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The Tournament begins~ I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter!

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-6-

The morning of the first day of the tournament, Mildred woke before dawn. She was lying in her bed, wondering what change the coming days would bring.

Despite not having managed to sneak a peek at Éomer when he was on the training grounds, she trusted her father's judgment.

Lord Baldwig would not have risked the King's wrath and appointed Éomer to the tournament if he hadn't thought her fiancée ready.

Sighing, Mildred prepared herself for getting vertical.

Her hearth had gone out in the night, so her room was almost unbearably cold.

Rushing through her washing, Mildred was finished dressing before her maid knocked on her door.

Good luck, Éomer. I'm counting on you.

As soon as she left her room, Mildred was inundated by tasks and requests.

A few hours later, breakfast was served in the Great Hall, over which her mother managed to preside, thankfully.

Already, there was the loud din of many voices, even if no one was speaking louder than they should. And the smell of horse lingered above everything, although that was to be expected from the horse-masters of the Mark.

Mildred took her customary seat by her father's side, letting her eyes wander over the many apprentices seated on a table of honor just below the head table.

Baldwine smiled at her and nudged Éomer, who was seated next to him and calmly eating a piece of ham with bread.

Upon being nudged, he lifted his head, meeting her eyes head on.

He managed to hide his nerves very well, only the minimal clenching of his jaw gave him away.

Mildred tried to give him what encouragement she could with her gaze alone, before she remembered that she'd given him a favor. Inwardly scolding herself, she demonstratively pushed her long braid back over her shoulder.

Éomer's eyes widened before a small smile appeared on his face.

Then Baldwine leaned over to him, asking something or teasing her betrothed.

"Do I want to know what this is about, Daughter?" Lord Baldwig muttered to her softly.

Mildred batted her eyelashes at him, all innocence. "What are you speaking of, my Lord?"

"Oh, merely the fascinating fact that young Éomer decided to change his customary hair style overnight. You would not possibly know anything about that?"

"Why would I know anything about how my betrothed decides to wear his hair for the tournament?"

The amusement mixed with slight alarm. "Mildred, be cautious. I hope you are not forcing my hand?"

She swallowed her irritation and indignation the best she could and instead of yelling, she settled onto a frown.

"Father, I know that until he has formally completed his studies and gained the rank of a Rider, until both of his wrist are blessed, he is legally prohibited from inheriting his father's estate. We could not afford to pledge ourselves to each other so completely without some sort of potential income."

Lord Baldwig breathed a sigh of relief. "I suspect that my words hurt your pride, but please know that I am in no hurry to usher you out of the door."

Mildred rolled her shoulders discreetly. "Let us talk about weddings once this madness has passed."

Lord Baldwig nodded, squeezing her hand under the table.

Théoden King opened the tournament formally, wishing all the participants luck and success.

The first task consisted of a race, for which the squires were separated into groups of four to six. Each group was allowed to choose their own leader, who they had to follow for the next few days as they completed several other group activities.

Mildred hoped Éomer's group had the good sense Béma gave them to see that he was a born leader and clearly superior to every other potential candidate.

After a few minutes of heated debate, Éomer received the braided horsehair plume, which he attached to his helmet with practiced ease.

A heartbeat later, he swung himself on Firefoot's back, giving the older squires in his group the signal to leave.

In the meantime, Baldwine seemed to have also been elected as a leader, as evidenced by the braided, brownish horsetail now attached to his own helmet. He was already riding off, the decision within his group had evidently been made with less strife.

"They are to collect three carved pieces, which I had Elfmund hide over the last few days. He does not have any son competing in the tournament this year, so he was chosen as the least biased," Lord Baldwig explained softly.

Mildred nodded, following Éomer with her eyes until she couldn't see him any longer.

She hoped nothing unexpected happened to him while they were off, roaming the countryside.

Sentinels stationed all around the Hall kept watch for any distress signals and returning riders.

This first phase of the tournament was meant more to allow the nobles in the audience to mingle with each other, while their sons and squires were completing tasks out of their sight.

Mildred kept herself busy, still doing most of the work for her ailing mother.

Apparently, according to the healer, Lady Milburga had suffered an infection of some sort, which meant, combined with the blood loss, that her body required more time to regenerate.

Perhaps, this would indeed be her last child.

Baldwyn was enchanted by their little sister, who had inherited a mixture of Mildred's red and the rest of the family's blond hair. She did not suffer from the same 'affliction' of freckles, so she promised to be a great beauty - according to the more generous of the visiting noblewomen.

Most of which sent pitying looks at Mildred when they thought she wasn't watching or whispered about her behind her back.

Unfortunately for the petty ones among them, the redhead had long made her peace with the fact that 'her face was liberally sprinkled with freckles', to quote one of the ladies, or that she wasn't blond like almost the entire rest of the population.

The only physical trait they seemed to approve of was the color of her eyes - a deep blue, which some of them seemed to envy.

Regardless, they were very obviously all wondering what had drawn Lord Éomer to her, enough to fall for her. You know, since she wasn't a great beauty.

Mildred tried to ignore most of those conversations if she could help it. Despite everything she'd managed to overcome, some things from Before still lingered.

This was helped by both Baldwyn and Éowyn, who had been allowed to accompany her brother to the tournament.

The two girls followed her around like ducklings behind their mother, trying to help where they could and attempting to cheer her up.

Mildred wasn't quite sure why they thought she needed cheering up, but it was infinitely less troublesome to have them behave in an effort to lighten her load than to plot some sort of mischief together.

Éomer returned with his group as one of the first three, now unquestionably their leader.

None of them had suffered any injuries, from accidents or surprise attacks by Orcs or other Fell creatures, and not one of their group still seemed unhappy to follow his lead.

Éowyn, yet unencumbered by the weight of maidenly manners, ran and welcomed her brother home with a hug.

Mildred smiled at Éomer, satisfied with the state of his health.

His cleanliness could be approved upon, although there were worse things than the not-so-rosy smell of horse and honestly earned sweat.

Baldwine and his minions rode in just as Éomer led Firefoot into the stable. He received the same welcome as his future brother, only from an infinitely shyer sister who settled on curtsying to him.

He laughed and kissed Baldwyn's forehead, thanking her for the flower she spontaneously gifted him.

"It is good to see you hale and whole," Mildred said, smiling at her brother.

"It is good to be back, for I have much missed my most beautiful sisters' company."

Mildred rolled her eyes at his retort, sending him off to report and stable his horse.

Once all the groups had returned and finished their reports to Théoden King and their respective masters, they were allowed half a day of rest.

The following morning, all of the nobles gathered outside once more. To witness the first of the individual competitions.

Mildred hurried to get lunch on the way before joining the others, hoping she wouldn't miss anything.

Éomer would shine in any discipline that required him to ride Firefoot, but she wasn't sure how good, or realistic, his chances were in the other tasks, such as the spars, which were only fought on foot.

There was mounted archery of course, although that was only included because of tradition. Nobody still used bow and arrow unless to hunt on foot and during one of the rare sieges. Or to defend their home against Orcs or Dunlendings, but you were usually not sitting on a horse in most of these situations.

Spear throwing contests, followed by spear fighting.

If she remembered right, there was also supposed to be a sort of slalom course where the riders had to 'kill' as many straw dummies as possible.

Mildred sighed, running back to her room through the servant's passages. She didn't have much time left to get changed.

Her maid already waited for her with one of the finer dresses she owned, in a rich green embroidered with copper.

It was more than a bit ostentatious, to be honest, but anything less would be considered an insult to the Rider hopefuls.

While her maid twisted and braided her hair to match the elegance of her dress, Mildred tried to recall any other tasks.

There was something about group fights and of course, what would a Rider tournament be without sword duels?

"My Lady?"

"Yes?"

"May I finish with your headdress?"

"Please, do."

Freda muttered an affirmation and gently unwrapped the ancient circlet.

The oldest daughter of the House was only allowed to wear it until she married and joined another House. Then it was to be kept for the next generation.

The light from the window reflected on the gold, sending sparkles all over the walls.

Mildred hardly dared to breathe as Freda placed the fragile headdress in her hair.

"It is done, my Lady. Here is the fine cloak."

"Thank you for your help, Freda," Mildred replied, already itching to run back the way she came.

Best not to be late!

Unfortunately, running was out of the question in the heavy wool and silk dress.

Baldwyn and Éowyn caught up to Mildred, both dressed in their finest and with similar hair styles.

Apparently, they'd become fast friends, despite their differences in character and disposition.

"Mildred! Hurry, or you shall be late for Lord Éomer's first attempt at the wand!" Baldwyn whispered, afraid someone might overhear.

"I know! But I dare not try running or else Hilda will lock me up in my chambers without dinner!"

"It would certainly not be the first time if she did," Lord Baldwig commented drily, offering his arm to escort his oldest daughter. "Come now. You should be right on time."

They power-walked through the Hall's corridors and out, where the grassy plains slowed the ladies slightly.

Théoden King was seated on Lord Baldwig's other side, smiling at Mildred in greeting.

She curtsied, as was protocol, and then allowed her father to seat her.

"Lord Fastwine, may I present - my daughter Mildred. Mildred, this is Lord Fastwine Fastredsson, Third Marshall of the Mark."

Mildred thought the man next to her had seen better days. What hair he had left was nearly white and wrinkles had dug deep grooves into his face.

As he opened his mouth to reply to the formal introduction, she counted maybe ten remaining teeth.

Thankfully, the King cut the entire polite song and dance short by standing.

All the contestants had lined up in front of the audience, helmets under their arms.

The younger squires were holding the reigns of their horses a few hundred meters away from them.

Mildred smiled when she saw that Éomer was still wearing her favor with pride.

"Béma give you strength, speed, and blessings for the next tasks. Those who returned first from the first task may start last. Begin!"

With that, the participants marched off the field, in a surprisingly orderly fashion, and joined their horses.

The younger squire apprentices handed each of the riders they were aiding their bow and quiver.

Baldwine mounted his horse next to Éomer and Firefoot, the two males nodding at each other.

Lord Elfmund called the names of those whose turn it was, thus managing to keep everything somewhat controlled.

To be honest, Mildred wasn't overly interested in the riders who attempted to shoot first.

It was too repetitive and they weren't Éomer or related to her.

Besides, very few shots actually managed to hit the thin wooden rod they were aiming at.

Eventually, what felt like hours later, but was probably only thirty minutes or so, Baldwine was up.

He approached the starting point at a comfortable walk, his horse seeming unperturbed by the noise of a few hundred spectators.

Subtly, Mildred tensed, sending a quick prayer to Béma for her brother.

Lord Elfmund nodded to him to signal the start.

Baldwine pushed his horse into gallop, shooting arrow after arrow at the 'wand'.

A few moments later, everything was over.

Mildred sighed, allowing the tension to seep out of her.

"Not a bad start - he managed to hit five times out of eight," Lord Baldwig told her quietly.

"Then the last few years of his education weren't quite as wasted as it appeared," Mildred whispered back, earning herself a laugh from her father.

Baldwine's minions followed and their results were mixed. One had missed every time, although he bore the disappointment stoically.

Then, Lord Elfmund called out Éomer's name.

Mildred wanted to bite her hand or hold on to her seat, but she reminded herself that the King was sitting only on the other side of her father, so she restrained herself to biting her lip. Her eyes were glued on Éomer however.

Firefoot easily walked up to Lord Elfmund, looking as eager as Éomer surely felt.

As soon as the Rider had given the signal, Firefoot exploded into movement, gaining speed with every step.

Éomer fluidly drew his bow, loaded, shot, and reloaded the entire length of the short strip.

One, that's two, three, four, five, and that one is six!

Mildred couldn't help the proud grin as she heard her estimate confirmed.

"That is a brilliant start," Lord Fastmine complimented her father.

After all, he had trained the relatively young man for five years.

"'Tis indeed," Théoden King agreed, sounding utterly pleased.

Everyone avoided the Oliphant by looking everywhere but at her.

Mildred found she quite liked this arrangement.

The next task consisted of trying to hit a straw puppet in a way that would mortally wound anyone else. Even Orcs. From the back of your warhorse. While it was galloping at full speed. Through a make-shift maze.

Mildred wasn't sure, but she would have not been surprised to learn a man had invented this.

Éomer and Baldwine were under the last ten to start, due to their good scores in the second competition.

Again, she mostly watched them interact with their horses or each other, than to pay any attention to the other contestants.

The odd murmur of the audience drew her attention, because that either meant someone had done very well or the exact opposite.

One or two of the participants had to be carried off the field on stretchers.

According to Lord Fastwine, who loved to comment everything to her even though Mildred hardly paid him any mind, that was due to their recklessness and cockiness. To paraphrase.

Apparently, one had to keep in mind the horse's movements, one's own balance, the weight of the sword in one's hand, and already plan ahead for the next two targets.

Mildred wouldn't have guessed.

After half an eternity, Lord Elfmund called Éomer forward.

Firefoot almost bounced on his way to the starting point, although that might have just been Mildred's interpretation.

Éomer looked as stoic as ever, from what could be seen under his helmet and over the distance.

The helpers gave the signal that all was ready, so Lord Elfmund allowed Firefoot to ride.

Éomer drew the sword her father had given him to train with, the steel glinting in the light.

Firefoot took a sharp left, a resounding clank! ringing out over the area as blade hit the wooden target on the dummy.

Then a sharp right.

Éomer swung the sword back, taking off the head of the straw puppet.

Left again. Clank!

Right. A straw arm fell off.

And right ahead to the last one.

Clank!

Éomer sheathed his sword, allowing Firefoot to slowly decrease his speed from gallop to trot to walk.

"Lad is getting extra points for the head and arm," Lord Fastwine muttered to himself, sounding a bit bloodthirsty. Almost like he was admiring the much younger male.

Mildred beamed at Éomer.

He was even more awesome than usual!

Meanwhile, Théoden King and Lord Baldwig exchanged a meaningful look.

She only noticed because her father sighed gustily and reached for her hand.

That evening, a large feast was held to honor the beginning of the first part of the audience-friendly tournament.

Somehow, Mildred managed to find the time to speak to her brother, despite her promise to keep a close eye on her sister and Éowyn.

Baldwine readily made some space for her next to him, so she sat between him and Éomer.

Ale was flowing freely, even for the foolish Rider wannabes who would dearly regret drinking too much in the morning.

Or so Mildred suspected.

"Are you happy with your performance in the second task, Baldwine?" She asked, sneaking her hand close to Éomer.

Who thankfully caught the hint and entwined his fingers with hers.

"Yes, I am quite content. Of course, neither my horse nor I are as quick as your betrothed and his beast of a charger. But perhaps we have less to win - or lose. Although if I knew a beautiful young lady was watching my every move, then perhaps I would grow wings as well."

Baldwine winked at Mildred, lifting his cup to toast Éomer.

She smiled at the compliment, but before anyone could say anything, a drunken voice did it for them.

"Ha! Beauty? Her? She's more spotted than my horse, with the beauty to match," an older apprentice said, loud enough all three of them could hear. "I've heard tell that red-haired wenches are good for only one thing. I bet the princeling wants to claim that fire before she burns someone else. Although I wouldn't mind bending her over the table right now and -"

There was a dull thud as someone with a smidgen of good sense slapped a hand over the drunkard's loud mouth.

Éomer and Baldwine both had stood, pushing the bench back, despite the many others sitting on it.

They looked murderous.

Mildred tried to keep her cheeks from burning with anger and humiliation, willing herself to keep in the tears as well.

If she'd been alone with the loudmouthed bastard, she would have either torn him a new ass hole, because obviously the stick up his butt was blocking the original one, or she would have punched his lights out.

Those words were nothing she hadn't heard before, in one form or another, but they'd never been spoken to her face with as little decorum as this apprentice seemed to have managed to hold onto.

To insult her like this, eating the feast she had helped to prepare, paid by her father's coin, while sleeping under her father's roof...

Insulting her like this when Baldwine and Éomer could hear...

That was a lance straight to her gut.

Praying to Béma that her voice didn't tremble, with anger she told herself, Mildred grabbed her brother and Éomer's arms: "Stop. He is a guest in my father's Hall and must be treated with all the courtesy due to that position. If he chooses to show none in return, then that is on his head and his honor. Do not let his words goad you into undoing your good standing. Too much is at stake for that."

She shot Éomer a narrow-eyed look. Mildred had been on the receiving end of his temper before, when their fights dissolved into shouting matches others did everything to run away from.

His teeth were grinding audibly, but Éomer nodded once to show he understood.

"Now, please, excuse me. My sister seems to require some aid."

Without a backward glance, she left the table. Forcing herself to walk slowly and to keep up her stoic mask, Mildred headed towards the closest entrance.

She needed to be away from this crowd. Urgently.

Once the din of the feast had faded away enough she could hear her own thoughts again, Mildred considered it safe enough to let go.

Tears dripped down her face, almost silently. She pressed her hands to her eyes, angry with herself for showing such weakness. For showing that those hurtful words had found their mark.

She was better than that, stronger than that, now.

As a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, Mildred couldn't help the quickly cut-off shriek.

"I am sorry for startling you, my heart," a contrite Éomer whispered.

Mildred turned around, pressing her face into his tunic. Trying to melt into one new person, instead of remaining two.

Sobs shook her occasionally, although barely any sound escaped.

Éomer tried to soothe her the best he knew how, by letting her cry herself out and stroking her gently while she was doing so in his embrace.

When Mildred eventually calmed down, Éomer pressed a light kiss to her forehead and wiped away the last tears.

"Sorry you had to see that," she muttered hoarsely, feeling the shame burn brightly on her cheeks.

Éomer shook his head, rubbing his thumb gently over the wet skin on her face. "You need not apologize for allowing me the honor of comforting you, Mildred. A particularly learned Shieldmaiden once told me that tears are cleansing our minds and bodies, to make room for more strength."

Mildred's mouth ticked up a bit in a smile. "That must have been a wise Shieldmaiden then. Do I know her?"

His eyes glowed warmly at her in the dimly lit corridor. "I believe you do."

"Hm, can you describe her to me?"

"She has fascinating hair the color of glowing embers, deep blue eyes of the sky in the summer before true night falls, and she is the bravest of all the people I know."

Mildred's smile grew a bit with every word that came out of his mouth. "It sounds like you have quite the high opinion of this woman."

Éomer embraced her lightly, carefully. "I love her. She is dearest to my heart."

"Dearer than your own sister?" Mildred couldn't help but ask in her astonishment.

He shook his head. "My sister and my love are dearest to my heart in equal measure, albeit in different ways."

"Good. For I would have had to hit you and ruin the moment if you'd replied otherwise."

Éomer chuckled. "That is one of the reasons I fell for you. You do not fear to threaten Théoden King's sister-son with bodily harm on the eve of another day of his own Rider tournament."

Mildred pursed her lips in an attempt to hide how amused she was. "Well, I am certain Théoden King would understand the reasoning behind my actions were he to believe they are true." She leaned closer into his warmth and added conspiratorially: "I fear he is under the impression that I am a perfect lady."

That admission earned her a quiet laugh. "Oh dear," Éomer said, purposely keeping his voice down, "best not to enlighten him to your true ways then."

Pretending to be offended, Mildred opened her mouth to scold him, but he took the opportunity to press his lips quickly against hers.

Mildred sighed and gave up the last of her protective walls. "I truly am sorry about losing my composure so spectacularly. Lady Cwendar taught me better."

That seemed to alarm Éomer, who coaxed her head into a position which allowed them to see into each other's eyes.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, Éomer. What did you expect? I am so blatantly different and was born far away from Edoras. Our betrothal made quick work of all the ambitions of some fathers who have daughters Baldwyn's age and an interest in obtaining Aldburg for their heirs. They were not as bold as that loudmouth earlier, but I have heard the sentiment before."

For a moment, his arms tightened around her.

Mildred could hear his teeth grind and his heartbeat pick up.

"Why did you never mention any of this?" Éomer asked, frowning heavily.

She sighed, rubbing circles into his tense back, hoping it would calm him. "Because there is nothing you could have done to change it. The people will have to first get used to me before they welcome me. Times are darkening and strangers are already considered with suspicious eyes."

"That is no reason to insult you so grievously!" Éomer countered vehemently. He took a deep breath before continuing in a calmer tone: "Mildred, you are the only female I have ever considered. You are the most beautiful, brave, kind, compassionate of all the Eorlingas. Nothing, no increasing Orc activity, no darkness, no failed ambitions, nothing is just reason to hurt you, to insult and offend in this manner. You did not deserve to be treated thus and I hope dearly that you have avenged yourself if the opportunity presented itself, or you will have to leave me that privilege."

Mildred cursed herself as new tears welled up, growling impatiently. "Damn it all!"

Before Éomer could ask anything else, she tugged his head down and devoured his mouth. Her hands curled into his hair and held on tightly.

Panting a bit, they separated enough to breathe.

Éomer nuzzled her cheek gently, then made sure to look her straight in the eyes.

"Mildred, harken me now, you do not deserve to be insulted and made to feel inferior. Not for me, or anyone else. I love you, my heart. Béma better protect anyone who dares to belittle you in my presence, for I will not show them mercy or give quarter."

And as she stared into the familiar brown of his eyes, Mildred could feel a piece of herself mend.

"One condition."

"Name it and it shall be yours."

"I claim the same right to protect you as you wish to protect me. I might not have apprenticed under any Riders, but I know my way around a bow and sword. Additionally, it is never a good idea to offend the Lady of any household, for we know best how to make things - uncomfortable and that quickly."

He beamed at her. "It is agreed then."

They sealed the deal with a kiss.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, forcing them to separate hastily.

Baldwine shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at them. "Mildred, we shall soon be missed. Father noticed your - departure. If you do not wish for his interference, you should return or make your excuses for the night."

Especially if one considered that one-on-one combat was planned for the next morning.