The Lion and his Lady

Joust - Chapter 1

A/N: This is just a short , fun scenario  in three chapters of how Éomer of Rohan and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth could have met - there will be more scenarios to follow after.

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Challenge

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Field of Cormallen, April 3019

The Rider hit the water with a splash. Éomer winced in sympathy. Not another one! There went their fifth man, but the Rohirrim were still ahead, even if their lead had narrowed dangerously. On the opposite side of the creek, Amrothos twirled his staff in his fingers and gave an exaggerated bow as his men cheered him.

"Ready to surrender yet, horse boys?" he called.

Éomer growled. "Not to a piece of bilge scum like you," he shouted back, using one of Amrothos's favourite insults.

While their men exchanged colourful descriptions of the opposite side's ancestry, he and the Prince of Dol Amroth exchanged grins of perfect amity.

Éomer hadn't enjoyed himself so much in ages. But honour demanded that he take the game seriously – it wouldn't do to lose to a bunch of harbour rats like Amrothos's friends. "We'll drown you, just you wait!" he yelled across the creek.

In answer, Amrothos strutted forward onto the thin log bridging the stream between them and did a little jig. It was a mistake. The wood, carefully smoothed in preparation and by now covered in mud and water, wobbled under his weight. Amrothos threw out his arms and tried to recover his balance, but to no avail. Splash!

The Rohirrim howled with laughter when Amrothos resurfaced in the middle of the creek, which was only chest-high anyway, a stunned expression on his face. Amongst much mocking and ribbing he had to scramble up the bank of the stream and hand the Dol Amroth staff to the next man.

Éomer did a quick count of the tokens in his pocket. Five pieces left to distribute to the 'dry' men on the Rohirrim's side, including himself. By his reckoning the Dol Amroth camp now had only three left, but they had more than halved the gap since the beginning of the bout.

"Let me have a go," Éothain begged.

With a grin Éomer handed over one of the tokens to his friend. "Go get them."

"I will!"

The log shook when the big man stepped out onto it. In the centre, a red ribbon marked the border between the Rohirrim's and the Dol Amroth side, which was forbidden to cross.

Éothain raised the staff with its blunted end high. "Who wants to swallow water next?"

One of Amrothos's friends took up the challenge, though looking none too happy. The Dol Amroth men were game, Éomer had to give them that. And they might even win the triad yet, though the Rohirrim had built up a lead in the riding contest. However, the men from Belfalas had held their own during the archery tournament and seemed to think that they still had a chance to triumph by carrying off the third part.

Éothain and his opponent exchanged a few blows, carefully at first. The rules were simple: if you overstepped the red ribbon in the centre or were driven back onto your bank of the stream, you lost. Otherwise anything was allowed and the bout only ended when one of the contestants fell in the water. Very cold water, as the creek, a tributary of the Anduin, carried meltwater from the Ethel Dúath.

Slowly Éothain began to step up the attack, raining blows down on his hapless opponent. Of course strength only counted for so much in this game, but Éomer got the impression that the Dol Amroth men had been rattled by the loss of their leader. The tide had turned, he thought, only to grin at such a nautical expression, picked up from Amrothos. But true enough, a moment later Éothain's opponent slipped and tumbled into the water.