Hail Eorl son of Léod, Lord of the …othéod!
Since the days of Eldacar have there been bonds of kinship between Gondor and the …othéod! Long have we pledged alliance to each other's city, though those ties be not so strong now. The South Kingdom suffers attack from all sides by black forces. Wildmen come from Rhovanion and the Anduin and Orcs from the mountains. They have taken Calenardhon and it can be only a matter of time before the White City falls. Will you not ride to Gondor's aid so that her Steward may still keep the City if her King should return? Will thee not answer the plea sent by this red arrow? The White City looks to the North in hope for your coming; ride swiftly!
Each messenger bore the red arrows swiftly towards the wild, untamed lands of Rhovanion. Each messenger knew the message by heart, line by line, so that no foe of Gondor would realise her desperate plea if any of them should fail in his errand. Each messenger rode as a savage wind, hope and fear driving their journey.
Would the …othéod answer Gondor's plea? Not even their wise Steward could tell. He now was girting himself ready for war, leaving the care of Gondor to his only son, Hallas. Cirion would lead Gondor's army to battle; no matter how hopeless victory seemed, no matter how many would fall to inevitable defeat.
Eorl wandered through the now silent corridors back towards his chamber. The night was warm and dark and his heavy footsteps echoed through the stone passages. He breathed in deeply, allowing the heady musk of evening flowers to fill his lungs. He relished this first tranquil interlude in recent months. It offered a brief respite from the pace of the Ride, the clang of battle and the din of triumphant celebration. He stopped briefly at an open balcony to gaze northwards at lush, dark fields outside of the White City, flexing his tired muscles in a lazy stretch, and sighed contentedly.
Tomorrow, he could lead his people out north to those fertile lands and give them a permanent home. A free people with their own land and no more would they have to roam northwards for room. That land was the generous gift of the Steward in token of gratitude for the aid of the …othéod and Eorl's chest swelled with pride as he whispered again his Oath with which he and Cirion had bound their people with ties of perpetual alliance.
I swore this Oath with honour, he remembered, wafting the flames of wall-mounted torches as he strolled down the dimly lit corridors, and I will see it fulfilled whenever the need arises, for I am a man of my word.
His gait took on a slow, measured air as he daydreamed about the future of the …othéod; solemnly, unconsciously trying to imitate the stately, royal grace of Cirion. Slightly embarrassed and glad of the cover of dark, Eorl reached the heavy, wood doors of his chamber and slipped in quietly.
The room was shadowy and the heavy curtains of his bed barely fluttered in the night air. The soft light of waning Ithil barely illuminated the large room with glowing patches. Eorl found that he was tired, the excitement of celebration wearing off, and he walked to the dark bed, shedding his formal outer attire and boots as he went. The soft mattress curved in delightfully as it moulded to his form and he felt his muscles relaxing deliciously. His eyelids closing drowsily and he swung his arms out in a languid stretch. It hit something.
"Ow!" a husky voice exclaimed, "Is this your idea of welcome?"
Eorl's eyes flew open, his hand lashed back as if from a hot brand and he leapt out of bed. He fell in an ungraceful heap on the floor in his bewilderment. As he picked himself up and tried to make sense of what had just happened, the scratch of a match being struck echoed with low, amused chuckles.
The flaring, red glow of the newly lit candle revealed a youthful, handsome face. A face with sharp, noble features; a full, sensuous mouth and glittering, bewitching, dark eyes. A face which belonged to an equally delicious body; finely muscled torso, smooth dark skin, lean waist tapering down and the rest barely covered by a thin sheet. A face which was all too familiar to Eorl...
"My...my Lord Hallas!" cried Eorl astounded. "My...my sincerest apologies. I did not intend to..." Eorl looked around in confusion, mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish. An appropriate reaction seemed beyond his capabilities, and coherency, impossible.
"I must be in the wrong room," was all he could mumble as he tried desperately not to look at the man but cast his eyes haphazardly, wildly about the darkened room. Even with only that pinpoint of light, he could recognise the familiar items in the room that signalled his own residence. He could not help but look helplessly back at those deep eyes which still shone with sardonic mirth. They seemed to be laughing silently, but not maliciously, as the young man saw Eorl's confusion.
"No, Eorl, you're not in the wrong room," Hallas smiled patiently, "It is I who imposes on your hospitality, who wishes to ask a favour of you." A brief flash of white teeth as Hallas grinned wickedly.
The unorthodoxy of his situation registered dimly in the recesses of Eorl's dazed mind. This isn't really happening, he thought numbly to himself, it cannot be the only son of Cirion who is lying naked in my bed. The thought panicked him more than just a little.
"I...I do not think that...that...at this late hour, I...er...can perform any...erm...favour for my Lord....erm... It is...is...erm...late," he finished lamely.
Hallas threw back his head of dark locks and laughed a low, throaty laugh, exposing his long, inviting neck.
"Eorl, you swore an Oath to my father the Steward to render any service within your power to him and Gondor." The words were said teasingly. "I, as a son of Gondor, ask just one, small service." One dark eyebrow arched in challenge. "I gave your people the name Rohrrim: Masters of Horses; show me how well you deserve that name. Show me how well you ride."
With one fluid movement, Hallas slipped out of the bed towards Eorl, letting the sheet fall with a soft hush to the floor. The candle he placed on the bedside table; moving slowly, allowing Eorl to gape with disbelieving eyes upon the glorious sight before him. Unhurriedly, he turned himself towards Eorl until he was facing him fully, the yellow light of a flickering flame playing upon his burnished skin.
"You...you're not clothed, my Lord!" Eorl's voice was hoarse and barely above a croak.
Hallas smirked and looked downwards briefly before fixing his eyes full upon Eorl.
"My, you're right," came the mordant remark. "How convenient."
Eorl swallowed. Hard.
"But you, on the other hand, are." Hallas moved close towards Eorl, leaving barely inches between their bodies.
Eorl stood, rooted to the spot, and could only watch as the lustful eyes of the royal raked up and down his body, undressing him without lifting a finger. He suddenly felt very, very naked.
Suddenly remembering the use of his feet, Eorl tried to take a step backward, only to be stopped by strong hands. One burned the back of his neck in a heated clasp; the other grabbed the front of his shirt, gathering the soft fabric to run teasingly over his sensitive chest. Eorl felt his breathing grow raspier and his heart thump harder in his chest as sheer panic set in.
Before he could react, the strong arms of Hallas had pulled him forcibly round and thrown him unceremoniously on to the soft bed. Stunned, he could barely stop the eager lord from straddling him and pinioning his arms above his head.
"My Lord!" Eorl's voice climbed a tremulous octave, "Stop! Surely you know not what you do!"
"I know exactly what I do."
"It is not right!"
"But it's so fun..."
Hallas gazed at Eorl intensely, as though drinking in the sight of him as intensely as a parched man drains a long anticipated draught of water. He bent down, never releasing his grip, and slowly ran a hot tongue along the line of the Eorl's jaw. The pungent musk of the man mingled with the smoky scent of the burning candle and Hallas inhaled it deeply, revelling in the richness of the smell.
The first, wet touch had shocked Eorl even more than anything else that had happened. But it had also knocked him out of his dazed confusion. Now he wanted only to flee from Hallas who, he was convinced, had gone quite mad. Using his superior strength, he fought against Hallas' grip and wrestled him aside, reversing their positions so that it was now he who was straddling a prone, and uncomplaining, Hallas.
"Ai, Eorl, I see I have been justified in my name to you," whispered Hallas mischievously, "Rohirrim; you are a worthy rider indeed!"
The innuendo was lost on Eorl but even he could not ignore the way Hallas deliberately bucked his hips enticingly underneath him. It was distracting, to say the least. He tried to focus his mind and efforts in extracting himself from the other man's seductive advances.
"My Lord, I beg you..."
"Oh? You're begging now...?"
"Yes! I mean, nay! Oh Valar! My Lord, I cannot perform what –"
"Oh, I think you have no trouble performing at all, Eorl."
"Well, of course not, I... Nay! Lord! We must not...you must not... It will only bring trouble!"
At that moment, Cirion, who had sought to have a brief word with Eorl ere the parting of the …othéod the following day, walked in holding a burning torch.
The bright light lit up the room to reveal a flushed Eorl in a most dubious position with a suspiciously familiar figure.
"Eorl? What are you...? Ai Elbereth! Hallas?!"
"Oh Valar! My Lord!"
"Ah! Father!"
It would have been hard to determine whose eyes had opened the widest and whose jaw had dropped the lowest. But it was certainly Eorl who blushed the most, almost leaping off the bed, and Hallas, in an attempt to make the situation seem less compromising.
"I can explain..." Eorl tailed off as he realised that he could not.
Unfortunately, his movement only served to notify Cirion that his son was naked.
"You...you're not clothed, my son!"
A sardonic, rueful smile flashed briefly across Hallas' face. "My, you're right. How inconvenient, father."
"But I am, my Lord!" cried Eorl in a last, desperate attempt to help, "And there is an explanation..."
Cirion turned the full force of his shock and anger on a startled and cringing Eorl. "There always is an explanation, but I will hear it tomorrow. Tonight, I think, has seen enough...excitement!"
Cirion turned abruptly, fury making his hand quiver and the bright torch flame shook and cast fiersome shadows upon the stone walls. He turned and glared at Eorl before he left.
"To think that the men of the …othéod can be so little trusted even in the house of their hosts!" The words were spat with utmost contempt.
Eorl could not only stand helplessly, watching the retreating back of Cirion, hearing the echo of disappointment and disbelief in his words.
"You swore service to Gondor," snapped Cirion, pacing in an agitated manner. "I hardly call attempting to debauch her only heir a worthy service!"
"Twas her only heir who was attempting to debauch me!" cried Eorl.
"You lie, Eorl!" thundered the Steward, hand almost reaching for his sword hilt. His stately mien was contorted in shock as he spluttered, "How dare you even suggest such a thing?"
Furiously, Cirion abruptly stopped his pacing and whipped round to face Eorl. He jabbed a finger accusingly.
"I did not think that the leader of the …othéod would resort to falsehoods as well as broken oaths!"
The harsh accusation stung Eorl and he felt winded as though hit in the stomach with a heavy sword. But the men of the …othéod are proud and Eorl's blood boiled with wounded pride.
"The men of the …othéod keep their words. We live and die by our oaths!" He retorted angrily.
Eorl squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a brief moment in his frustration. The ill regard, no matter how unjustified, of a noble man who he had come to regard as a father was more than he could stand.
"I swear to you, my Lord, the Oath I swore by the tomb of Elendil is unviolated. It was sacrosanct to me when I took it and it remains so. I broke no oath!"
Cirion tossed Eorl a sceptical glance.
"Gondor remains the friend of the …othéod. But in your personal commitment and loyalty to my City, my faith is shaken."
His voice was laced with the bitterness of betrayal and it nearly broke Eorl's heart to hear it. He walked to the Steward, honest eyes entreating to be believed.
"My Lord, I beseech you, do not doubt me," he implored quietly, "As I pledged my service to you and your City in time of need, so I renew that Oath again."
He drew his sword and offered it, hilt first, to Cirion. "If there is any service I may perform now to assure you of that, I would willingly do it!" he declared.
If only he had caught the sudden, fiendish glint come into the eye of that capricious Steward, he may have retracted his rash, if noble, promise.
"You want me to do what?" spluttered Eorl, choking on a mouthful of Gondor's finest vintage.
His silver goblet fell on to the wooden table with a resounding clatter that echoed through the large, empty, stone hall.
"Oh Valar!" he muttered, trying, ineffectually, to stem the spreading red stain.
Cirion chuckled, amused, as he waited to Eorl to stop choking and fussing. He trusted Eorl's word; he knew of his son's reputation. He also knew that Eorl would want to prove his trustworthiness, which he respected. But that did not mean that his wickedly sadistic sense of humour had been suppressed when selecting a task.
"My dear Eorl, I'm not asking for you to bring it back to me; merely to discover if the Witch King of Angmar has it in his possession." Cirion waved his hands dismissively, "A simple scouting task, you might even say."
Eorl snorted, "Then why may not one of the very able men in your army perform such a task?" he gestured impatiently. "I still do not understand. Why, if the return of this...this stone is not important, should the discovery of it's fate be so?"
"It is nature of this mere 'stone' that makes it both a blessing and a danger."
Cirion leaned forward across the table earnestly.
"Surely you know of the old use of the Palantiri?"
Eorl shrugged. "I'm afraid I am not learned in lore."
"Seven such stones there were, brought from the lost land of Numenor on the ship of Elendil. They were placed far and wide in both the North and South Kingdom and were used so that the King might know all news of his realm. For these stones enabled those with the knowledge and right to see far and commune with the users of the other stones."
Cirion's voice took on a low, hushed tone.
"But dark times saw the loss of some stones, including this one set in the old watch tower of Amon Sul. The North Kingdom was finally sundered in 1975 of this Age by the attacks of Angmar and that Palantir was lost. Though in that same year Gondor was able to destroy Angmar, the Witch King, now a wraith to the Dark Lord, was not found. And neither was the Palantir. It is unaccounted for and we dare not use the others for fear of who may be watching!"
Cirion leaned back and laced his fingers together contemplatively. He raised a questioning eyebrow at a frowning Eorl.
"Do you see now why we must know the fate of this Seeing-Stone?"
"Aye. But I still do not see why you have given this task to me."
He rested his hands on the table, forgetting about the spilt wine, and quickly removed them again when he felt the wetness on his palms.
"Ai!" he exclaimed in exasperation, glaring at his damp hands, then at an amused Cirion. "Why couldn't you have just asked me to prove my loyalty by marrying one of your close relatives?" he mumbled, then paled as he realised what he had just said.
Opposite the table, Cirion laughed. "We would not be having this discussion if Hallas was not the only eligible close relative!"
Eorl could not help but blush at the memory.
He sighed. "As I have said before, the …othéod are men of their word. Your trust in me will not be misplaced."
Cirion smiled, suddenly looking very avuncular. "I have faith in your word, Eorl. This task must be carried out with the utmost discretion and secrecy. The Witch King would recognise a warrior of Gondor but you, a man of a people little known to him, may yet extract the information from him."
Eorl seemed pleased at this praise. He stood and bowed.
"My Lord, you have been as a father to me. I would carry out any task, no matter how perilous; for love of you, not just for Gondor." He paused. "Although, I do not yet see a way to do it; my skills are in open battle, not in subtle diplomacy. I do not know if I shall be able to persuade the Witch King to tell me."
Cirion laughed. "Oh, worry not , Eorl. If he does not possess the Palantir, he will not consider news of its fate a secret to guard." He chuckled to himself, casting an admiring eye over the fair, young man standing before him.
"Besides, you may find that the Witch King is easier to persuade than you imagine." He smiled enigmatically. "If the rumours be true, he will not be so immune to your persuasive charms."
The innuendo, once again, was lost on Eorl.
The goblin flared his misshapen nostrils, trying to sense the presence of his master, decided that upon the throne was the most likely place and fixed his beady eyes determinedly on a vague spot that he thought might be eye-level. He bowed lowly.
"Maaaster," he croaked importantly, "there's a traveller from the East wantin' to speak to the Lord of this land."
"Oh, drat the East!" came a very disgruntled voice to his left. The goblin spun round towards the wall of the hall and saw the fluttering of a decaying tapestry. He bowed towards it.
"What does Sauron want now?" the disembodied voice grumbled petulantly, "You'd think that bringing about the downfall of Arnor at the expense of my own Kingdom would be enough to merit a few centuries rest."
The voice had been moving steadily around the large hall and the goblin tried to follow its general direction, as well as trying to look as sympathetic as his leathery, mauled face would allow him. He could not quite decide where to address his speech.
"Oh, no, Lord," he said, looking at the floor instead, "this here's a Man from the Brown Lands."
"Oh. Well, what does he want?" The voice had now come to a stop in front of the throne.
Triumphantly, as the voice did not seem to be about to move, the goblin stared at the throne.
"'E don't say, milord. Only that 'e could offer you 'is services; fightin' and such-like."
"I didn't know those Men could fight, they've become a rather scattered people of late," mumbled the voice, not in the least mollified. "Don't know how useful he thinks he's going to be to me."
The goblin's mouth widened in a horrible grin. He did not like the man since he had neatly dealt with two of the guards who had tried to stop him approaching the halls.
"Not very useful, Maaaster. 'E 'acked down two of your guards. Young upstart." The goblin turned from the throne, rubbing his grimy hands together in anticipation of giving this stranger a taste of his own sword.
"Young, eh?" the voice had suddenly perked up a bit, and its tone was becoming thoughtful "And out-doing two of Angmar's finest, too. Must be a strapping, young lad. Wonder if he..." The voice seemed to catch itself and became stern.
"Griksha, show the young man in, and mind your welcome! I suddenly feel that his services may be of immense use to me." There was a pause, as if allowing deep consideration of a weighty matter. "And bring me my cloak and crown before you let him in."
The voice was ascending the throne now and muttering to itself. "Better not disconcert the fellow too much; the living are so peculiar about such things..."
The heavy, oak doors swung slowly open. Shafts of sunlight sped in through every crack, flooding the hall with dappled light. A tall figure strode in confidently through the shattered splinters of light, his armour glinting and hair alight.
Eorl was as fair as he was brave, his comely mien set him apart among the …othéod. As he entered the hall now, his bright hair flowing about his face in a stately aura. At the zenith of his manhood now, his strength and masculinity was written in every line of finely sculpted muscle, in every assertive stride he took, in every battle-honed movement of his body. When the dashing Lord of the …othéod entered a room, women, and men, noticed.
"Well, what have we here?" the voice emanated from somewhere beneath a crown hovering in mid-air, "A young man seeking to enter the services of the King of Angmar?" The tone of the voice became slightly lecherous, something which escaped Eorl's notice completely.
Eorl had been startled to be faced with what looked like a talking crown atop black and gold royal robes on the throne. He had heard rumours, obviously, but being faced with something that seemed to him to be the blackest of black magic was not a little disconcerting. He felt distinctly spooked by it. But Eorl was a brave, determined man who took his word, no matter how rashly promised, as inviolate. He stepped up to the throne and fixed his deep blue gaze on a point just below the crown in the hope that the Witch King's eyes would be about there.
"My Lord," he bowed stiffly, hating himself for bowing to a servant of the dark. "I am a traveller from the Brown Lands. All that is left of my people have now been scattered by the evils of Gondor," he paused, and continued with some hesitation at the lie, "I would pledge my service to any enemy of that accursed city." He grimaced internally, "Especially one so powerful as you."
The Witch King smirked. It had been a long time since he had had flattery from any creature that was not an orc hoping not be beheaded. And at least an age since someone so handsome, so masculine, so delicious had seemed so earnest to please him. He marvelled, thankful for his invisibility to the man's eyes, at the figure before him. He had heard rumours, of course, of the virility of the Men of the Brown Lands, but being faced with one who seemed to him such a fine specimen was just a little thrilling. He felt positively energised. But the Witch King had learnt patience during his long existence and he wanted to take his time in admiring and enjoying the services of this particular man.
He nodded regally, taking full advantage of his invisibility to run a thorough, approving eye over Eorl's form. "I accept your services," he announced royally, his voice lowering, "I deem them very desirable indeed."
Eorl did not notice the lecherous tone. The Lord of the …othéod was indeed as fair as the Kings of old from whom he was sired; it was a pity he was not as worldly as them.
There were flowers again. Arranged in a beautiful, fragrant bouquet, propped up on the pillow of his bed in the soldiers' barracks. Simbelmynë it was called; the one fair thing in that Eru-forsaken, dark, dank land in which the Witch King now ruled.
Eorl looked nervously over his shoulder. The other Men were all swarthy Southrons; he did not want to imagine what they would make of these increasingly earnest gestures. Eorl wondered at them himself as he could not remember seeing any women in the eight months that he had forced himself to be in the service of the Witch King. Yet, without fail, each time he finished a patrol, and recently, each time before he was due to set out on one too, a fresh bunch of these small white flowers would appear for him, their delicacy looking so very out of place in the coarse, dark barrack.
He picked up the flowers carefully, not wanting to crush the delicate petals between his hands, grimy from five days of wild patrolling. He was wondering how to discreetly dispose of this latest bunch when he felt that, now familiar, cold shiver breeze around the room. He turned, still absentmindedly clutching the flowers and see the disconcerting sight of an open cloak and a crown wobbling in mid-air. This sight had now become quite familiar to him as it appeared frequently whenever he was practising swordplay, even when all the other soldiers had left and he wore only his leggings, sweating profusely, the Witch King did not leave. Eorl had to allow himself grudging admiration for such apparent dedication in a commander to his soldiers.
Eorl bowed stiffly; serving a servant of the enemy, no matter for what ulterior purpose was still an affront to his deeply ingrained sense of loyalty and honesty.
One sleeve of the cloak waved airily. "Oh, my dear Eorl, you know I can't stand all this formality." This was a lie; Eorl had seen the Witch King become exceedingly angry if his orcs and Southron soldiers did not follow strict, obsequious protocol. The crown bobbed closer towards him and Eorl had to force himself not to beat a hurried retreat before such an incongruous sight.
The sound of throat clearing emanated from the crown. "The patrol was very successful, was it not?" The Witch King sounded almost nervous.
"We found nothing," Eorl replied.
"Oh." The Witch King seemed at a loss, having never properly acquired the skill of small talk. "You must be tired," he continued hopefully.
"A little," admitted Eorl, although he did not add that it was really his spirit which was weary after spending months in the company of dark servants and his task not completed.
"Ah! Excellent!" The Witch King seemed to brighten considerably at this. "In that case, you really must accept this invitation to dine with me." Thankful for his invisibility, the Witch King leered at Eorl, "In my private chambers."
Eorl nearly dropped his flowers in shock. The Witch King never seemed to talk to the other soldiers, except those who helped command; he had certainly never invited any of them to dine. Eorl wondered at the meaning of the request, hoping that his motives had not been found out
The Witch King interpreted Eorl's lack of immediate response as reluctance. "It's a tradition," he said quickly, "I congratulate every soldier personally at the end of his..." he struggled for a bit, "...his seventeenth patrol. It's a tradition," he finished somewhat half-heartedly.
Eorl did not notice. He was trying to think what to do. On one hand, dinner alone with a wraith with as formidable a reputation as the Witch King of Angmar worried him, especially as he did know the wraith's full powers. But the men of the …othéod are not cowards and a thought had just occurred to Eorl; this may be an opportunity for him to extract information from the Witch King about the fate of the Palantir. And the sooner he did that, the sooner he could return to his new land.
Eorl smiled at this thought and made up his mind, "My Lord," he added a small bow for effect, "it would be an honour to dine with you alone this evening."
"Splendid!" the Witch King cried, relieved and delighted. Eorl had smiled when accepting the invitation and he had definitely emphasised 'alone'! The Witch King felt a tingle of anticipation; sending those little white flowers were obviously helping. "My chambers, at dusk, Eorl."
Eorl mumbled a reply; he was too busy formulating a cunning plan in his mind. Asking explicitly about the fate of the Palantir would not be subtle enough, he decided. He decided that he would have to try some other means; a tried and tested, age-old, honourable means. He decided that he would have to get the Witch King blind drunk. He prayed fervently that the lack of a visible body would not hinder this.
The Witch King left in high spirits, almost skipping in anticipation of what he was sure was going to be a very active night. The mumbling did worry him though; to him it showed a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He decided that he would have to encourage Eorl's obvious interest in him, just a little, if there was to be any action. He decided that the means to do this would have to be the infallible, traditional, if dishonourable, method. He decided that he would have to get Eorl blind drunk. He just hoped that copious amounts of alcohol would not hinder Eorl's performance in any way.
Upon entering the Witch King's personal, and rather cosy chambers, Eorl noticed flowers on the laid-out table. Small, white-petaled flowers that he had seen all too often lately.
'No,' he muttered to himself, 'Tis nothing but a coincidence; he has a right to like...erm...flowers.' And he tried fervently to push away the little pestering voice in his mind that cheekily insisted there was something more.
"Please, my dear Eorl," a silky voice emanated from no visible place that Eorl could see, "do sit down, and make yourself comfortable."
Eorl nodded curtly in the vague direction of the curtains, from where, he was sure, the sound had come from. He thus almost jumped out of his skin when he felt, but did not see, a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Ai!" he cried, and looked wildly around himself, to see a crown and a red cloak draped jauntily in mid-air. "My Lord, you...er...startled me."
"Ohhh, poor boy," murmured the voice, "you must be so tense. Here, what say you we sit down and enjoy Angmar's finest wine." There was a pause, and then an embarrassed cough, "I'm so sorry, I had quite forgotten you can't see me when I gesture." With that, Eorl felt a slight pressure on his lower back, directing him to the soft, plump cushions surrounding the low table.
As Eorl settled down, he gazed around the small but luxurious room; the lighting was softly dim, provided by several tall candles. The wooden table in front of them was laid with silver and white cloth, and set with a selection of food and wine. And those flowers. Eorl felt the cushions beside him depress and saw the wine almost magically fill two silver goblets in mid-air. He watched with fascination as one of them bobbed its way to him, and it was a while before he recovered himself and tentatively reached for it.
Cautiously, Eorl sipped the wine and was surprised to find it warming and rich. He felt a glow spread through his tired limbs and he started to relax. He did not see the Witch King eyeing him with glee.
"Those are very fair flowers," Eorl spoke casually.
"Oh quite," the edge of the cloak waved regally in the air, "I find they do bring a touch of humanity to the place; very beautiful, romantic flowers. Reminds me of when I was fully human." Not, he added under his breath whilst noticing the rather becoming, wine-induced blush spreading over Eorl's cheeks, that being invisible is altogether a bad thing.
"Oh," muttered Eorl, who did not know quite how to respond or what to think if it indeed was the Witch King sending him flowers. So, like all things he did not quite understand, he ignored it.
"So, erm," Eorl was at a slight loss for conversation. His diplomatic training had never quite prepared him for making small talk with an invisible Ringwraith. And, though he did not realise it, said Ringwraith was too busy ogling him to be in a fit state to make conversation. "So," he repeated ineffectually, "how is life as a wraith different to life as a man? Can you eat?" he asked, gesturing to the exquisite meal in front of them.
A low chuckle, which, to Eorl, sounded disturbingly close to his ear, caused him to edge slightly away. "But, of course. Us in the wraith world, even without bodies, still have...needs, still have desires." The voice became so low, it was almost a purr, and Eorl edged as far away from it as decency permitted. The voice did not seem to notice. "You see, dear boy, we need to, and can, eat, drink, enjoy all pleasures of the flesh..."
"I...I'm very...pleased for you," Eorl's voice came out as a squeak. He grasped the wine jug in front of him and thrust it in front of him, "More wine?"
"Oh. Yes, why not?" The silver goblet was held out unsteadily in mid-air; a sign of imminent drunkenness, Eorl hoped. He did not quite notice that he was getting a little merry himself. But the room seemed to him so bright, so cosy, so warm. He decided that his thick, heavy over-tunic really was making him too hot.
"My Lord, permit me to remove my over-tunic?" His words sounded to him a little slurred, and, though he could not quite identify it, he was sure what he had just said was a little strange.
"Why, of course you may!" The Witch King sounded positively delighted. "You may remove quite anything you wish; it is so warm in here, no?"
Eorl did not quite hear him, though even if he had, the tone would have been quite lost on him. He was too busy trying to pull the tunic over his head, despite there being buttons on the front. Thus he missed the Witch King's rapturous gaze as he debated with himself whether to watch Eorl struggle or help him. He decided to watch him struggle; being a wraith had rather graced him with a sadistic sense of humour, as well as ample opportunity to ogle.
Eorl plopped himself down again. "Do wraiths feel hot and cold?"
"Well," smirked the Witch King, "at the moment, I feel very hot indeed. Perhaps I shall remove this heavy cloak; it would certainly make things more...friendly, don't you think?"
Eorl shrugged. Then a thought occurred to him, "Erm...do wraiths only become visible when they clothe themselves?"
The crown bobbed up and down in mid-air, which Eorl took to mean 'yes'.
"So, erm, now that you have removed your cloak, you are...er...well...er..." Eorl couldn't quite bring himself to say it, as he was not sure how he would deal with the knowledge.
"Naked?"
"Well, yes."
There was a pause, during which the Witch King smirked hugely to himself and Eorl wriggled uncomfortably in his pile of cushions like a small child needing to go to the toilet. Finally, he was unable to bear it.
"Well, are you?" he peered anxiously at the space under the crown.
"Oh, absolutely!" came the cheerful reply.
"Oh." Despite the effect of the wine, Eorl was beginning to feel a tad awkward. Not to mention highly disturbed. He tried to express this but the wine was inducing a deliciously tingling feeling, right down to his toes. So instead of running for his life, and decency, as any non-inebriated man would, he merely sighed contentedly and beamed an unfocussed smile at the Witch King's crown.
This encouraged the Witch King no end, who chose to ignore the unfocussed squint, and moved closer to the unsuspecting Eorl. He leant in closer, then closer still, and closer...
"How old you?" came the sudden, mumbled question.
Hiding his immense disappointment, the Witch King fiddled with his crown, mumbling, "Oh, a little thing like age should never prevent a beautiful relationship, don't you think, dear boy?"
Eorl, though drunk, was of the line of Men. Very noble, masculine, homophobic men, who even through the haze of good wine can get twitchy about closeness with other men, be they living or wraith. He scooted quickly to the furthest pile of cushions.
"Er...My Lord, I have, er...enjoyed...serving you. In your army."
"Hm!" chuckled the Witch King throatily, "Like Elrond serving Gil-Galad, perhaps? Elves were always incredibly experimental," he mused, as an afterthought.
"Well, yes. Lord Elrond was..." Eorl paused mid-sentence, his alcohol soaked brain only just registering the last sentence. "I'm sorry, what did you just say about Elves?"
"Well," the Witch King drew out the word salaciously, "Rumour has it that they were very close." The Witch King topped this with a sordid wink, which, fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Eorl did not see.
"But of course they were close! Elrond was Gil-Galad's second-in-command at Dagorland!" Eorl also, still, did not understand what the Witch King meant.
"Heh, heh! And just how much did old Gil-Galad command Elrond, eh?" grunted the Witch King triumphantly." If only they weren't trying to destroy Barad-Dur, I do feel that we could have been great...friends." The Witch King had taken advantage of Eorl's confusion to slip next to him again and now nudged him in the ribs.
"Aii!" Eorl immediately whipped his head back and forth looking for the object of assault. "Oh, excuse me," he muttered, upon seeing nothing than a complacent looking crown hovering in mid-air.
"That's quite alright, dear boy. Talk of the First Age bores me to distraction too; what say you we turn to more...tempting...matters."
The Witch King was to be disappointed however in his valiant efforts, for Eorl, in a rabid moment of clear-headedness suddenly remembered his mission. "Nay! I find the First Age fascinating! Especially of the deadly battles between you and that..." Eorl paused, not from the intense discomfort that his simple soul always felt at having to denounce Gondor, but because that lovely, warm feeling from imbibing copious amounts of the Witch King's best had now spread merrily into his brain, and he was having difficulty thinking straight. "...that accursed...er...city of Gondor."
Eorl turned to look hazily at the space that should be the Witch King and tried to muster his features together in what he hoped would be a demanding frown. He heard a frustrated intake of breath. "Well, there's not much to tell," began the Witch King sulkily.
Eorl, sensing a losing interest, quickly added, "Well, ever since I was...erm...since...er...my family were killed by the...Gondorian barbarians, I have greatly...er...admired the man, well, wraith, who destroyed their mighty North Kingdom."
"Well, yes, it was rather a good show, wasn't it?" the Witch King really quite enjoyed this bit of flattery. "When the North Kingdom was split up, Arthedian was the final remaining nuisance; it simply refused to crumble despite..." The Witch King was also getting impatient. "Well, to cut a long story short, Angmar invaded Arthedian, they lost the battle and we took over that piddly little hill they call a watch tower, Amon Sul." The Witch King, now also feeling the stimulatory effects of Angmar's best, leaned in closer to Eorl, "But never mind that, eh? I didn't invite you to dinner to discuss First Age history..."
The mention of Amon Sul, however, had pierced through the alcoholic fog that was clouding Eorl's mind, and now he wanted to pursue the questions. He edged nimbly away, all the while trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
"So, erm, Amon Sul was quite useless to you? Quite useless?"
The Witch King, whose eager eyes were now fixed on the laces of Eorl's breeches, mumbled "Hmmm? Oh, yes, quite, quite useless." He edged a little closer still, unseen fingers slyly creeping towards the laces.
"Oh, right," mused Eorl, biting his lower lip in concentration, "And there was nothing in the tower, was there?" Deliberately keeping his gaze fixed on a spot on the table, and quite casually taking a sip of wine, he asked casually, "No...er...relic of Gondor?"
"What?" mumbled the Witch King distractedly. Then, seeing that the question posed was not going to simply disappear, he paused in his amorous advances and sighed, "Sorry, dear boy, what did you ask?"
"Oh, nothing!" Eorl said quickly, "That is, I merely was curious as to any...artefacts...I have an interest in...artefacts," he finished lamely.
Thankfully for his purposes, the Witch King was both too frustrated and too focussed on other matters to notice. "If only a little closer..." he muttered under his breath. "Oh, the Men had protected their precious objects well, nothing of any use was left in the tower." He glared from under the cloak of his invisibility at an unaware Eorl, "Nothing at all!" He attempted to resume his efforts and moved closer to Eorl.
Eorl shifted his legs, effectively though unwittingly making them an obstacle between the Witch King's eager fingers and his breech laces. The Witch King almost cursed out loud. Eorl scratched his head, "No...erm...weapons?"
"No," the Witch King almost hissed, "Nothing." He crept closer, trying to manoeuvre to those tempting laces from a different direction.
"Oh." Eorl shuffled a bit more. "Not..erm..armour, either?"
"No!" cried the Witch King in desperate frustration. His fingers had been so tantalisingly close.
"Indeed." Eorl decided the time was right for the real question; he had misled the Witch King enough. "And no Seeing Stones?"
"Eru curse you!" muttered the Witch King silently, hands jittery as any Man deprived of his addiction. "Damn these Brown Landers; why don't they just ask me if I love them?"
He saw there was nothing for it, so in a last attempt to quieten Eorl, the Witch King sternly placed his hands on Eorl's shoulders and said, "Eorl, the tower of Amon Sul was quite useless to us; there were no weapons, no armour, no Palantri!" For good measure, he added, "Last I heard of that blasted Stone was that it'd been lost in the North with the last King or Arthedian." The crown tilted to one side, as though warily, "Any more questions about the First Age?"
"No, thank you!" Eorl was ecstatic about finally finding out the fate of the Amon Sul Palantri. "So, the Palantri is lost, and Gondor has no worries," he muttered joyously under his breath.
In fact, he was so ecstatic and so joyous, he had not noticed the Witch King, equally ecstatic to find catch Eorl unawares and with laces at easy access, stealthily creeping close towards him. Until he looked down and saw, with dumb disbelief, the laces at the front of his breeches slowly, as if by some perverse magic, undoing themselves. Until he felt the light, unwelcome brush something against the front of his breeches. Until he realised the shadow near on his leg was cast by a crown hovering very close to his lap...
The reaction was immediate.
"Aiiiiii!" No Man has ever jumped quite so high in so short a space of time since. But then, no Man has had his breeches collapse due to untied laces, either.
Whilst scrabbling frantically to pull the breeches up, and meeting some amount of resistance, Eorl directed his shock and anger at a wobbling crown.
"What in Eru's name are you trying to do!"
"Trying to remove your breeches for you," came the pragmatic reply.
"Good Eru!" Eorl still did not quite understand. "Why?"
"Because it helps!"
"Helps what?"
"Well...you...me...the mood..."
Eorl looked blank, though not a little disturbed.
"Oh, surely I don't have to explain to you!"
Eorl stared dumbfounded as a slow, horrid realisation crept into his consciousness. The dinner, the flowers, the wine. But, surely not...that would mean that the Witch King of Angmar, the most feared wraith of them all wanted to...
"You want to sleep with me!" Eorl shouted accusingly at a crown the seemed to gleam mockingly at him in the dying candlelight.
"Well, yes, dear boy." Came the ironic reply, "that was rather what I was hoping."
"But...but...why?"
The Witch King rolled his eyes in disbelief; he had heard rumours of the low intelligence of the Brown Land Men, but this beggared belief.
"Well..." he spoke slowly as though addressing a particularly dense child. "You're a good-looking man, I was a rather handsome Man when I was alive, and by the way, I am the better looking wraith, so, whyever not?"
Eorl opened and shut his mouth several times in choking shock. He had heard rumours of the questionable nature of the wraiths, but this was a shock to the system, to say the least.
"But I don't want to sleep with you!"
"Oh," the Witch King sounded almost hurt. After a short pause, there came a petulant, "Why not?"
"Because I don't sleep with Men!"
"Ah!" came the slyly gleeful reply, "I'm not a Man!"
"But you used to be! You used to...probably still do...have...have...what I have!"
"Why, yes," chuckled the Witch King salaciously and moving closer to Eorl once more, "I do indeed..."
"Ai! No!" Eorl, finally remembering that he had feet, ran to the door. "Good Eru, you wraiths disgust me...particularly you!"
"But...but..." stammered the Witch King, not used to being rejected quite so violently, "Don't you want me?"
Eorl wrenched the door open forcefully, glad of the end of his mission, glad to feel the biting night air, signalling freedom. He turned round, not caring any longer, now that he was to go, "I am Eorl, King of the Eothed of Rohan; not your servant to command any longer, nor your whore. Angmar is a foul place, and the foulest thing in it is you!"
With that he ran out of the room, slamming the heavy doors behind him with a force so vehement that he knocked the vase of Simbelmyne off the table.
Thus he did not see the glass fall, and shatter, tossing the delicate flowers in the midst of its shattered pieces, each reflecting a thousand others given in vain.
Thus he did not see the Witch King, who watched the beloved flowers fall, no longer being a way to woo but seeing instead in them the treachery of Men. And hurt turning to wrath in his eyes.
"Eorl of the …othéod, you dare to insult the Witch King of Angmar, the mightiest of all wraiths on this pitiable Middle Earth. And you and your ancestors shall pay dearly for your rash betrayal!" The Witch King walked slowly towards the shattered shards of green and white, and picked a single flower up. Deliberately, he turned it between his fingers. "These fair flowers which I sent for you, never will they bring your Rohan joy, for they will grow only the tombs of your descendants. When the fall in battle and are buried, in clouds of white will these flowers cover your tombs, to serve you a bitter reminder of your folly this night!"
Lightly, he let the flower go, and it drooped heavily to the ground, and lay there, quite still.
And thus, the curse was laid.
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2552 members. There have been 2904 reviews written about our 3820 stories consisting of 10734 chapters and 29400445 words. A special welcome to our newest member, Rosamundeb.Categories
Skin Change
Donate
Help us keep one of the oldest running LotR archives available to all. Even the smallest donation helps!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
The Library, elsewhere
Other projects
Simbelmyne by Esteldil
Story notes: A wee bit of historical background: Eorl is the first King of Rohan, the land given to him and his people (the Eotheod) when they rode to the aid of Gondor, summoned by Cirion, the steward of Gondor at that time. Hallas is Cirion's son. At this time, the North Kingdom had already been scattered and Angmar had already swept through that country, destroying Amon Sul (Weathertop), hence the unknown fate of the Palantir held there. This may not be *serious* slash, but it has been tightly researched and I have thus come to the conclusion that the dates and events do fit. If you disagree, I hope you enjoy the comedy anyway.
Feedback: *looks pleading* yes!
