Live Journal Feed
Can stand alone, or read as following the events in Cameos: Barrel Riding.For Lia and Deandra on their belated birthdays.
Many thanks to Lady Bluejay for beta and nautical prowess! Any mistakes are my own.
Day Trip:
Belfalas
A damp, unhealthy green odor infused the air. Éomer could not tell if it came from the water, the land, or the sodden cloth and crates strewn about the quay of this small village that strung along the edge of the sands to the north of Dol Amroth. The pitching, wailing cry of seabirds broke against his ears, punctuated now and again by shouts and calls of villagers or fishermen returning from their morning’s run.
Below where he stood safely on the dock, Lothíriel, Erchirion and some men of the Prince’s household moved between the thwarts of a largish boat preparing for their departure. He had been excluded so far – in word, because he came as a guest, but in truth, because he was rather useless.
So, he watched and observed. Mostly, he watched Lothíriel who looked like an urchin dressed in Amrothos’ old, grubby clothes. She kept pausing in her work to tuck loose, curling strands of hair behind her ears, but the wet breeze quickly displaced them again.
Sometimes he observed the sea and his impeding doom. Beyond the vessel lay the cove; beyond the cove lay the open sea; and beyond that, their destination: Carag Membechír … Membechír Carag…he couldn’t remember, since the foreign words did not mean anything to him. Anyway, it was supposed to be an island. A tiny triangle, it nearly blended in with the unhappy grey clouds in the distance.
Éomer glowered at the frail wooden vessel and the oars resting stiffly over its sides. He pictured this – water trough – which Lothíriel deemed a boat splintering against the fractured outcropping of silver rock if those clouds carried even a hint of a gale with them. The water within the little harbor seemed calm enough, rippling in a sleepy rhythm against the stones and little boats, but just beyond the land’s end – in the Bay of Belfalas – the waves tumbled roughly over one another, or at least he thought so. His companions did not notice.
Éomer leaned down to tap Lothíriel on the shoulder. “Are you certain that tooth of rock is quite safe?” he asked. For creatures besides birds?
Lothíriel looked up from her task, mangling a rope or something, he couldn’t tell. “Éomer,” she sighed. “Help me up, will you?” Éomer took her hand as she climbed onto the quay. “I’ve told you, people lived on that tooth of rock once. It’s safe enough for a day trip.”
She squeezed his hand in a maternal sort of way which both offended and soothed him before turning back to her work.
“Lived on it?” Éomer frowned. “I don’t see how. There isn’t any vegetation…just a bunch of gulls hopping around. It’s unnatural,” he muttered.
“Gulls, petrels, and razorbills, and other species as well. You can see down the cliff into their nests, though most of them build those on the smaller island to the south. I love watching them when their young have hatched.” She then lifted an eyebrow in a challenge. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“No,” Éomer grumbled quietly so the others would not hear, “just concerned about your judgment, that’s all. We could enjoy watching the swallows living safely under the eaves of your mother’s garden house just as well.”
“Carag is much more interesting. Trust me.” Lothíriel grinned diabolically, which caused the opposite effect. He had used that trump card on her often enough to be wary. “And there’s nothing wrong with being afraid of something you don’t know.”
He was about to reiterate that he, Ring War champion, Survivor of Helm’s Deep, King of the Horse Lords, and Friend of Valiant Men, was not afraid so much as cautious and imbued with a strong will to live, when Erchirion stepped over a bench and hopped up on the dock. “Éomer, why the long face?”
“He’s nervous,” Lothíriel pointed out with cheeky relish.
Éomer grimaced and stifled the childish impulse to stick his tongue out at Lothíriel, whom he decided was a very unchivalrous princess, indeed.
“No, I’m not,” he grated out. “It’s just, well, where do you even land…make berth…er…dock on that island? The rock looks completely sheer to me.”
Erchirion cringed at his terminology. “A small outcropping of rock serves as a landing on the southern face of the island. A narrow ledge circles back east and then several stairways lead up to a shelf where the colony once existed. Grass grows farther up on the island, but you can’t see very well from here,” Erchirion placated. “The water’s a little choppier than I’d like, but hardly anyone ever drowns on the way, anymore.”
“ANYMORE?” Eomer now felt very cautious, indeed.
Lothíriel shot Erchirion a dark look. “Back when they used skin currachs, of course sailing to Carag was dangerous, but boats are much sturdier now. We’ll be fine.”
An unpleasant thought crossed Éomer’s mind. “Lothíriel, if this has anything to do with barrel riding, I swear—”
Lothíriel placed her hand on his chest. “Get in the boat, love.”
She had never used that tone of voice before but it made Éomer’s muscles act without his permission, and he stepped off the dock and into the boat before his mental faculties could regroup.
Lothíriel climbed in after him and double checked the canvas covering their picnic lunch. With nothing better to do, Éomer sat on a thwart.
A moment later a cold sensation sent him jumping to his feet.
“Lothíriel, this seat is wet!” He turned to around to glare his accusation at her.
“They always are.” She grinned. “You can’t always help the water coming in, you know.”
Éomer scowled, knowing that she was laughing at him on the inside. He pulled the soaked fabric of his breeches away from his backside and sat down again. “Isn’t water in a boat a bad thing?” he grumbled, pointing at the saltwater around his boots.
“Oh, Éomer.” Lothíriel laughed.
While one of the men kept the boat steady against the quay Erchirion loosed the ropes from their cleats and jumped in. “Shall we go?”
Lothíriel sat down on the bench while Erchirion joined the rowers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to try your hand at rowing, Éomer?”
“Erchirion, he’s a guest,” Lothíriel scolded. “Besides, I want someone to talk to. You always fall asleep unless you’re rowing.”
“Tch. All right, all right,” Erchirion replied, casting a regretful look at Éomer’s biceps. “Maybe on the way back?”
Once cast off from the dock, each stroke of the oars jolted them a little before they glided forward and then stroked again. In less than a few minutes Éomer could no longer feel the jerk, though, as they fell into a steady rhythm across the calm harbor.
So far so good, he thought. Slowly, the rocky arms of the cove slid behind them and he could feel the wind pick up and blow his hair every which way.
“Not so bad?” Lothíriel asked.
“Not yet,” he replied. Then he pointed ahead of them to the bigger waves.
“You have nothing to worry about,” she said with complacent self-assurance.
“Besides falling in and drowning or getting broken to splinters against some pokey little island while on holiday in a foreign country?”
Lothíriel laughed. “We won’t get you killed.”
“Because you are fond of me.”
“Because nobody wants to pay weregild to Rohan,” she teased, and when Éomer looked mildly hurt, she added with a laugh, “and, yes, because I am very fond of you.”
“Thought so.”
“And Faramir would make a terrible consort.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It would go to his head, for certain. And he would never settle for a skinny circlet for a crown.” Lothíriel used her hands to sculpt a large, garish crown out of the air.
“You know Faramir would do no such thing,” Éomer said, laughing for real.
“I know, but I’m trying to distract you.” She replied. “Is it working?”
“Yes, a little,” he said. “Although, I think rowing would have distracted me a bit more.”
Lothíriel scowled. “Ugh. Erchirion always tries to bugger out of rowing. We read a story once where a shipwrecked family used a sea turtle to pull their makeshift raft to shore – and you better believe that Erchirion actually tried it once.”
“Did it work?” Éomer asked, trying to ignore the haze tugging at the periphery of his vision as the boat lurched forward.
“Of course not,” she said. “And the poor thing almost took his fingers off.”
“It sounded like a good idea at the time,” Erchirion cried over his back.
They carried on like this, talking about nonsense things from their childhood, ignoring the sea for Éomer’s sake. Once or twice he tried commenting on their progress or the boat, but he could tell by the smirk on her lips that he had referred to things by the wrong names and gave up.
By the time they left the shelter of the cove, the haze drifted backward from his eyes into his head and he found it difficult to truly focus on Lothíriel, the boat, or Carag.
“Éomer, are you all right?” Lothíriel asked when he had gone silent.
“Yes, fine. My head feels a little queer, that’s all.” He breathed deeply of the cool, wet air that no longer smelled of rotting sea life.
“Oh,” was all she said, but the skin between her brows puckered as though a thought had just occurred to her for the first time.
Eventually, she said, “Éomer, you might want to keep your eyes on the horizon.”
“Why?”
“It helps.”
“Does it? With what?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been seasick, have you?”
“Lothíriel, I’ve never been to sea.”
“Right.” She breathed. “I’m an idiot.”
“Lothíriel, you’re not an idiot. It’s only a headache. I’m fine, really.”
“Yes, Lothíriel. You’re brilliant, actually. This is the best family initiation ever. Nobody would ever suspect, not even father.” Erchirion puffed, while rowing.
“Oh, be quiet, Erchirion. This isn’t initiation.”
“Revenge? For making you ride a horse, then.”
“No!” she cried. “Well – not completely - not the only reason.”
Éomer tried to look sardonic, but his face would not cooperate.
“I mean, I really do like going to Carag. But, I knew you’d be nervous about going to sea for the first time, much like the way I felt when you bullied me into riding, but it never occurred to me that you’ve get sick. I’ve never been seasick in my life. I just didn’t think about it as a possibility.”
“I feel fine!” Éomer exclaimed. But the instant he said it he knew that it was not entirely true. The boat hit its first true waves and the wind whipped spray into his face. The initial discordant pull of the oars and the push of the waves as the rowers adjusted their tempo to the rougher water caused the haze in his head to seep down in to a chilly pool in his stomach. The haze bloomed into a proper headache, and the pool in his stomach rippled and gurgled in a counter-tempo to the waves and the rowers that made him feel dizzy.
The island looked so close; surely it should not take hours to row there. He swore under his breath and shut his eyes as the waves, like irritable children, knocked the boat from side to side. He had tried focusing on the sky, but his stomach still squelched in opposition to the rocking of the boat and it made his head spin even more.
“Éomer, keep your eyes on the horizon; it helps,” he heard Lothíriel say. The sea did not affect her one bit. It pleased him, of course, that she was not sick, but he also half-hoped that an avenging seagull would land on her head.
“I would, but it keeps sinking beneath the bow,” he mumbled from where he slouched against the bulwark. His chin curled into his neck and talking made his throat contract.
“Eyes open, or I can guarantee it’ll be worse.”
Green – he felt green all over – how he hated that color. Remembering the green smell of the docks sent a wave of nausea over him. He plotted to have all the flags taken down from the palisade around Edoras and dyed a different color. The water in Rohan never treated him like this, he thought bitterly as the boat dipped back and forth sideways. Cold water and cold wind were no match for the cold sweat that broke over his skin. His temples pounded with blood that did not seem to know where to go in this tumbling, aquatic abyss.
“Lothíriel, promise me you won’t let me fall in,” he groaned as he leaned over the side and emptied his stomach. He felt her tiny hand clutch the back of his tunic as the wobbly craft dipped on that side and he came up with a soaked head.
He glared at her before he felt himself turn green again.
“I didn’t let you fall,” she said innocently. “Look. We’re almost there.”
…
