Head of the family

Minas Tirith, Third Age 3020

“Twenty-one!” Lothiriel stared at her brother in complete disbelief. “Please tell me you are not serious.”

Elphir frowned at her outburst. “Thus has it ever been the tradition in our family and I see no reason to change it now.”

“But–”

She got no further as her brother held up his hand. ”Father presented me at court soon after my twenty-first birthday and no doubt he will do the same with you,” he replied. “Meanwhile you cannot possibly come with us to the celebration tonight. It would not be proper.”

Proper! Lothiriel’s heart sank as she recognized her brother at his most pompous. Had it been one of her other brothers she would have thought his words a joke, but this was Elphir. Where Erchirion and Amrothos had teased her mercilessly when they were all younger, he had always kept himself aloof, too full of his own importance as the heir to Dol Amroth to join in what he called their silly games.

“But I will turn twenty-one in September anyway, surely a few more weeks won’t matter,” she tried to reason with him, but he just shook his head.

Lothiriel sank down onto a chair as the enormity of his words began to sink in. “It’s not fair!” she exclaimed heatedly. “Father never mentioned anything of this.”

Elphir frowned at her outburst. ”He probably did not think it necessary” he replied repressively, “after all, your are obviously far too young to think of going to court.”

The problem was, Lothiriel had been thinking of little else the last few months. Ever since their father had returned from the Ring War full of tales of their splendid new king and his beautiful elven queen, she had wanted to go to Minas Tirith and see them with her own eyes. Prince Imrahil had not wanted to leave Dol Amroth again after having been away so long during the war, but then something fortuitous had happened. Their cousin Faramir had written to ask if Lothiriel would like to come and visit him and his new bride at Emyn Arnen in Ithilien. And what would be more natural than to stop over on the way in Minas Tirith to see her eldest brother and his wife?

Lothiriel had bent all her not inconsiderable powers of persuasion on being allowed to go and her father had finally assented. By a further stroke of good luck they had arrived on midsummer’s eve, the day King Elessar and Queen Arwen celebrated their first wedding anniversary.

Now she was feeling bitterly disappointed. “I will go to the celebration tonight, there is no way you can stop me” she exclaimed.

Elphir frowned at her outburst. In his opinion their father had granted his sister far too much freedom while growing up and this sort of unbecoming behaviour was the direct result of it. With their mother dying whilst Lothiriel was still a babe in arms she had been allowed to tag along after her elder brothers learning all sorts of unsuitable things like horse racing, archery and even swimming.

Well, she was still young and all that was needed really was a firm hand to remind her of a woman’s proper place in life. Even so he was looking forward to the hopefully not too distant day when she would pass into the responsibility of a husband. “That is quite enough, sister,” he said sharply. “Father being absent, I am the head of the family and you will heed my decision.” With that he gave her a curt nod and left the room.

Head of the family indeed, thought Lothiriel. Her brother did not know her very well if he thought she would be cowed by that. Slowly she walked over to the window and looked out. Like many of the noble families of Gondor, the Princes of Dol Amroth had their own town house in Minas Tirith, which in their case was situated in the sixth circle of the city, directly below the citadel where the king now resided. When she had been younger they had spent many a summer here as guests of her uncle, Lord Denethor. It was only when the shadows of Mordor grew longer that her father would no longer let her come.

Upon arrival she had been delighted to get her own room back, pretty much untouched since her last visit six years ago. Whereas the windows of the grander rooms gave a sweeping view of the Pelennor fields, this one only looked out over the kitchen garden, but Lothiriel did not mind. She sat down in the window seat and began making plans. She knew Elphir well enough to realize he would not change his mind now, but she was not one to give up easily. Already an idea was forming in her mind.

It was not long before she was interrupted by a knock on her door. “Lothiriel?” asked a soft voice. Looking up she saw her sister-in-law enter the room.

“It is all right, I am not going to throw anything at you, “ Lothiriel replied with a slight smile. Melian came over slowly, not entirely reassured by these words and embraced her cautiously. To look at, the two women could not have been more different. Where Melian had long blond hair and gentle blue eyes, Lothiriel had inherited the looks of her elven ancestors. Tall and slender, she had hair as black as a raven’s wings and eyes green like the sea on a stormy day.

Melian sat down next to her. “I only just heard, “ she said, “and I am so sorry.” She liked her sister-in-law, who had been unfailingly kind to her when she had first come to Dol Amroth as a shy young bride. Now she tried to cheer her up.

“Don’t be disappointed. We can still go to the midsummer fair outside the city gates and you might well see the king and queen there. They say King Elessar likes to mingle with the common folk.”

“If you say so, “ Lothiriel replied, her eyes downcast. “I am tired from my journey anyway. I think I will just go to bed early.”

Melian shifted uncomfortably. She had expected storms of rage, maybe even tears, but this quiet submissiveness was even more unnerving and did not bode well.

“Would you like me to stay in with you tonight and keep you company?” she asked hesitantly.

“Oh no, you go and enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me” Lothiriel replied instantly, patting her hand reassuringly. And that was all she would say on the subject.

***

Later that evening, as they got ready to go out, Melian confided some of her misgivings to her husband, but Elphir dismissed them out of hand. He had been pleasantly surprised by the way Lothiriel had sat quietly through the evening meal and then retired early, pleading fatigue. Surely she had accepted that her brother only had her best interests at heart. Even so, he thought, it would be a good idea to get her on her way to Emyn Arnen as soon as possible, and to send Melian along to keep an eye on her.

So it was with a quiet mind that he escorted his wife up to the Citadel. In the event, of course, it turned out that she knew his sister rather better than he did.

Collision course

I will have to choose a light colour, Lothiriel thought, surveying herself in the mirror. After her brother had left she had dismissed her servants and had given orders not to be disturbed. Now she looked regretfully at her favourite dress. A deep midnight blue with long sweeping sleeves and tiny pearls embroidered along the hem, her father had given it to her for her last birthday. She would have liked to wear it, but against the white walls of Minas Tirith it offered no concealment whatsoever. So she chose a light green dress instead with a tight fitting bodice and long narrow sleeves. It sported only a modest skirt, but that was all for the best with what she had in mind.

Lothiriel sighed. It was a shame she could not wear trousers like the women in the far south did and even some of the Rohirrim maidens, but for a princess of one of the noble houses of Gondor that was just unthinkable. In one of her chests she had found an old cloak of a silvery grey colour and now she donned that as well. Carefully she pinned up her hair and then put up the deep hood. As a final touch she picked up a basket of apples she had requested earlier on. It would do, Lothiriel decided as she grinned at her image in her mirror, now even her brother would not recognize her if he passed her on the street.

Outside, dusk had fallen and as she eased the casements of her window open, the scent of roses flooded the room. After a quick glance to check if anybody was about, she scrambled over the windowsill and dropped into the garden. Slowly she edged past the carefully tended flowerbeds and then crouched down to crawl beneath the kitchen windows. Above her she could hear voices and laughter as the servants enjoyed a sit-down after dinner. What would they say if they could see her now? she wondered with a smile.

At last she was past and gained the outer wall of the garden. Here a small postern gate led out onto a narrow alley. It was locked, but the key was still kept hidden underneath the same chipped blue flowerpot. Still carrying her basket of apples, she slowly eased the door open and then slipped through, leaving nothing behind but the scent of crushed herbs.

Éomer, King of Rohan, was feeling restless. He was not used to not having anything to do. The last year since the end of the Ring War had seen him riding all over the Riddermark; the armies of Saruman had left much destruction in their wake and there were many homesteadings to be rebuilt and widows and orphans to be provided for. As a result it was only now, nearly a year after they had taken his uncle Théoden’s body home for burial, that he had felt able to return to Minas Tirith to visit his good friend Aragorn, the King of Gondor.

They had arrived five days ago and after settling his men in their quarters he had unexpectedly found himself with free time on his hands, time to think. It was then that Éomer had decided to avail himself of his sister’s longstanding invitation to visit her and Faramir in Ithilien. He still missed Éowyn, and Meduseld, where the kings of the Mark made their home, seemed strangely empty without her. He was impatient to be off now, but the days when he could just have packed his bags, saddled Firefoot and ridden off were past, now that he was king. There were messages to be sent to the Mark to arrange for his prolonged absence and also to Éowyn and Faramir to apprise them of his coming.

The Hall of Merethrond was ablaze with lights and filled to bursting with the nobility of Gondor, come to celebrate with their new lord. At the centre, as ever, were King Elessar and Queen Arwen. Éomer watched as they moved through their guests, greeting even the most humble with a gracious smile and a few kind words. The queen was dressed in a simple white dress, but she moved with such unearthly grace, she made all the other women in the hall seem clumsy and overdressed by comparison.

She was, Éomer reflected, still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And I should know, he thought wryly, after all I must have been introduced to most of the marriageable maidens of Gondor during the last few days. He had been amazed at the number of noble lords who had found it incumbent on them to pay him a visit in his humble tents accompanied by their womenfolk. The maidens had all been charming and prettily mannered, but Éomer had no intention whatsoever of marrying just now, no matter what his councillors said about the necessity for an heir.

He groaned inwardly as he saw yet another lord heading his way, a determined expression on his face and a pretty blond woman trailing in his wake. He was starting to feel like a castle under siege.

“Here comes another hopeful father,” Éothain, the captain of his guard, said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Éomer shot him an irritated look. “Aren’t you supposed to protect your king?”

The other rider only grinned as an answer, but then Éomer recognized the man approaching them. Surely Lord Elphir of Dol Amroth was too young to have daughters of marriageable age? He had met Elphir during the ring war and had thought him an able warrior, if not quite the inspiring leader of men that his father Prince Imrahil was.

To Éomer’s considerable relief he introduced the young woman as his wife and then went on to inquire about his health.

“I am well, thank you,” Éomer replied, “and how is your esteemed father?”

“He is staying in Dol Amroth and has sent my humble self to do the honours of the family,” Elphir said with a proud smile.

“I am sorry to have missed him,” Éomer said with genuine regret, “please give him my sincere regards when next you see him.” With that he nodded his head and would have passed on, but Elphir detained him.

“Actually, Your Majesty, it is on my father’s behalf that I have a request to make.”

When Éomer lifted an eyebrow in polite enquiry he rushed on. “You see, I have heard that you are planning to visit Lady Éowyn in Ithilien. Well, it just so happens that she has invited my sister Lothiriel to stay with her and I wondered if you would mind if she and my wife Melian joined your party for the journey there.”

Éomer did in fact mind being imposed upon in such a manner and was just about to utter a polite refusal, when Lady Melian rushed in, looking acutely embarrassed. “I am sure it is the last thing the King of Rohan could possibly want, to escort us to Emyn Arnen. We will only delay him!”

This was so precisely what Éomer had been thinking, that he had no choice but to assure her that of course he would be more than pleased to look after them. Inwardly he sighed, for this was sure to add several more days to the journey. When she still looked worried, he further reassured her. “I am always honoured to be of service to my good friend Imrahil.”

“You are too kind,” she murmured softly, still not sounding quite convinced.

“May I make Princess Lothiriel’s acquaintance?” he asked in order to distract Lady Melian.

“My sister isn’t here,” Elphir answered for his wife, “she is much too young for this kind of thing.”

He was looking rather pleased with himself, Éomer noted, as well he might. So now I am expected to play nursemaid to a little girl as well! Enough was enough.

“We will be leaving on the morning of the third day from now,” he said rather curtly. “Please make sure you are ready,” he added and then excused himself.

To Éothain he remarked in their own language, “I think I will escape into the garden before being cornered again.”

Éomer waved his guards back when they would have followed him, and making good on his words he quickly went out through one of the great side doors leading into the gardens. Outside it was a lovely summer’s evening, the sky only just turning into a deeper shade of blue and the first stars appearing in the east. The full moon was rising slowly over the Ephel Dúath.

In the main part of the garden there were torches and musicians playing, but to the right was a narrow strip of grass leading up to a low wall overlooking the roof of the stables and the six hundred foot drop down to the northern end of the Pelennor. It was here that Éomer settled himself, leaning against the parapet, and looked out over the fields below.

The grass was green again and it was hard to belief that one of the bloodiest battles of the Ring War had been fought here little more than a year ago. If he strained his eyes he could just about make out the big green mound of Snowmane, king Théoden’s steed. The place, he thought bleakly, where I became King of the Riddermark.

Then he suddenly straightened up. What was this? Below him a trapdoor opened in the roof of the stables and a ghostly figure emerged. It seemed wrapped in a voluminous gray cloak. Instinctively his hand went to his sword at his side, only to remember that he had left it in his quarters, according to the customs of Gondor. Cursing silently he pressed back into the shadows cast by the parapet as the figure below looked around and then cautiously made its way toward the wall.

Lothiriel had been sorely tempted to go down to the fair. When she reached the main thorough fare of Minas Tirith there were many people making their way down the hill; whole families with their children running ahead laughing and couples walking along hand in hand.

It would be nice, she thought, to stroll through the stalls looking at the wares on display or to try some of the exotic foods on offer. If only Amrothos, the brother nearest to her in age, had been here they would probably have done just that. However, Amrothos had stayed behind in Dol Amroth. With a shrug and a rueful smile Lothiriel turned right and made her way up the hill, towards the stables.

The main gates to the Citadel were heavily guarded and if she turned up there the guards would probably just send for her brother. But not for nothing had she spent all those summers playing with her cousins around Minas Tirith. They had known all the back ways in and out of the Citadel and it was one of those she intended to take. She smiled to herself, wondering what Faramir would say if he could see her now.

The last guests had arrived a while ago and the royal stables were quiet again. When she cautiously peered round the corner into the main quadrangle there was nobody in sight. The grooms were probably enjoying a round of beer in the common room, having to wait up until all the guests had departed again.

Lothiriel hesitated for a moment and then decided to walk openly across the square. Her back crawled and she expected to be hailed at any moment as she made her way purposefully to the main doors of the stables, trying to look as if she had every right to be here. However, nothing happened.

Minas Tirith was not a city of horsemen and the original stables had just been a row of horseboxes hewn into the bedrock below the Citadel and connected by a long gallery. Then at some later date the available space had been doubled by the simple expedient of building another row of boxes on the other side of the main hallway. These were suspended over the steep drop to the rocks below and supported by massive stone girders. The Numenorans had been master builders and few of the people working there and certainly none of the horses ever realized there was nothing but air underneath the seemingly solid floors.

The hinges of the doors were well oiled, Lothiriel noted with approval as she slipped through quietly, still carrying her basket of apples. The inside was only dimly lit and the air was warm and filled with the familiar smells of hay and horses. The only sounds to be heard were contented chewing and an occasional soft whinny. Briefly she wondered if her brother kept his horses here, too. She would have to borrow one of his for the journey to Ithilien, as they had not been able to bring any horses with them on the boat up the Anduin.

Lothiriel would have loved to have a good look at all the occupants of the stable, but at any moment a groom might come in and catch her where she had no right to be. Even so she peeked into the horseboxes every now and again as she made her way down the long stone hallway. The one she was looking for was near the end and considerably larger than the others. In the past it had always been used for storing hay bales and bags of oats.

It was then that Lothiriel encountered her first setback. She had been expecting the box to be empty, but instead a magnificent bay stallion occupied it. Her father’s warhorses were anything but small, but this one was at least a hand taller again. Glancing at the foreign looking saddle on its rack next to the door she realized he had to be one of the famed steeds of the Rohirrim. Lothiriel sighed to herself. While she had always wanted to see one of them close up, this was not really the right time and place.

As she stepped closer, he turned round and laid his ears back against his massive head, giving her a threatening look. Rather nervously she wondered if it was true that the Rohirrim trained their horses to attack any strangers who tried to steal them.

For a brief moment she considered backtracking her steps and trying her luck with one of the less frequented servants’ entries, but then she squared her shoulders. She had never been the least reluctant to handle any of the animals in her father’s stables and she would not start being afraid of a horse now.

“Hush, my beauty,” she murmured softly in Elvish as she opened the door to the box and eased inside. One ear twitched forward and the stallion took a step towards her. Belatedly Lothiriel remembered her basket of apples, brought along for just such an eventuality.

“Here you are,” she whispered, holding out one of the ripe red fruits and then held her breath as he approached another step. Big yellow teeth closed over the apple and she slowly released her breath as the stallion nuzzled her side looking for more.

“See, you are quite friendly really, aren’t you. I wonder what is your name?” He huffed as if in reply to her question and getting bolder she patted his neck, offering him some more apples. He was beautiful, she thought, stroking the lustrous brown coat and getting more confident by the minute. By the time her basket was empty he seemed quite used to her presence in his box and she had finally spotted what she had come for.

In the far corner of the room, just above the window, was a small trapdoor giving access to the roof. For a moment Lothiriel debated trying to climb onto the stallion’s back in order to reach it, but then decided that would be pushing her luck. Fortunately there were still some bales of hay left lying around and she was able to stack them one atop the other and climb onto them. The latch was stiff with disuse, but by mustering all her strength she was able to slide it open and cautiously lifted the door onto its side. All this time the stallion was watching her attentively, probably hoping for more tidbits.

“I am afraid, I am fresh out of apples, mellon,” she told him with a smile and a last backward glance and then climbed onto the roof. This was strewn with debris and bird droppings and she had to be careful not to soil her dress. As she straightened up Lothiriel caught her breath at the drop to her right. Had they really dared to come this way when they were mere children? Guiltily she thought of her father who thought her safe and sound in Minas Tirith. He had always warned her not to give in to her fits of temper, she remembered with a chagrined smile. If news of this escapade reached him she stood no chance of ever being allowed to leave Dol Amroth again!

Well, there was only one thing to do and that was to go on. It was only a few yards to the outer wall of the Queen’s Garden and once she had climbed that, no one need ever be the wiser how she got there.

Taking a deep breath she carefully balanced along the narrow roof towards the safety of the wall. Fortunately the full moon had risen by now, helping her to make out any obstacles. Less fortunately, the roof was slightly slanted and the footing beneath her thin slippers was treacherous. At one point she stumbled over a rock and sent a cascade of pebbles over the edge. After that she was twice as cautious and breathed a real sigh of relief when she finally gained the wall. It was child’s play to scramble over the parapet and drop onto the soft grass beyond.

I have made it, she silently congratulated herself.

It was then that Lothiriel suddenly felt herself grabbed from behind with brutal strength.

“And what have we here then!” a harsh voice whispered in her ears. “A spy or just a thief?”

As she drew breath to scream, a large hand covered her mouth, choking her.

Mellon - friend

A meeting on a moonlit night

If there was one thing growing up with three older brothers had taught Lothiriel, it was how to fight opponents bigger and stronger than herself. She acted instinctively without even pausing to think. Her slippers were too soft to do much damage when she stamped on one of her assailant’s feet but an elbow in the ribs produced a satisfying grunt of pain. Unfortunately her long cloak hampered her and the iron grip around her middle did not weaken.

There was one trick, however, which had never failed her yet. She pitched forward and pulled her attacker off balance, thus forcing him to let go with one hand. Then she let herself fall to the ground, dragging him with her and twisting sideways in the air at the same time. She landed on top of him with all her weight and had the satisfaction of hearing him swear violently in a foreign language. A quick kick in the groin was blocked, but even so he was forced to let go of her and she managed to scramble out of the way. At this point however, her long skirts betrayed her as she stumbled over them while trying to escape and she fell to her knees.

She never got a second chance. With lightning speed her assailant was on top of her again and this time there was no getting away. He grabbed one of her arms and twisted it cruelly behind her back when she continued to struggle and kicked his shin. “Get up!“ he ordered curtly and reinforced his command by pulling her roughly to her feet. Then he pulled off her cloak with a violent jerk. Lothiriel froze as her hair, which had come loose during the fight, spilt over her shoulders in a soft dark wave. She found herself face to face with her attacker and saw his eyes widen in surprise and shock. He let go of her abruptly, nearly causing her to fall again, and jumped back. “What kind of devilry is this?” he exclaimed.

It was not after all some orc chieftain or Southron warrior who had attacked her, but one of the riders of the Rohirrim she realized. He had the long blond hair they all seemed to sport and was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers. Lothiriel had inherited her father’s height and was as tall as most men, but this one was taller still and obviously a seasoned warrior. She had no more than a moment to take in his appearance before he stepped closer again and asked her in a menacing tone, “who are you and what are you doing here?”

Lothiriel had had enough. She came from a long line of princes that stretched back over a thousand years and never in her entire life had she been treated as roughly as this. “How dare you manhandle me like this,“ she exclaimed angrily, “if my brothers hear of this they will have you whipped! One step closer and I will call the guards,“ she threatened.

Éomer regarded the woman in front of him in shock. Her eyes were blazing with fury and she was looking downright menacing. How could I have mistaken her for a man and not noticed those soft curves? he wondered in astonishment. It was only because she was so tall and wrapped in that shapeless grey cloak. And then of course you did not expect a noblewoman of Gondor to climb stealthily over walls in the darkness. That she was a noblewoman was obvious from the way she spoke Westron and by the manner of her dress. Caught unexpectedly on the defensive, he stopped himself just in time from apologizing to her.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked again in a more moderate tone.

“That is none of your business,“ she replied sharply, “I am a free woman of Gondor and can go wherever I please.”

Éomer had never yet lost his famed temper with a woman, but now he could feel his patience fraying. His shin was still aching from that last kick she had delivered. ”I will make it my business when you try to sneak into the king’s palace!”

“Oh, so you habitually attack defenceless females who happen to take the air in the gardens?” she asked, raising an elegantly curved eyebrow.

“Defenceless females?” he repeated in disbelief. “You are anything but. Whatever possessed you to fight like that! Had I had my sword on me, you would be dead now.”

“It is your own fault for pouncing on me like some horrible orc,“ she replied heatedly, “and if I had had my knife on me, it would be you lying dead at my feet now.”

Being the survivor of countless skirmishes and all three major battles of the ring war Éomer rather doubted this, but saw no reason to enlighten her. “I did not mean to hurt you,“ he said grudgingly, “but unless you explain yourself to my satisfaction, I will call for the guards. Their captain can be most unpleasant,“ he added as an additional threat.

“What, old Barandun I have known all my life?” she laughed in his face, “very well, call him then and see whose word he would rather take.”

Éomer hesitated. He did not particularly fancy having to explain how he nearly got bested by this infuriating young woman.

She saw his hesitation and interpreted it correctly. “Just let me go and I will accept your apology and not mention our encounter to anyone,“ she offered, throwing back her long black hair and regarding him challengingly.

“Ah, but you see, I did not apologize,“ he replied softly, his temper finally getting the better of him. “Very well, we will go and see the captain of the guard immediately,“ he added and took a threatening step towards her.

It was Lothiriel’s turn to hesitate. In her anger she had completely forgotten that she was not really supposed to be here. She did not even want to think of what her brother would say if confronted with her presence in the Queen’s Garden. Being sent back to Dol Amroth in disgrace would be the least of her troubles. Why did she have to have the misfortune of running into this thoroughly unpleasant and ungallant rider from Rohan?

He was watching her now with a knowing expression on his face. “Having second thoughts?” he asked in that soft, hateful voice of his. Swallowing her anger with great effort, she decided to try another approach and to tell him at least part of the truth.

“I meant no harm. I just wanted to have a look at the king and queen,” she explained.

He looked at her in disbelief. “That is a very likely story. Surely you are a noblewoman. It is hardly necessary for you to sneak in secretly through the garden just to have a look at the king.”

“It is, if you have a pompous and stuffy brother like mine,“ she replied bitterly, “who won’t let you come to court because he thinks you are too young.”

Éomer frowned. Her words had the ring of the truth to them. Because of her imperious manner he had taken her for his own age, but taking another look at her he realized she was considerably younger. The girl was quite striking really with her long black hair and those enormous eyes in her delicate face. As he watched her standing there, absently rubbing her aching arm, he felt a first twinge of guilt.

“How old are you, anyway?“ he asked more gently.

“I will be twenty-one and come of age in a couple of months,” she answered, “but my brother still considers me a child.”

“I might have mistaken you for a man, but I certainly would not mistake you for a child,“ he said without pausing to think.

Lothiriel gave him a considering look. Maybe all hope was not lost yet. “Surely it will do no harm to let me have a quick look at the king. I would be eternally grateful to you.“ She gazed at him beseechingly from under her long lashes.

With her father and brothers this unfailingly got her what she wanted, but this rider was made of sterner stuff. Although he wavered visibly, he shook his head. “Impossible. Let me accompany you to the gate and I will make sure you get home safely.”

She decided to take recourse to her last resort. With most women this might have been tears, but not so with Lothiriel.

“That won’t be necessary,“ she replied with a cool nod, “I can make my own way home.” And before he realized what she was doing, she took a quick step backwards and climbed onto the garden wall.

“What are you doing?“ he asked in alarm as she swung her legs over onto the other side.

“I am leaving, like you wanted me to,“ she explained, an innocent expression on her face.

“You know I did not mean that way. Come back at once,“ he exclaimed and took a step closer, only to stop when she made as if to lower herself onto the stable roof beyond.

“I hope I won’t stumble. It’s a long drop down to those rocks below,“ she observed conversationally.

Éomer gritted his teeth and fought the strong desire to grab her and shake some sense into her. He could not possibly let her go back the way she had come! “Get down from that wall at once,” he ordered her in the voice which commanded instant obedience from his men.

“I will, if you let me have a look at the king.“

“That is blackmail!”

“It is,“ she admitted with a shrug. “My brothers tell me I have a talent for it.”

For a moment he regarded her dumbfounded. She was sitting on the wall, her feet dangling over the other side and smiling down at him. He was not sure whether to be furious or to burst out laughing.

“It is a mystery to me why your brothers did not strangle you at birth,“ he said at last.

She had to grin at that and he found himself grinning back, quite against his better judgment. “Very well,“ he conceded grudgingly. “You may have a quick glance through the windows. But afterwards,“ he added, “you will come with me to the gates and will let yourself be escorted home.”

Lothiriel hesitated. She had come here intending to meet the king and queen in person, not just to have a look at them through a window. Something told her though, that this was the best offer she was going to get and that she was lucky at that.

“Do you promise not to tell anybody how I got in?” she asked suspiciously.

“I will, if you promise in your turn to go home quietly,“ he assented.

“Agreed then,“ she nodded and held out a hand to let herself be helped down from the wall. He ignored it completely and instead stepped up, took hold of her waist and swung her down effortlessly. For a long moment blue eyes met green as he looked down at her.

“What is your name?”

“Lothiriel.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Lothiriel?” he repeated incredulously, “please don’t tell me you are Lord Elphir’s sister.”

“I am,“ she was forced to admit; not at all liking the way things were going. Obviously this rider knew her brother and probably had second thoughts about handing her over to the guards at once. “You promised,“ she reminded him.

He paid no attention to her words. “So your brother did not want you to come to the celebration tonight?”

“No, he did not.”

He held up his hand when she would have reminded him of his promise again and appeared to be thinking furiously. “And no doubt you wanted to meet the king and queen in person?”

“Yes,“ she conceded slowly.

“In that case, what are we waiting for,“ he said and offered her his arm.

Lothiriel was feeling utterly bewildered by this turn of events. “Are you saying we are going inside?”

“That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but why are you suddenly giving in?” she asked, confused. He hesitated for a moment and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Let us just say that I owe your brother a favour,“ he answered at last.

This was patently untrue, but at the same time the opportunity was too good to pass up. “Very well,” she said in a measured tone and took the offered arm.

Silently they walked across the grass towards the main part of the garden. Lothiriel could hear people talking and the soft sound of music. The sudden light of torches seemed very bright to eyes adjusted to the moonlight. She stole a quick glance at her companion who seemed deep in thought. Though he was dressed very simply by the standards of Gondor, he had an indefinable air of command about him and she wondered for the first time who he was. Then she bit her lips as another thought occurred to her. Her father was a powerful man and he might not be pleased by this escapade.

“Wait a moment,“ she said, stopping in front of the brightly lit doors.

“What is it?” he frowned.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said hesitantly. “I can go in by myself. I don’t want to get you into trouble with your king,” she explained.

He looked amused if anything. “Why should I get into trouble?”

“My father is Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and he is a personal friend of King Éomer’s.”

“I know,“ he nodded.

“Don’t you understand? He might make trouble for you with your king, he is very influential.”

The rider laughed out loud in genuine amusement. It transformed his rather stern features and made him look much younger.

“I think I have taken worse chances in my life,“ he said with a wry grin, “I am a Marshal of the Riddermark and it can’t be as bad as being surrounded by ten thousand orcs in front of the Black Gate.”

“I suppose not,“ she had to concede.

With an exaggerated bow he held one of the double doors open for her and after giving him a last long look she passed through.

After the cool and relative quiet of the garden the difference was startling. The air was hot from colourful lamps, filled with the scent of opposing perfumes and the noise of so many people talking at once was overwhelming. She was used to the court functions at her father’s palace, but this was altogether on a different scale. There had to be several hundred people mingling below the impersonal gaze of the great statues of ancient kings. She could not help staring at the ornate dresses everybody seemed to wear and the many glittering jewels on display. Suddenly she felt rather drab in her simple green dress and was belatedly aware of the fact that she had not even put her hair back up.

Well, that cannot be helped now, Lothiriel thought as she squared up her shoulders and turned to her companion who was watching her rather shrewdly.

“Would you like me to find your brother instead?” he asked not unkindly.

“Certainly not!“ she replied, “lead on, Marshal of the Riddermark.”

Éomer had to hide a grin. She might be infuriatingly wild, but she certainly had spirit. The first time he had attended one of his friend Aragorn’s gatherings, his head had spun from the number of people present.

“Remember they are not as bad as orcs, “ he reminded her and was rewarded by a faint smile. She took his arm again and they started to move through the crowd. The courtiers politely made way for him and watched him curiously, probably wondering who the young woman on the King of Rohan’s arm was. He took his time as he was trying to make out Lord Elphir’s party.

In fact they were halfway across the hall before he saw him over to one side. Elphir was talking to another lord and spotted them at precisely the same moment. The look on his face as he saw his sister went a long towards repaying Éomer for being imposed on so rudely earlier on. He very nearly laughed out loud when Elphir went as white as a sheet and his wineglass dropped from nerveless hands.

He looked down at the princess, but she had not detected her brother yet. Instead she was frowning at a couple of richly dressed blond women who were eyeing her icily. “Why are they looking at me like that?” she whispered.

Éomer recognised them as the daughters of one of the hopeful lords who had paid him a visit earlier on. “I have no idea, “ he replied blandly and she gave him a suspicious glance.

Lord Elphir had recovered his composure by now and was trying to make his way across the hall towards them, but it was very crowded. Éomer skilfully steered Lothiriel the other way, towards where the Aragorn and Arwen were talking to some friends. One of the few advantages of being a king was the way people made way for you.

When he reached the small group, the King and Queen of Gondor turned towards him with a friendly mien.

“Who is your beautiful companion?” Queen Arwen asked with a kind smile as Lothiriel sank into a deep curtsy.

“Queen Arwen, King Elessar, may I present to you Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth?“ Éomer said in a resounding voice. As luck would have it, it was at just that moment that Elphir finally caught up with them, looking extremely flushed from having to struggle after them.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith,” King Elessar said to Lothiriel, raising her from her curtsy and smiling down at her, “it is good to see that the elven blood still runs strong in Imrahil’s line.”

“Welcome, kinswoman, “ Arwen affirmed, embracing her warmly.

Éomer was suddenly struck by the resemblance between them. As they stood there looking into each other’s face and Lothiriel gave a shy smile they could have been mother and daughter.

Then he turned to Lord Elphir, who was watching the scene with his mouth open. “As you see, “ he said maliciously, “I did make Lady Lothiriel’s acquaintance after all. I believe she was late and took a shortcut.”

“Really?” was all Elphir could manage in reply.

“I will leave her in your capable hands now, if you will permit, “Éomer said and then excused himself.

Lothiriel looked up from talking to the queen when he took his leave and watched him go. “Who exactly is he,“ she decided to ask Arwen, although she had a horrible suspicion. The queen regarded her with bemusement. “Child, that is our dear friend Éomer, King of Rohan, didn’t you know?”

He chose that precise moment to glance back at her over the heads of the crowd and gave her a wink.

Love at first sight

Lothiriel woke up late the next day. For a long moment she just lay in her bed listening to the sounds of the household, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of being a guest and not having any duties to attend to. Idly she wondered how her father fared in Dol Amroth without her to run the castle for him. It served him well to have to cope on his own for once, she thought. Maybe now he would not be quite so keen to have her safely married off as soon as possible.

Her stomach chose that moment to make its presence known with a loud growl and she decided to go in search of something for breakfast. But when she made to get out of bed she suddenly winced with pain and had to catch her breath. Her left shoulder was sore and aching and when she looked down at her arm she noted with surprise that it was covered in bruises.

Then the events of last night came rushing back and she remembered the way the rider had brutally twisted her arm behind her back. Only it hadn’t been a rider, she reminded herself, it had been the King of Rohan.

Marshal of the Riddermark, indeed! She rather thought she had a score to settle there and hoped his shin was aching as badly as her arm was.

Gritting her teeth, she slowly rotated her shoulder to loosen it up a bit. She would have to wear long sleeved dresses for the next few days if she wanted to avoid awkward questions. Opening her window and looking outside Lothiriel groaned to herself. It was warm already and the sun was shining from a cloudless sky. It promised to be another hot summer’s day and she would be absolutely sweltering.

Still, at least it would please Elphir if she dressed so modestly. She had been very much surprised how well he had taken her appearance at court last night. He hadn’t uttered a single word of censure at her behaviour. Lothiriel wasn’t quite sure if it was because he was still suffering from shock or because of the warm welcome the king and queen had extended to her. She had a feeling though, that it would be better to stay out of his way for a bit. Maybe she should take the opportunity to have a look at the midsummer fair.

Once she was dressed she made her way down to the kitchen. A large, sunny room overlooking the garden, it had always been one of her favourite places when they were children. The cook was an old friend of hers who used to have sweet treats in store for them on a regular basis. She wouldn’t mind if Lothiriel grabbed a quick bite to eat.

When she got there, a delicious smell assailed her senses. “Angwen, you’ve baked berry tarts!” she exclaimed. The cook laughed at her delight. “I am not so old as not to remember your favourite sweet. Always begging for more you were.”

She sat Lothiriel down at the large kitchen table and surveyed her critically. “Child, look at the way you’ve grown. You have inherited your father’s height and your mother’s beauty.” She laughed when Lothiriel blushed at her words and added, “I remember the way Celerian looked on her wedding day, there never was a fairer bride. Not much older than you now she was.”

Angwen gave a sigh, remembering those long ago days and her dear departed mistress. In a more sombre mood she began laying out food for Lothiriel. “Time for the midday meal soon, anyway, “ she said, “you might as well have something proper to eat.”

“As long as I get a berry tart after, “ Lothiriel replied, trying to lighten the mood.

The cook laughed, “eat up and we’ll see.”

Halfway through the meal Melian came in. With a sigh she sat down next to her sister-in-law. “You look run off your feet, “ Lothiriel observed, pouring her a cup of cider. A thought occurred to her. “Elphir isn’t mad at you for my coming to the Citadel last night, is he?” she asked.

Melian shook her head and took a slow sip. “It isn’t that. It’s having to get ready to leave in two days’ time.” When she noticed Lothiriel’s look of surprise she added somewhat acidly, “my husband has seen fit to ordain that I am to accompany you to Emyn Arnen.”

Lothiriel stared at her mild mannered and unfailingly gentle sister-in-law and felt suddenly guilty. “He probably wants you to keep an eye on me.”

“No doubt, “ Melian nodded. “And that’s not all, he has got us an escort as well.”

“What do you mean?”

So Melian told her about their encounter with the King of Rohan the night before. “He really was most courteous and polite,” she finished.

“Courteous?” Lothiriel repeated unbelievingly, “I wouldn’t call him that.” Then her eyes widened as she suddenly realised why he had been so keen to introduce her to the king and queen. “So that is what he meant by owing Elphir a favour,” she said half to herself.

Nibbling a berry tart she frowned. “Why so soon? I thought I was going to spend at least a week with you in Minas Tirith?”

“That is when King Éomer means to leave.” Melian got up with another sigh. “I have much to do yet if I am to be ready in time.”

“Is it all right for me to go down to the fair?” Lothiriel asked her as she left, “that way I’ll stay out of your way.”

Melian nodded. “Just take a guard with you. You can borrow my horse.”

***

A short time later Lothiriel made her way down to the midsummer fair, one of her brother’s guards trailing behind her looking bored. She had been rather dismayed when she saw what her sister-in-law considered a suitably gentle mount. The little white mare she had been given was overfed and had most likely never moved faster than at a slow trot in her whole life. If this was the kind of horse she was expected to ride to Emyn Arnen the trip would prove to be a burden.

Then an idea struck her. There would probably be a section of the fair dealing in horses and maybe she would be able to find something a bit more spirited there. Accordingly she cast a warm smile at her guard and asked him, “tell me, Hilarion, is there anywhere where I can purchase a horse for the journey to Ithilien? I am sure I can rely on you to advise me.”

He straightened up visibly. “Indeed there is, my lady. I would be happy to show you the way and to lend you my assistance.”

“Please do, “ she said graciously.

When they got there she was disappointed, though. Most of the animals for sale were working horses meant to pull ploughs or heavy carts. As for the rest, even Hilarion, who was obviously no connoisseur of horseflesh, had to admit they were a sorry lot.

“Maybe we should have a look what the Rohirrim have to offer,” he suggested. Lothiriel looked up from inspecting the hooves of one of the slightly more promising candidates.

“I thought they don’t sell their horses, “ she said, surprised.

“Sometimes they do, if they have spares along,“ Hilarion told her.

Lothiriel frowned. She did not really fancy meeting that king of theirs again; on the other hand it was unlikely they would run into him if they just had a quick look. It was worth the chance she supposed.

The Rohirrim had set up their camp underneath some trees on the northern end of the Pelennor, near the road to Anórien. When they got there a considerable crowd had gathered. Intrigued, Lothiriel went to have a look, only to discover that some of the riders were displaying their skills.

Stopping to watch for a while she had to admit they were pretty good. She had grown up around horses and was no mean rider, but these men seemed to be one with their mounts, knowing instinctively how to move with them. As for the horses, they were magnificent. Just looking at them made you covet one. She caught her breath as one of the men leapt from the ground onto his horse’s back as it went running by at full speed. The crowd cheered wildly.

Hilarion was watching the spectacle with his mouth open and she had to call his name several times before he remembered their errand. When he made inquiries, they were directed towards the back of the tents where temporary paddocks had been set up, and with a last regretful look they went that way.

The camp seemed to be pretty much deserted as they made their way across it. When they got to the paddocks there was nobody about and Lothiriel sent Hilarion off to find somebody while she dismounted and leaned on the railings. She had spotted an old acquaintance.

“Hello my friend,” she called softly in Elvish and one of the horses lifted its head and stepped closer. It was the beautiful bay stallion she had seen last night in the stables, just as she had thought. His coat was gleaming in the sunshine and he gave a soft whicker as he condescended to let her stroke his neck. From old habit she had pocketed a few apples in the kitchen and now she fed him one of those.

“What are you doing there?” somebody exclaimed, startling her.

She whirled round and with a sinking heart recognized the King of Rohan who was scowling down at her. It seemed her luck had run out.

“My Lord King, “ she acknowledged him in a formal tone, “you seem to make a habit of creeping up on me and startling me.”

“My Lady Princess, you seem to make a habit of being where you have no business to be!”

“I was just feeding this horse some apples, surely that’s no crime, “ she said, her eyes flashing dangerously.

The stallion was leaning over the railings, nuzzling Éomer’s chest affectionately and he gave him a fond pat. “He’s yours, “ she realized.

“He is indeed. Firefoot is a trained battle steed and might easily have attacked you when he recognized you for a stranger. You should be glad he didn’t try to bite your fingers off.”

Lothiriel felt now was not the best moment to explain that she was in fact no stranger to his horse.

“What are you doing here all on your own, anyway?” he asked her with a frown.

“I am not on my own, I have one of my brother’s guards along,” she answered.

Hilarion came hurrying back that very moment. “Oh my lady, I see you have found a groom, “ he exclaimed.

“Let’s rather say he found me, “ Lothiriel said dryly, “Hilarion, meet the King of Rohan.“

And as the young guard went beet red in the face and stammered an incoherent apology she remarked to Éomer, “maybe you should wear a crown so people will find it easier to recognize you.”

He stared down her with a stony expression and for a long moment she wondered if she had gone too far, then the corners of his mouth twitched and he started to laugh.

“I left my crown back home in Meduseld and anyway, it pinches, “ he replied and she had to laugh, too.

She had a nice honest laugh, Éomer noted, not like the artificial simper some of the ladies of the court affected. Surveying the fat little mare she had been riding, he didn’t think much of her choice of horses, though. If this was what Imrahil provided her with, he didn’t think much of his daughter’s equestrian skills. Interpreting his glance correctly she explained the reason why they had come to the camp of the Rohirrim.

Éomer shook his head. “We haven’t got any horses along to sell this time.” When he saw her disappointed expression he explained, “we had grievous loss of horses in the war and until our herds are recovered we will not sell any.”

“That is understandable,“ she said politely but he could see she was disheartened.

Feeling unexpectedly sorry for her, he wondered briefly if there was a horse amongst their spares that he could let her have, but they didn’t have any fit for a lady to ride. They sometimes kept some of the culls not suitable for fighting or herding if they were a nice colour, but he hadn’t thought it necessary to bring any of those along. Not that he could have given her a horse outright anyway, as for the Rohirrim it amounted to a proposal of marriage for a man to give a horse to a woman. He could have gifted it to Imrahil, though, for her to ride.

He cast around for something to cheer her up. “Would you like to have a look around our horses,” he found himself asking her and was rewarded by a slow smile.

“Thank you, I would like that very much, “ she answered with evident pleasure.

She was not at all afraid of horses, he had to admit as he showed her around the paddock, unlike some of the other Gondorian ladies he had met. Surprisingly enough Firefoot seemed to have taken a liking to her. He had a vicious temper and even his own men stepped cautiously around him, yet this slip of a girl just pushed him laughingly away when he came begging for more apples. On the other hand though, she wore those ridiculously unpractical riding skirts that all the noblewomen here seemed to favour. One thing he was sure of, he would never see his sister Éowyn wearing them.

Lothiriel was pleasantly surprised by this new side to the King of Rohan. He seemed to know every single one of the horses and obviously cared very deeply for their welfare. His big stallion was following them along like a faithful hound, getting an absentminded pat from him every now and again.

Shooting him a mischievous look she inquired innocently, “May I ask you, King Éomer, why you told me last night you were a Marshal of the Riddermark?”

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “It was not really a lie. I used to be Third Marshal under my uncle and the king is traditionally the First Marshal. You weren’t exactly forthcoming with your true identity either, were you, “ he shot back.

Laughing, she had to admit the truth of that. “And being surrounded by ten-thousand orcs in front of the Black Gate?”

“That was the truth, “ he answered more seriously, staring into space for a moment, “in fact I planted my banner next to the silver swan of your father, Prince Imrahil.” Almost to himself he remarked, “I never really expected to survive that last battle.”

She shivered. “Down in Dol Amroth everything was peaceful. I didn’t even see as much as a small mûmak.”

He had to laugh at that, his black mood dispelled. “There is no such thing as small mûmakil!“

“Maybe when they are babies?”

He shook his head, remembering the fearsome beasts that had nearly been their undoing at the battle on this very field. “I think not.“

Then Lothiriel suddenly noticed a mare in a separate enclosure to one side that was watching them attentively. She was a beautiful animal, tall like all the steeds of the Rohirrim and completely black except for one white sock on her right foreleg. “Why is she kept on her own? “ she asked curiously.

Éomer led the way over and softly called out to the horse. “This is Nightwind,” he said, stroking her glossy black coat, “my squire will have to get her ready soon, for I am giving her away.”

“Giving her away?” Lothiriel asked in amazement, “I am surprised you can bear to part with her.” She was feeding the mare her last apple and gazing into her soft brown eyes.

It was love at first sight.

“She is one of my spare horses,“ Éomer explained, “but Firefoot here won’t let me ride any other horse but him. She deserves better than that, so I have decided to give her up. The new owner will have to earn her, though.”

“How is that?” Lothiriel asked with sudden interest.

“I have put her up as the first prize at the archery tournament this afternoon. Mind you, I expect one of my men will probably win her, “ he added complacently, “they are pretty good archers.”

“And what exactly is this archery tournament about then? “ she asked, keeping her voice studiously neutral. Melian, who knew her sister-in-law rather well, might have been alarmed by her tone, but Éomer with his limited experience just went on talking, blissfully unaware of the thoughts boiling away behind those demure green eyes.

“It consists of three parts,” he explained. “The first part is designed to weed out those who can’t shoot: the targets are set at fifty paces and three arrows out of five have to hit. The second part is similar, but the contestants will have to shoot from horseback at a canter so it will weed out those who can’t ride.”

“And the third part?”

“The remaining contestants will have to shoot at targets again, but this time they will be moved further and further back after each round. Whoever hits the bull’s eye at the furthest distance will be the winner.”

Lothiriel was stroking Nightwind’s soft velvety nose and whispering words of endearment to her in Elvish, all the time thinking furiously. “So can anyone take part in this archery contest?“ she asked finally, holding her breath.

“Certainly, “ the King of Rohan replied, still not realizing the drift of her questions.

He also thought nothing of it when soon afterwards she had a word with her young guard and sent him off to fetch something for her. It was not that he was a bad judge of character; it was just that he had never encountered anybody like the Princess of Dol Amroth before.

Legolas makes a bet

After showing her the rest of the horses they somehow ended up at Nightwind’s enclosure again and as he watched the princess lovingly stroke the big black warhorse, Éomer felt the first twinge of disquiet. He had seen this particular look before on some of his riders’ faces and had probably worn it himself the first time he had set eyes on Firefoot.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted though, when one of Lothiriel’s sleeves slid back a little way and he noticed a livid bruise on her arm. At once she tried to hide it, but Éomer had sharp eyes. “What is this?” he exclaimed and taking her arm in his hand gently pushed back her sleeve. A wave of fury swept through him as he saw the extent of her bruises. “Who did this, was it your brother?” he hissed, looking murderous.

She took a step back, startled by the violence in his voice. “It was you, when you jumped on me last night,” she said, surprised.

“I did this to you?” he repeated in stunned disbelief. Éomer felt as if she had punched him in the gut. Never in his entire life had he hurt a woman. Had one of his riders been responsible for it, he would have had him whipped and thrown him out of the éored in disgrace.

Lothiriel suddenly felt sorry for him as she heard the shock and remorse in his voice. It was the first time she had seen him lose his remarkable self-possession and she actually felt vaguely guilty.

“You didn’t know I was a woman, you took me for a spy,” she said, quite forgetting her uncharitable thoughts of that very morning.

Éomer looked down at her. Now she was defending him as well! He shook his head in wonder. “You have my sincerest apologies, Lady Lothiriel, “ he said with genuine feeling and gently took hold of her arm again.

“Have you had this seen to?” he asked as he inspected the damage he had unwittingly inflicted.

“I can’t, not without raising awkward questions,“ she replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll survive, “ she added with a self deprecating smile.

“Well, that is one thing I can remedy. Come along,” he commanded.

He led her to one of the tents where a young rider sat mending some tack. “This is my squire Beda,“ Éomer introduced the young man and then addressed a quick stream of orders in Rohirric to him. The squire nodded his head once and then went running off.

“He will fetch some ointment for your bruises,“ Éomer explained and held the opening of the tent open for her to pass through. After the bright sunshine outside it seemed dim and stuffy inside and it took Lothiriel a moment to adjust her eyes. The floor was covered with faded carpets and most of the space seemed taken up by a trestle table strewn with maps and parchments, but there was also a primitive looking cot over on the far side of the tent.

“Please excuse the mess,” Éomer said with a chagrined smile, “this is not the place where I usually entertain my visitors.”

Intrigued, Lothiriel realized it was his own private tent and had another look around. This was not really how she would have imagined the King of Rohan to live; apart from a wall hanging depicting a white horse on a green field there was no ornamentation at all. In fact the only thing shiny and gleaming was an immaculately kept suit of armour hanging on its stand over in one corner. A beautifully worked helmet with a white horse tail topped it.

He seemed to have the uncanny ability to read her thoughts. “I am afraid, I am a bit of a disappointment to you,“ he grinned, “a king without a proper crown living in a simple tent.” Lothiriel thought privately that he didn’t need a crown to look like a king, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

The next moment the tent flap opened again and Beda came hurrying in, carrying a small earthenware jar filled with a pungent smelling salve, which he solemnly presented to her.

“Thank you,” Lothiriel said and gave him a smile. The squire blushed hotly, muttered something in Rohirric and then ducked out the tent again.

Éomer, who had watched the exchange with amusement, now nodded at her. “Go ahead, put some on.”

Rather uncertainly she rolled back her sleeve and dabbed a little bit of the concoction on her arm. Éomer shook his head. “Not like that!” he said, taking the jar away from her. Then he took a generous dollop in his hand and started kneading it into her arm. Lothiriel gasped in pain, but he just carried on.

“It hurts at first, but it really helps. I use it on my horses all the time.”

“That is very reassuring,“ Lothiriel said through clenched teeth and he gave her one of his white grins. She had to admit though, that after the first burning sensation her arm actually started to feel more limber.

“Maybe next time you want to see the King and Queen of Gondor you might consider using the palace doors instead of climbing over the wall?” Éomer remarked with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe,“ she murmured softly, “maybe not. Some things are worth a little pain.”

“And was seeing them worth the pain?” he asked curiously.

Lothiriel’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes. The king is simply splendid and so kind! I can understand now why our men followed him to the very gates of Mordor. And as for Queen Arwen,” she paused, “I just can’t find the words to describe her. She seems young, yet old and wise, full of joy and somehow sad at the same time.” Lothiriel sighed at the inadequacy of her words. “Are all elves like that?”

Rolling down her sleeve again he laughed. “I’m hardly an expert on elves! However,” he added, “if you want to come to the archery tournament, I can introduce you to Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

Her eyes went wide. “Legolas who is one of the Fellowship? Is he a friend of yours?”

“In a manner. He threatened to kill me the first time we met,” Éomer said with a reminiscent smile.

Laughter sprang to her eyes. “You seem to have that effect on people!”

“Princess Lothiriel,” he growled and gently imprisoned her wrists with his fingers, “didn’t anybody ever warn you not to provoke a king in his own home?”

She looked up at him, her sea green eyes still dancing with laughter beneath those indecently long lashes. A few locks of hair had come undone from the long braid that hung down her back and he couldn’t resist the temptation to brush them away from her forehead. She wasn’t in the least alarmed he observed and wondered if it was just innocent trust in his honor or if she had classed him as a friend of her father’s and thus completely harmless. As Éomer stared down at her the laughter slowly faded from her eyes to be replaced by puzzlement.

It had been foolish to take her into his tent he realized suddenly and released her abruptly. He had wanted to spare her the curious glances of his men, but if anyone saw them together now they would draw all the wrong conclusions. “Time to go, I think,” he said roughly.

Lothiriel looked up at him uncertainly. All of a sudden the tent seemed very small and the air was stuffy. She didn’t think she had offended him, in fact they had seemed to get along remarkably well. But for a moment he had loomed over her and something had flashed up in the back of those cool blue eyes of his. Something intense and unsettling and entirely unlike the youthful admiration she had come used to seeing more and more often on the faces of her brothers’ friends. Why did he sound so angry now?

She felt uneasy. “Thank you for the ointment, my Lord King,” she said in a dignified manner and then swept out the tent without waiting for him to hold the flap open.

She nearly fell over Beda who was just about to enter the tent and only her quick reflexes saved her. The young squire jumped back in alarm, blushed once more and stammered what was obviously an apology. He then delivered a quick message to Éomer who had come out behind her. The king nodded.

“I have to attend the archery tournament now, “ he explained.

“That is fine,“ said Lothiriel, who had just spotted Hilarion between some tents looking for her, “my guard has returned and I have to speak to him. I will see you later.”

He looked so relieved it was almost insulting. “Until then, my lady,” he agreed and quickly took his leave. For a moment she stood looking after him, but then she shrugged and went to find her guard. There were more pressing matters to attend to than to puzzle out the King of Rohan’s strange behaviour.

***

The shooting range had been set up on an open field beyond their tents and several pavilions of heavy cloth had been put up to provide shade. One of them had been raised on wooden boards to provide a better view and it was there that Éomer now headed. A large crowd of spectators had gathered already along both sides of the course and had to be kept away from the end where his men had set up the targets.

The heat was oppressive even though the sun had hazed over and as he looked south over the expanse of the Pelennor he could see the first clouds piling up in the distance. It was a relief to get inside the tents where refreshments had been set up, at least until he realised with something close to dismay that several of the hopeful lords with their even more hopeful daughters had chosen to attend the archery tournament. As their host he had no choice but to make them welcome and to exchange pleasantries. At least it kept his mind too busy to think about a certain impudent little Princess of Dol Amroth.

There were only two people he was really pleased to see and it took him a while to work his way through the crowd towards them, exchanging polite greetings along the way. They couldn’t have been more different, yet they were the best of friends: the elf prince Legolas and Gimli the dwarf. Éomer clasped their arms warmly and then enquired of the elf if he had come to take part in the contest.

“For if you have,” he added, “I might as well hand the reins of my mare over here and now.”

Legolas laughed and shook his head. “I have no need of another horse. No, I’ve just come to have a look.”

They turned towards the field where the first contestants had started to line up. They were a motley lot, ranging from simply clad farmers with their homemade bows to noble lords in all their finery. There were young farm boys, hunters clad all in green, guards from the citadel in their uniform of silver and black and even a few grizzled old soldiers, veterans of the ring war. Éomer wasn’t sure if they were attracted by the prospect of winning a battle steed or by the two bags of gold that would go to the runners-up.

One of his men, the master of the tournament, now stepped up and at a nod from his king blew his horn. The crowd hushed expectantly. “The tournament is opened,“ he proclaimed in a sonorous voice. “May the best man win!”

As the crowd cheered his words, the first ten contestants lined up to try their luck. Éomer winced as the some of the arrows went hopelessly astray. It had been a wise decision to keep the spectators well away from the end where the butts had been set up.

To Legolas he remarked, “Not quite in your league, I think.” The elf had to hide a smile.

Éomer watched for a while before he felt it his duty to go back inside the pavilion to entertain the rest of his guests. The ladies showed little interest in the contest going on outside, he rather thought they were after different prey.

It was then that he heard Legolas call out to the dwarf, “have a look at this, Gimli. I didn’t know they had women archers in Gondor. I wonder if she’s any good?” As he went to join his friends at the opening again he had a sudden sickening premonition of what he would see.

It was indeed the Princess of Dol Amroth standing there slim and straight, a look of fierce concentration on her face. As he watched in disbelief she drew her bow and with deadly grace loosed her arrows one after the other. All but one hit the target.

“That wasn’t too bad,“ Legolas observed thoughtfully “I wonder who she is?”

“Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” Éomer said grimly, feeling seriously annoyed. He realised he had underestimated her determination to get exactly what she wanted. It was a feeling that would have been familiar to her eldest brother.

“Imrahil’s daughter?” the elf said, surprised. Then he turned to Gimli. “Care for a bet?” he asked with a grin. “I say she’ll reach the last three.”

The dwarf shook his head regretfully “I never bet against you where matters of archery are concerned,” he said.

“I will, “Éomer said, much to their surprise. “The usual stakes?”

The elf nodded. “The usual. Would you introduce us?”

The King of Rohan nodded curtly. “I promised to,“ he said.

Lothiriel was vexed at missing that last shot. Shooting in front of so many people had made her nervous and she had lost her concentration. Luckily it didn’t matter as only three arrows had to hit the target for her to qualify for the next round.

As a child she had pestered her father mercilessly until he had allowed her to learn to shoot a bow like her elder brothers. They didn’t really have an aptitude for it, but she had discovered that she had keen eyes and a gift for archery, perhaps inherited from her elven ancestors. During the ring war she had started to practice daily in the grim hope of at least going down fighting if the worst came to pass.

Now she risked a quick glance at the pavilion where she had spotted the King of Rohan earlier on. It was as she had feared, he was looking most displeased. Her heart sank as she saw him making his way towards her, accompanied by an elf.

“What do you think you are doing here, Princess?” he asked her without preamble.

She stiffened and gave him a defiant look. “My Lord King, I am taking part in the tournament. You said yourself that anybody could.”

“I most certainly didn’t mean you, “ he said, his voice full of disapproval, “what could you possibly want with a warhorse?” His friend was looking at him in surprise at his tone.

Lothiriel fumed. Who was he to think he could lay down the rules for her? “I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t do,” she replied hotly.

“Very well. If you want to make a spectacle of yourself then go ahead,” Éomer said angrily and departed, leaving Lothiriel looking stricken.

“My friend promised to introduce us, but he seems to have forgotten it,“ the elf now said with a bow, sounding faintly amused, “so I’ll just have to do it myself. I am Legolas.”

Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled to meet a member of the famous Fellowship, but now Lothiriel just gave him a weak smile. She was still staring after the King of Rohan, biting her lip.

“Don’t worry,“ the elf now advised, “he’s got a quick temper, but he doesn’t really mean it.”

“I think he does,” she replied with a sigh. “But then I probably won’t make it through the next round anyway.”

Now Legolas was looking slightly alarmed and asked her why.

She motioned at her horse standing nearby, grazing placidly. “I have no idea how I’ll get her to canter.”

Legolas was surveying the fat little mare in dismay. “This is your horse? We will have to do something about that!” he exclaimed. “Can you ride?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Yes. But why are you helping me?”

He gave her a wink. “I have ulterior motives,“ he admitted and explained.

***

It took quite a long time for the first round to finish. Of well over a hundred entrants only about forty now remained. All but one target were removed and as Éomer watched with a frown the first contestant prepared to ride by. He had obviously borrowed his horse somewhere, had trouble just holding on and all his arrows went hopelessly wide.

Legolas had joined them again and Gimli asked him with a curious glance what he’d been up to.

“Just improving the odds,“ the elf replied innocently. Éomer looked at him suspiciously but at that moment the Princess of Dol Amroth was announced.

He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the grey horse she was riding.

Gimli frowned. “That is Arod, isn’t it?” he asked. It was indeed the horse Éomer had lent Legolas when they had first met on the plains of Rohan and had later gifted to him.

The dwarf shook his head. “It never ceases to amaze me what lengths you’re prepared to go to, to win a bet.”

As for the King of Rohan, he was looking at the elf with murder in his eyes.

May the best man win

The horse was a joy to ride. Lothiriel had been surprised to see Legolas lead up what was obviously a Rohirric warhorse but she had been too much overjoyed at his offer to lend it to her to question where he had it from. The elf had organized a saddle for her somewhere and before she knew it, she was in the warming up yard behind the tents practicing shooting under his critical eyes.

She rode up now, her confidence enormously buoyed. The horse was obedient to her slightest touch and one of its ears twitched back as she whispered encouragements to it in Elvish. The crowd hushed as her name was announced.

Concentrating fiercely she rode in at a slow canter and rose in her stirrups. Her first arrow only hit one of the outer rings but the next two went true. Lothiriel cursed inwardly as the fourth missed the target entirely but her last arrow hit dead centre. She blushed as the crowd started cheering and risked a quick look at the King of Rohan. He was watching her with a stony expression while next to him Legolas stood grinning broadly. Her heart sank again and she decided to stay out of his way and observe the other contestants for a while instead.

Over on one side Nightwind was grazing peacefully, entirely unaware of the events going on around her. She nodded to Beda who was looking after the mare and settled down close by. As she watched the other archers she realized with dismay some of them were very good. One of the Rohirrim in particular made it look so easy one felt he didn’t even have to try to hit all five arrows dead centre.

There had been no wind all afternoon and the heat had been oppressive, even though growing clouds to the south had started to cover the sun. But as the next few riders prepared to ride by, Lothiriel for the first time noticed a slight breeze bringing relief. It would not make the shooting any easier, though.

In fact the next contestant missed the target entirely because of a gust of wind and cursed his horse roundly as if it was its fault. One less competitor to worry about, she thought uncharitably. The afternoon drew on until all the contestants had had their turn. In the end only half of them made it to the last round.

Lothiriel was feeling decidedly nervous as she lined up with the first five competitors at the start of the third round. The rules were easy now; each of them had three tries to hit the bull's eye and if you didn’t, you were out. She could feel Éomer’s disapproving glare on her back like a heavy weight bearing down on her, and resultantly missed completely with her first shot.

Taking a deep breath she told herself to relax, after all she had done this distance many times before. It was not as if it mattered what the King of Rohan thought of her. She imagined her old archery master watching her, bellowing instructions as she practiced shooting. “Concentrate girl,” he always used to shout at her. It seemed to work, for the next arrow hit home. Breathing a sigh of relief she stood aside for the next archer to take his turn.

Privately Éomer had to admit she seemed quite competent if rather erratic. Why, that first arrow had gone nowhere near the target. The princess was definitely the favourite of the crowd, even though she didn’t seem to realize it at all. His practiced eye, however, had already singled out the men who would make out the winner between them. Besides Éothain from his own éored there was one of the guards of the white tower and a man clad in the brown garb of the rangers.

The rising wind might become a factor yet, he thought and frowned as one of his riders missed at a distance he usually mastered easily. He watched Lothiriel as the butts were moved to sixty paces and she lined up for the next round. She wore a determined look on her face as she concentrated on the target, but again the first arrow went wide, this time because of the rising wind. For the second shot, though, she somehow managed to catch a lull between two gusts of wind. How did she do that? he wondered and cast a look at Legolas next to him who was looking pensive.

Lothiriel could feel her confidence rising. The crowd was cheering and some were even calling her name. They didn’t know that they were helping her in more than one way. During the last round she had realized that what seemed to be a distraction to be ignored could actually be of help. She had seen several women in the crowd wearing gauzy headscarves and had noticed how the breeze lifted them as she shot her first arrow. By observing them she had managed to time her second shot better.

There was a pause as the spare targets were removed, there being only five contestants left over and banners were affixed to the remaining butts. At seventy paces Lothiriel knew she was at the outer limit of her range, unlike the men around her. In the end it all came down to the fact of their superior physical strength. She had underestimated their skill and knew she was outmatched. There was only one thing left in her favour, sheer determination. Her brothers used to call it pigheadedness; she had always preferred to call it willpower.

They lined up for the next round. On her right were two of the Rohirrim riders and a guard of the citadel while on her left, much to her surprise, was one of her brother’s guards. He gave her a nod and a friendly smile and she felt better again. Then a thought struck her and she turned to look at the pavilion. Just as she had feared there was her brother, wearing a shocked and outraged expression on his face and next to him Melian, looking white. The King of Rohan stood beside them with an impassive face. She tried to ignore him.

The master of the tournament now gave the sign they could shoot at will. Lothiriel watched the silver swan banner behind her target flapping wildly then drooping in a lull. The others took the opportunity to shoot, but Lothiriel had noticed the telltale flapping of the scarves in the crowd heralding another gust of wind that blew their arrows wide. When the wind dropped again she mustered all her strength and not inconsiderable skill and loosened a shot that hit the mark dead centre. The crowd gasped. Lothiriel closed her eyes. Now if only nobody hit the bull’s eye at eighty paces she would win, as she was the first at this distance. The wind was actually turning into an ally!

Éomer was astonished. Lucky again! How had she done that? He watched in dismay as one of his men, Garmhold, was so rattled by being beaten by a woman that he missed twice more at a distance he usually mastered easily. With a sheepish look at his king he had to retire.

Gimli turned to Legolas in amazement and remarked, “If one more competitor drops out you’ve actually won your bet.” The elf was looking slightly surprised himself.

The master of the tournament now came up to ask if he should suspend the contest to be continued at a later time, but Éomer shook his head. “Whoever masters these conditions deserves to win, “ he said.

The temperature had dropped considerably and the light was waning as thunderclouds were slowly drawing in. “Eighty paces!“ the new distance was announced and Lothiriel got ready to shoot again.

But now the wind betrayed her and a dead calm descended. The remaining rider hit the centre of the target at his first try and so did the guard of the citadel to her right. Lothiriel bit her lip as her first arrow fell short. At this distance she would consider herself lucky if she just made the distance, let alone hit the target. It was no consolation that her brother’s guard fared no better, at least his second arrow hit the target on the edge whereas hers fell short once again.

Lothiriel was feeling exhausted and her left arm was aching dully, but she remembered how their archery master had always insisted the key to successful shooting was in the mind, not the arms. One year he had even made them practice with their eyes blindfolded. Feel where the target is, aim with your heart, he used to tell them.

Once again she looked over to where Nightwind was grazing and somehow found reserves she didn’t know existed. She poured everything she had into that last shot and then closed her eyes. When she opened them again it was to see her blue and silver arrow quivering dead centre.

Mercilessly the butts were moved back another ten paces. It was hopeless, she thought, there was just no way she could shoot that far. Her brother’s guard gave her a pat of encouragement on the back before he had to quit the field. She hadn’t even asked him his name.

Then she suddenly felt the wind picking up again. The clouds overhead were threatening rain and fierce gusts of wind were making archery almost impossible. It was not much use to her, however, as the rider from Rohan would win if nobody hit the target at this distance. He had been the first to hit the bull’s eye at eighty paces.

What I need is a miracle! she thought as all their arrows were blown off course in the first round. The second round was no better and the two men were starting to look annoyed. Her trick with the spectators didn’t help anymore either, as the wind was now changing direction constantly, sometimes blowing from the side, sometimes from the back. Not that a lull would have been much use to her anyway at that range.

The rider now managed to hit the target on one side with his third try whereas the guard of the citadel missed completely once more, rattled by another violent gust of wind.

Now there was only herself left. Lothiriel hesitated. She was loath to fire her last arrow, for then it would be over and the mare lost.

Afterwards she never knew what made her look behind her, but she did and then she saw it: a gust of wind, raising dust and last year’s dry leaves, coming her way. She turned back towards the target, concentrated on the silver swan and drew her bow. When the wind reached her she closed her eyes, breathed “Elbereth Githoniel!” and loosened her last arrow.

Stunned silence. Then the crowd erupted into wild cheers and started to call her name. Lothiriel’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t believe it when she saw her arrow stuck in the centre of the target and for one wild moment wondered how it ever got there. It was only when the other two competitors came over and congratulated her stiffly that the truth began to sink in.

Then she suddenly felt herself swept up into strong arms. “Well done sister!” exclaimed her brother, hugging her. “You’ve shown them what stuff we of Dol Amroth are made of!” She stared at Elphir in total surprise as he was carried away by his enthusiasm. This was not the reaction she had expected of him.

As the first fat drops of rain started to fall the crowd dispersed hastily to find shelter and she suddenly found herself face to face with the King of Rohan, who congratulated her coldly. Next to him stood Legolas, grinning broadly.

Of course, she thought, he has won his bet.

“May I have a word with you and your sister?” Éomer asked Elphir in a formal tone and led them over to one of the smaller pavilions. Lothiriel could feel her elation fading fast.

By now the rain had started to fall in earnest and she was glad to get under cover. Lothiriel was feeling exhausted and realized she hadn’t had anything to eat since that late breakfast with her sister-in-law. It seemed a very long time ago. As she sat down on one of the benches provided, Legolas brought her a glass of wine and she gave him a grateful smile.

Then her attention was caught by Éomer talking softly to Elphir over in one corner. Her brother was looking thoughtful and nodding his head. He seemed to have recovered from his unusual excitement remarkably fast. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as the two came over towards her.

Elphir cleared his throat. “King Éomer has made a very kind proposition,” he said in a pompous tone, “and most generously offers to send for more horses to Rohan, horses which are much more suitable for you to ride. You may choose one of them.”

“No, “ Lothiriel said flatly and jumped up. Then she added more moderately, “Thank you for your kind offer, but I want Nightwind.”

Éomer was frowning again. “What do you want with a warhorse? Are you planning on riding into battle?”

“Of course not,” Lothiriel replied reasonably, “it is not that I want a warhorse, I just want Nightwind. It is as if I was meant to have her.”

He shook his head. “Under normal circumstances you would never have won the tournament anyway, “ he exclaimed, “it was a complete fluke!”

“I know,” she had to acknowledge. At least he couldn’t fault her for not being truthful.

“Maybe she was really meant to have the mare,” Legolas now interposed, looking thoughtful.

The King of Rohan rounded on his friend. “Haven’t you done enough today to get the princess into an early grave?”

Legolas looked startled. “Why an early grave?” he asked surprised.

“It takes more than a couple of apples and some Elvish words to control a Rohirric battle steed. This is no gentle lady’s mount we are talking about, Nightwind is trained to kill. The princess will be a danger to herself and those around her.”

Lothiriel felt offended. “You are assuming just because I am a woman I cannot ride, “ she accused him.

“I have seen what kind of horse you usually ride,” he reminded her in an annoyed voice, “Nightwind is highly trained and if she goes to a warrior might well save his life in battle one day.”

She could feel her temper rising. “She might save my life one day,” she pointed out, “and I am certainly not afraid of riding her.”

“It is not your courage I am doubting, not after last night,” Éomer said with a significant glance at her brother who was looking confused at the exchange, “it is your commonsense I am questioning.”

Lothiriel took a deep breath. “My Lord King, you are being insulting!” she said evenly.

“My Lady Princess, you are being unreasonable,” Éomer replied, finally losing his temper, “you are acting like a wilful child who wants something and is told she cannot have it.”

It was Lothiriel’s turn to lose her temper. How dare he use that tone with her! “You are just annoyed that you lost your bet, “ she accused him, “that is why you are trying to weasel out of your promise!”

The moment the words left her mouth Lothiriel knew she had gone too far, but it was too late to take them back. Melian gasped and in the sudden silence they could hear the rain drumming on the roof of the tent.

Éomer had gone white with fury. “The King of the Mark always keeps his word,” he said stiffly. “Very well then, take the horse, but don’t come running to me if you fall off and break your neck!”

“I am hardly likely,” Lothiriel snapped back, standing her ground, “and what is more you don’t have to escort us to Emyn Arnen either. I wouldn’t travel one yard in your company!” She felt as if the whole conversation was rapidly spinning out of control, but she was simply too mad to care.

“Oh yes you will,” he replied, biting off the words, “I promised your brother I would take you there and that is what I will do, even if I have to tie you to your horse. And what is more you will be following my orders on the journey.”

“I won’t” shouted Lothiriel, “you are nothing more than a barbarian king from the Northlands.”

Behind Éomer Melian looked ready to faint. He compressed his lips into a thin line. “I feel sorry for the man who is going to marry you,” he said grimly, “a swan is far too meek and mild an animal to have on your coat-of-arms! You are like an untamed falcon, rending everything in its way with its sharp talons, even the hands of those who would help you.”

Lothiriel dashed a tear from her eyes. “And you are like a mûmak, trampling everything that won’t get out of your way!” she exclaimed with a sob.

She stormed from the tent.

Éomer stood thunderstruck, looking after her. Then he turned to Elphir who took a step back at the look in his eyes. “I expect you to exert enough control over your womenfolk to have them ready to depart in two days time.”

When Elphir nodded weakly the King of Rohan in his turn stalked out of the tent. He did what he usually did when he was angry or upset. He swung on Firefoot’s back without even bothering with a saddle and went racing across the plain. Had there been any orcs in his path, they would have fared badly.

It didn’t improve his temper that he got soaking wet, but at least it cooled him down.

The journey begins

The day of their departure dawned clear and bright but Lothiriel got up with a heavy heart. She was dreading the upcoming journey. She had so looked forward to this trip to see her cousin; it was to be a last sweet taste of freedom before her twenty-first birthday and the call of duty, but now she had lost all enthusiasm for it.

She got up slowly and tried to figure out what to wear. Finally she made her decision: she left her riding skirts aside and chose trousers instead. In her brother’s eyes she had sunk below all redemption anyway, so why bother with propriety? It was going to be a miserable trip; she might at least be comfortable.

Lothiriel sighed. At least it would be nice to get outside again after having spent the last two days indoors. Elphir had forbidden her to leave the house and she had been too dispirited to fight his edict. Only once had she crept out when she had heard that Éomer’s squire had delivered Nightwind and she had secretly visited the mare in the stables, using the same route she had used the other night.

Her things had all been packed the day before, so all that remained for her to do was to pick up her saddlebags full of provisions in the kitchen. Angwen sat her down at the big kitchen table to have breakfast and fussed over her anxiously. She had been horrified when Lothiriel had come back after the tournament soaked to the skin and shivering with rage and tears. Now she tried to persuade her to eat some more hot porridge, but Lothiriel just wasn’t hungry. She was relieved when the cook got distracted by two of the scullions picking a quarrel, and grabbing her saddlebags she quickly slipped outside.

Much to her delight the horses had been brought to the gate already. Nightwind seemed to have picked up the general excitement, was rolling her eyes and dancing from side to side nervously.

“Feeling frisky, melamin?” Lothiriel asked her tenderly, stroking the black mare’s neck. A velvety nose searched her hand for apples and she felt slightly more cheerful.

“I would love nothing better than to take you for a run down to the river, my darling, “ she whispered softly, “but I doubt that we will be allowed.” In fact she knew she was lucky to be riding Nightwind at all. Her brother had objected vociferously, but she had flatly refused to ride any other horse and in the end he had given in. Anything to get me on my way as soon as possible, she thought bitterly.

He emerged from the house now, Melian on his arm and helped his wife mount her little white mare. Then he got on his own horse to accompany them down to the city gates where their escort would meet them. It was an impressive cavalcade that made its way down the wide cobbled thoroughfare of Minas Tirith in the pale dawn light. Besides Lothiriel and Melian there were a number of servants and no less than eight packhorses. In her entire life Lothiriel had never traveled further than from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith and now she began to understand why they had always come by ship up the river Anduin. Two packhorses were kept busy just carrying their tent and bedding.

She had her hands full with Nightwind. The spirited black mare was restless after spending two days pent up in the stables and was testing her new rider. She was spoiling for a run, but although Lothiriel would have loved to oblige her she had to keep her to a slow pace. She had a lovely smooth gait, though, and settled down somewhat when Lothiriel kept her on a tight rein and got her attention. She would sooner die than have the King of Rohan see her loose control of her horse, Lothiriel vowed to herself.

As arranged the Rohirrim were waiting for them just outside the city gates. The sun had risen over the Ephel Dúath by now, dispersing the low-lying mist, and was glinting on their mail coats and helmets. Lothiriel kept well back as her brother went to greet King Éomer. He was sitting astride Firefoot with the ease of one who had spent most of his life on horseback, easily checking the big bay stallion’s antics. Like most of his men he wore his long blond hair loose and falling down his back. As if he had felt her gaze on him he looked over and Lothiriel quickly dropped her eyes, but not before seeing the cold expression on his face.

Her heart sank even further. This time her lamentable temper had betrayed her well and truly! She shrank from thinking what her father would say when he heard she had accused the King of Rohan of not keeping his promises, the same king who had come to the aid of Gondor in their hour of need. That Prince Imrahil would hear of her folly Elphir had made perfectly clear, not trying to hide his displeasure. More than her brother’s displeasure, though, she dreaded her father’s disappointment. She was a princess of Dol Amroth and should have kept better control of her temper than to have insulted their closest ally, the man King Elessar called his brother.

There was just something so particularly provoking about the King of Rohan’s attitude towards her, the way he assumed he knew best what was good for her and what wasn’t. Even so, she shouldn’t have said what she did, Lothiriel reminded herself and firmly resolved to avoid him for the rest of the journey.

***

Éomer was watching the line of packhorses resignedly. It was going to be slow traveling, just as he had feared. Eager to be on his way he arranged his men to ride with the women and servants in the center and waited impatiently for Elphir to take his leave. The prince seemed quite keen to see the last of them and wore a relieved expression on his face when they finally set out. Éomer couldn’t blame him.

In order not to strain Faramir’s resources, he had left half his men behind in the camp on the Pelennor but even with only half an éored they were still a formidable fighting force. He didn’t really anticipate any trouble on the way, although there were still some bands of orcs and easterlings rumored to be left in the Shadow Mountains. It always paid to be prepared for trouble, however, and once they left the settled lands around Minas Tirith he would send out scouts.

For the moment, though, he just enjoyed the feeling of finally being on his way, the road spreading smooth and empty beneath their horses’ hooves. Firefoot, of course, was yearning for a run, but they were forced to a very sedate pace by their baggage train.

He cast another look back and let his glance linger on Lothiriel who was ignoring him studiously, riding ramrod straight and concentrating on her horse. He had been annoyed when he saw her riding up on Nightwind, but not really surprised, although he knew only one other woman who would have dared to flaunt his will in this way. Maybe he was finally starting to take the measure of the princess of Dol Amroth.

Éomer had to admit she was a better rider than he had thought. He had expected to have to keep Nightwind from bolting with her, but although the mare was higher spirited than usual the girl seemed to have her well in hand. Inwardly he sighed. Maybe he had been a little bit too harsh on her and had said things he didn’t really mean. She still had no business riding a warhorse, though, he thought grimly. He shouldn’t have lost his temper the way he had, but it was her stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to good advice that had provoked him. He decided to try to ignore her for the rest of the journey.

It was strange to think they were following the same road they had taken over a year ago on their way to the Black Gate. The land had recovered and was green and fertile again, but there were still the ruins of burnt down farmhouses to be seen every now and again. By midday they reached Osgiliath, which was slowly being rebuilt, and crossed the river Anduin by one of the new bridges.

Éomer called a quick halt for some food, but soon pressed on again, impatient to be on his way. They would follow the old Morgul road as far as the crossroads and then turn south toward Emyn Arnen. On their own and riding at speed they could have reached the crossroads in one day, but as it was they were forced to make camp late in the afternoon when Lady Melian was visibly beginning to flag in the heat.

The site he chose was situated in an easily defensible position on the banks of a small stream backed by a steep embankment and once he had posted sentries he set to the ordering of the camp. As the weather promised to stay dry they didn’t bother with their own small tents, but the women’s tent was put up at the foot of the embankment and cooking fires were lit. Some of his men had brought down small game while scouting the way ahead, which was now added to the provisions they had brought from Minas Tirith.

***

Lothiriel watched the purposeful goings-on in the camp for a while. Her own servants had shooed her away when she had offered to help with putting up the tent and now there was no work for her hands. She was secretly impressed with the efficient way everybody seemed to know what to do; these Rohirrim had obviously set up camp many times before.

Melian was so exhausted that she retired to have a rest once the tent was up, but Lothiriel was feeling too listless to join her. It had been a long tense ride and she decided to stretch her legs a bit. Picking up an apple she paid a quick visit to Nightwind who was picketed with the other horses and appreciated the treat, then wandered down to the ford.

The bank was strewn with pebbles mixed with bigger stones and balancing on them she slowly made her way further upstream. There was a bend a little further along and just beyond that a couple of flat boulders jutting out into the river, where Lothiriel sat down. She knew she was still within earshot of the camp, but at least she had the illusion of some privacy. The opposite side of the stream was steep and densely wooded and she saw a fox disappear quickly in the underbrush, startled by her presence.

The evening sun was glinting on the water, turning it into liquid fire as she knelt down and scooped some up to wash her face and arms. The bruises on her left arm had faded almost completely by now, she observed thoughtfully. Soon she would be able to abandon her long sleeved shirts for more comfortable clothes. It had been another scorching hot day and the stream looked very enticing, but she had to content herself with taking off her riding boots, sitting down on one of the rocks and dangling her feet in the cool water. Even her audacity didn’t stretch to taking a bath with a whole camp full of men just around the corner.

Picking up a small piece of wood washed up on the bank she threw it in the water and watched as the current slowly whirled it around and then swept it away downstream. It would eventually reach the river Anduin and from there the sea, she thought wistfully and suddenly felt terribly homesick and alone. This was the furthest away from home she had been in her whole life.

It was then she heard light steps behind her and somehow knew without even turning around who it was.

Éomer had seen the princess make her way down to the ford, of course, but it was only when she disappeared round the corner that he decided with considerable irritation he had better go after her. After his past experience he didn’t trust her to do the sensible thing and stay near the camp. It was therefore with some surprise that he saw her directly he rounded the bend.

She was sitting on a boulder, her long legs dangling in the water, and was watching the river with a forlorn expression. He had meant to berate her for straying from the camp but instead found himself asking her in a much gentler tone than intended to come back with him. She had stiffened when she heard his steps and now looked up at him warily. Her eyes were really the most striking color he had ever seen, Éomer thought as he extended a hand to help her up. After a short hesitation she accepted his help and got up slowly, still not uttering a single word. She was looking absurdly young as she stood there in her bare feet, leaving wet footprints on the stone, a carefully neutral expression on her face, as if she expected him to start shouting at her again any moment. He had to remind himself sternly that it was the princess’ unreasonable behavior that had provoked their argument.

“It will be getting dark soon,” he said and motioned for her to precede him, “Let’s go back.” She nodded and picking up her boots took a few steps in the direction of the camp. Then she stopped and turned to face him.

Lothiriel’s conscience had been pricking her all day and now she took a deep breath. “King Éomer,” she began hesitantly. Though he had sounded stern and forbidding the look in his eyes had been strangely kind and this gave her the courage to go on.

“I would like to apologize to you for my words,” she said, and because she didn’t believe in doing things by halves threw her pride completely overboard and added, “I know you keep your word. You and your countrymen came to our rescue in Minas Tirith and saved us all, including my father and brothers. You paid for your oaths in blood. Please forgive me my thoughtless words.”

There it was, she had said it and thrown herself on his mercy. For a long moment he just stood there looking down at her, obviously very much surprised by her forthright words. His eyes warmed perceptibly.

“Princess Lothiriel, I accept your apology,” he answered with a sigh, “I said a few things myself I didn’t really mean.”

This was really more generous than she had any right to expect, Lothiriel thought. For some reason it made her feel even worse. “It’s my lamentable temper,” she explained contritely, biting her lips, “my father keeps telling me I have to learn to control it.”

There was a sudden rueful smile in his eyes. “My uncle used to say the same to me. I even ended up in prison once because of it.” He stopped abruptly as if he’d said more than he had intended.

Lothiriel’s eyes went wide. “In prison? Whatever for?”

“Disrespect towards the King of the Mark in his own hall,” he said dryly. She looked up at him uncertainly, not sure if he was joking or not. Something in his tone made her doubt whether she was going to get more of an explanation.

Firmly changing the subject he went on, “Let my tell you, though, Lady Lothiriel, that I still do not consider Nightwind a suitable mount for you. Please let me get you another horse.”

“One nice and docile as befits a Gondorian lady?” she asked bitterly.

“I can see you are a good little rider,” he said in a voice so reasonable it set her teeth on edge, “I just think you have no business riding a warhorse.”

Somehow they seemed to have ended up at the same point they had been before. Lothiriel reminded herself firmly that she did not want to start another argument, she had said quite enough last time. Instead she tried to explain.

“Have you never been in the situation where you saw something and absolutely knew you had to have it, no matter the consequences?” she asked him pleadingly and he looked down at her with an odd expression on his face.

“The moment I saw Nightwind I knew she was mine and I was hers,“ Lothiriel went on earnestly, “I am sure you feel the same about Firefoot.”

Éomer frowned. “That’s different and you know it. You might think you can control a Rohirric battle steed, but you will end up giving her the wrong signals or saying the wrong words and somebody will get hurt.”

“Teach me,” Lothiriel replied.

And when he looked at her in complete surprise she added, “I am planning to visit with your sister for four weeks. Teach me as if I was one of your riders, and if at the end of my stay you still feel the same you can take Nightwind home to Rohan with you.” She crossed her arms and gave him a challenging look.

“And you would accept my judgment?” he asked in disbelief.

“I trust you to be fair,” she nodded.

Éomer watched the princess with narrowed eyes. It was an unusual and surprising offer, but then he was starting to realize she was an unusual and surprising woman.

“It will be a lot of hard work,” he warned, but she just shrugged.

“I am not afraid of hard work. Do we have a deal?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“We have,” he assented and took her slim white hand in his large calloused one.

“Is there anything you are afraid of?” he asked her with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Spiders!” she replied at once and shuddered. “I hate those hairy creatures.”

Éomer had to laugh out loud. “Spiders? You are not afraid of mûmakil then?”

Lothiriel blushed and gave a shamefaced laugh. She had the sinking feeling her rash words were going to haunt her for a long time to come. Then she threw him a quick look out the corner of her eye. “I am sure they are delightful creatures once you get to know them better,” she said demurely, “in fact I have been told they are quite clever.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she replied not noticing the note of warning in his voice or perhaps choosing to disregard it, “it is said they can even be taught simple tricks.” She gave him a cheeky grin.

Éomer shook his head. “You are irrepressible!” he exclaimed, but he had to laugh in spite of himself. Offering her his arm he escorted her back to the camp.

***

It was only when they were well out of sight and the startled fox had returned to the riverbank to finish his drink that the scout on the other side of the stream stood up carefully and made his way to the hiding place where he had tethered his horse. His master would be pleased he thought. Women, the possibility of rich plunder and the hated horselovers!

Oh yes, Mashrak would be pleased.

Melamin – my love

The crossroads

“Wake up, my lady,” the maid said timidly. Lothiriel groaned and tried to burrow deeper into her blankets.

“My lady, you ordered me to wake you up at first light,” the maid tried again.

“I did?” Lothiriel opened one eye and looked at her blearily. Then she remembered the night before and groaned again. “I did!” she agreed and sat up with a sigh.

Over dinner last night King Éomer had explained what exactly he meant by hard work and she had started to wonder what she had let herself in for. She still wasn’t sure why she had made the offer to give Nightwind back. She had fought so hard to win the mare, had defied him and her brother and now on an impulsive whim she had jeopardized all that. She didn’t know why it mattered what the King of Rohan thought of her, but somehow it did.

It would certainly prove to be an interesting challenge, Lothiriel thought, and usually she liked challenges, just not so early in the morning. Yawning broadly she got up and dressed quickly as the air was rather chilly. She used to go riding every day back home in Dol Amroth, but even so her muscles were sore from spending the whole day yesterday on horseback. After casting a last envious glance at Melian who was still fast asleep on the other cot she opened the tent flap and slipped outside.

The sky had started to brighten in the east, but dawn was a long way off yet. The camp was slowly starting to wake up although there were still plenty of sleeping forms lying around the banked up campfires. Smiling she wondered if King Éomer was one of them. Melian had been scandalized when she realized he was going to sleep on the ground just like his men. Her sister-in-law had been visibly relieved when Lothiriel had come back with Éomer the day before, having made up their quarrel. Poor Melian, she thought remorsefully, she hated arguments and raised voices and had had a most uncomfortable couple of days.

Over on one side one of the riders had built up his fire again and was handing out cups of hot tea. Lothiriel grabbed one with a quick word of thanks and gratefully wrapped her fingers around it. The brew was sweet and much stronger than what she was used to, but it helped to wake her up completely. Some of the riders offered her a quick nod or a couple of words of greeting as she strolled through the camp down to where the horses were picketed and she resolved to learn some Rohirric, at least enough to say good morning in their own language; it only seemed polite.

Nightwind was tethered near one end of the line of horses, next to Firefoot. Early as it was the horses had already been watered and fed and Éomer’s squire was busy grooming the big stallion. When he spotted her, Beda wordlessly handed her a brush and curry comb. Lothiriel wondered if there was anybody in the camp who didn’t know what she was here to do. “You will have to look after Nightwind yourself until you know every inch of her and realize instinctively when there is something wrong with her,” Éomer had explained the night before.

At least the mare was pleased to see her and gave her an affectionate nudge with her head. Brightening up Lothiriel began to groom her with long even strokes. It was not as if she did not know how to do it, for as a child she had been expected to look after her little gray pony herself, it was just that when she graduated to horses it was no longer considered fitting for a princess to groom her own horse. She had to admit, though, that unlike some other traditions this was not a rule she had bothered to fight very hard. Her brothers would be rather surprised if they could see her now.

The black mare was leaning into her strokes, enjoying the attention and Lothiriel found herself warming to the task. “You are a lot of horse to groom, aren’t you,” she said, patting Nightwind’s neck fondly, and laughed as the mare whickered softly in reply.

By the time she had finished with combing the mane, picked Nightwind’s hooves and had run her hands down all the legs to check for swelling, the rising sun was painting the sky in delicate shades of orange and pink and the birds had started their dawn chorus. The camp had sprung to life by now and the servants had started to take down their tent.

Lothiriel decided she had earned some breakfast. One of the riders was baking griddlecakes on his campfire and she stopped to have a look. They smelt delicious and were probably rather tastier than the porridge her servants were certain to have prepared for her. He looked up, offering her one with a smile, and with a start Lothiriel recognized the rider from the archery competition. His name was Éothain, she remembered.

“Thank you,” Lothiriel said gravely and then hesitated. She had wondered before if he minded very much loosing to a woman and now decided to take the opportunity to talk to him. “I would like to say I think you’re one of the best archers I have ever met,” she told him. When he looked pleased at the compliment she added, “I know Nightwind should have gone to you. Do you mind very much not winning her?”

He gave her a slow smile. “I did at first,” he admitted in quite fluent Westron, “but the gold I won will come in handy. Hopefully I will be able to buy some horses to give to Alfhild.”

“Who is Alfhild, your wife?” Lothiriel asked curiously and sat down near the fire.

“Not yet,” he replied shaking his head, “but I hope she will accept my suit now.”

“Well I wish you the best of luck,” Lothiriel said, stretching out her hands towards the fire to warm them up, “is there any chance of another cake?” she asked hopefully and with a grin Éothain handed her one.

“They are easy to make,” he explained, “just mix flour, water and honey and then bake them on the griddle.”

“I am a hopeless cook,” Lothiriel had to admit ruefully, “my brother Amrothos claims I can spoil anything and tells me I will have to marry a rich man with a large kitchen staff.” They laughed together.

While grooming Nightwind the exercise had kept her warm but now Lothiriel found herself shivering in the chilly dawn air. She started as suddenly a heavy cloak was dropped on her. It was woven of green wool with a white horse embroidered on it.

“Finished with your chores already?” the King of Rohan asked her with an ironic smile. The cloak smelt of horse and of man but she wrapped it round herself, grateful for the warmth it provided.

“And a very good morning to you as well my Lord King,” she replied evenly, “yes, I’m finished with grooming my horse.”

“You had better saddle her up then,“ he said and grabbed a griddlecake, “we will be leaving soon.”

Lothiriel got up with a sigh. “Back to work,” she remarked to Éothain. Grinning widely he tossed her another cake.

“Do you think we will make to your sister’s today?” she asked when she had caught up with Éomer.

He nodded. “I certainly hope so, that’s why we are leaving early.” Picking up her saddle he motioned for her to put the saddlecloth on Nightwind’s back and then heaved it on. He watched critically as she finished bridling and saddling up. Once she was mounted he unhitched her stirrups. “You won’t be needing those today,” he said much to Lothiriel’s surprise, “or these either,” he added taking away her reins as well.

She looked at him in dismay. “How am I supposed to control Nightwind without reins or stirrups?” she asked, alarmed.

“With your legs and voice of course,” he replied quite unmoved, “it will improve your balance. Just sit deep in the saddle and you will still be in charge.”

When she still looked doubtful he added, “think of yourself as a heavy bag of grain.”

In her life Lothiriel had been compared to many things by the courtiers of Dol Amroth, most notably to a swan, but a bag of grain was not amongst them. Correctly interpreting the flash of anger in her eyes, Éomer threw one last remark over his shoulder with a grin as he moved on. “You can always think of yourself as a royal bag of grain if that feels better.”

Very funny, Lothiriel fumed. He was obviously enjoying winding her up, but of course it was her own fault for handing him the upper hand like she had done. Maybe it was time for a change of tactics concerning the King of Rohan.

Accordingly she only smiled at him sweetly when a little later they were on their way and he curtly ordered her to ride with him. “It’s always a pleasure to talk to you, King Éomer,” she said dulcetly. “Especially when asked so courteously,” she couldn’t resist adding when she saw his startled look.

He gave her an appreciative grin. “Princess Lothiriel, would you do me the great honor of granting me the pleasure of your company for a while?” he rephrased his command and she inclined her head in gracious assent.

The road had started to climb slowly but steadily as the mountains loomed nearer, and the sun at last rose over the Ephel Dúath and shed its golden light on them. It was still quite fresh, though, and Lothiriel was grateful for the borrowed cloak. As they rode at the front of their company, King Éomer finally clarified his reasons for making her ride without reins and stirrups.

“You wanted to be treated like one of my riders. I make all of them do without them for a while,” he explained and Lothiriel felt slightly mollified.

“Stirrups are easily lost in a fight and as an archer you have to be able to use both hands. Moreover it makes you more aware of how to use your body to control your horse.”

Lothiriel nodded thoughtfully. At first her hands had felt strangely empty without reins but then she had noticed how responsive the black mare was to her slightest aid. A soft touch with her legs was all it took to move her in the desired direction.

“This one is a princess among horses,“ Éomer said, nodding at Nightwind with an ironic side-glance at her, “sweet tempered, yet brave and proud. She has some meara blood.”

Lothiriel decided not to rise to his bait and asked intrigued. “What are mearas?”

“Mearas are the descendants of Eorl the Young’s horse Felaróf. It was said of him that he understood the speech of men.”

“Are you implying she understands what we are saying?” Lothiriel asked skeptically.

Éomer shook his head. “She is just more intelligent than most horses, but she does understand some commands.” He uttered a short word in Rohirric and the mare stopped abruptly, nearly unseating Lothiriel who had not been prepared for it.

“What else can you make her do?” she asked once she had recovered and gotten Nightwind to move again.

“Run, buck, rear and come to me amongst other things,” Éomer replied.

They rode in silence for a while as Lothiriel digested the meaning of his words. She absolutely did not like the feeling of sitting on a horse that could be controlled by somebody else. “Can anybody use those commands against me?” she asked finally.

The king shook his head. “She will only obey if she knows and trusts you, that is why it is important that you look after her yourself.”

For the next hour he kept her busy learning words of Rohirric and for once her training as a princess stood her in good stead. She had been taught ways to memorize endless genealogies and this was certainly more useful knowledge.

“What is the Rohirric expression for ‘tyrant’?” Lothiriel finally asked with an innocent face.

“Why do you want to know?” he replied and at once realized his mistake.

“It might come in useful,” she said with a mischievous look. Éothain, who was riding at his other side, hastily converted a laugh into a cough.

“It’s the same word as ‘princess’,” he said deadpan and she threw him a glare.

She was so easy to wind up, Éomer thought to himself, and rather enjoyed the way her eyes flashed when she was annoyed. Mind you, she gave as good as she got.

One of his scouts came cantering up now and looked rather startled when the princess greeted him in his own language. He recovered quickly, however, gravely answering her greeting and then proceeded to give his report. Apparently the roads were clear but Éomer still felt slightly troubled. For quite some time now the feeling of being watched by unfriendly eyes had grown on him and he had noticed Firefoot growing restless, too. They were approaching the crossroads and maybe it was just the old evil still lingering in Morgul vale even after the demise of the nazgûl that made him uneasy. The road was now lined with an avenue of massive tree trunks, killed in some long ago cataclysm. This country with its steep hills and dense forests of ancient trees was just so unlike the open plains of Rohan that it made his back crawl.

Sensing his change of mood Lothiriel had fallen silent at his side and was now regarding him with an inquiring look.

“If anything happens you will return to Lady Melian’s side straightaway,” he ordered her in a voice that brooked no argument. “Just make sure you stay on Nightwind’s back. As long as you manage to do that you are safe.” She looked slightly alarmed, but only gave a short nod. Donning his helmet, Éomer could only hope that for once in her life the Princess of Dol Amroth would do as she was told.

Up ahead he spotted the ancient stone statue that marked the place where they would have to take the road leading south.

***

Concealed in the gorse bushes high up on the hill ahead of them Mashrak was watching them with hate in his eyes. His scout had been right, it was the cursed horselovers. He remembered them from the battle on the Pelennor fields, singing as they cut his king down. That had been a bitter day for the black snake and he himself had barely escaped with his life.

Their leader was a tall man riding a bay stallion, a white horsetail on his helmet. He knew they were there, Mashrak thought suddenly, he could just tell by the tension in the man’s body, the way he covertly scanned the hills out of the corner of his eye. Probably alerted by their wretched horses with their keen animal senses.

“Which one do you want? Do you fancy the blonde or that dark one riding at the front?” Razmir asked him, leering at the women below. Mashrak frowned. It was typical of his brother to only have that one thing on his mind. He was a vicious fighter, totally disregarding any danger when there were women to be captured and the younger they were the better. Mashrak loved his brother dearly, but even he felt slightly repelled by some of the things Razmir did to them.

Below them the riders had reached the crossroad and were turning south. His hands itched to give the signal to attack, but he hadn’t survived as long as he had by taking stupid chances. The horselovers were simply too many and too vigilant in unfamiliar county. In a pitched battle they would hopelessly outmatch his own men. Mashrak preferred to strike quickly and covertly, taking whatever plunder they could get and leaving no survivors.

“We retreat,” he ordered. When Razmir shot him an outraged look he added, “Patience! Our time will come.”

Like a snake in the grass they would wait and they would watch. Sooner or later the horselovers would grow complaisant and make a mistake, they all did, and then he would strike.

Oh yes, their time would come, Mashrak thought.

***

Éomer felt a lot easier once they had taken the south road and turned their back on Morgul vale. The road had started to descend towards the fertile lowlands of Southern Ithilien and the forest was beginning to be interspersed with clearings. Huge oaks grew on either side, their roots covered in moss, and while the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, under the trees it was still pleasantly cool.

With a word of thanks the princess gave him back his green cloak and he rolled it up and stowed it away on his saddle. In a thoughtful voice she asked him, “Do you think there was somebody watching us back there?”

Not wanting to alarm her unduly he replied, “It was probably just the evil still lingering on in Morgul vale.”

She shuddered. “I remember the nazgûl flying over Dol Amroth during the war. I was terrified.”

He nodded. “Any sane being would be frightened by them.”

“Yet your sister slew their king. She must be very brave.” Lothiriel’s voice was filled with open admiration.

Éomer was always slightly bemused by the referent awe Éowyn was held in Gondor. To him she was still and always would be his little sister, to be looked after and protected. “She was very brave,” he agreed now, “and also very desperate.” His face darkened as he remembered those grim days.

“Let us talk about something else, “ Lothiriel said, observing him worriedly, “tell me about ents.”

His brooding look was replaced by amusement. “They are big and strong and very useful to have on your side,“ he replied. “Rather like mûmakil,” he couldn’t resist adding.

Lothiriel groaned. “Seriously, what do they look like?”

One question led to another and soon he found himself telling her about ents and the downfall of Isengard, about Uruk-hai and the battle of Helm’s Deep. She was an eager audience and her eyes shone when he told her about meeting the halflings on the field of Cormallen.

Lothiriel knew she had been lucky to have been spared the horrors of the war, yet at moments like these she still felt slightly cheated to have missed seeing all these extraordinary sights. All she had ever met were two elves, she thought. Remembering her meeting with Legolas she suddenly realized she hadn’t even had the chance to ask the elf what the stakes had been in his bet with Éomer. Lothiriel opened her mouth to ask the King of Rohan about it, but then closed it again. Maybe it was better to exercise discretion for once.

They stopped soon after at a small stream to water the horses and have their midday meal, but didn’t linger there long. The trees were starting to recede and to be replaced by open fields and there were solitary farmhouses every now and again. The inhabitants watched them warily at first until they recognized them as being from Rohan. By the time the sun was westering over the White Mountains they could make out the entry to a wide valley fronted by a solitary watchtower.

“Emyn Arnen.” Éomer announced.

Emyn Arnen

Emyn Arnen was located in a broad fertile valley on the eastern side of the hills of the same name. Éomer knew that the house that had been built there by Steward Húrin, one of Faramir’s ancestors, had been burnt down and razed by orcs during the war and he was impressed by the amount of rebuilding that had been done already. Across the entrance to the valley an earth wall had been heaped up, limiting access to a narrow wooden bridge directly underneath the watchtower. A little earlier he had sent one of his men ahead to announce their coming and they were hailed in a friendly fashion by the guards stationed there.

Once past that point the valley widened again and they could finally see their destination, the manor house built halfway up the hill on the opposite end. There was a swift stream coming down the hill and running through the valley, its bank lined with willows and lush meadows. As they drew nearer they passed fields of wheat and barley and orchards of tall apple and cherry trees.

Éomer wondered if it was true that his sister had taken up gardening. Somehow he could not picture Éowyn pulling weeds, but her letters lately had been full of small domestic details. She and Faramir had been married only six months ago in Edoras, but she had obviously taken to her new life here like a duck to water.

The road now started to rise towards the main house and he noted with approval the good defensive position it was built in and the obviously new wooden palisade surrounding the whole complex. The gates were thrown open in welcome and they passed into the wide courtyard beyond, filling it to capacity.

Éomer’s face broke into a wide smile as he spotted his sister standing with Faramir on the steps to the main house and he dismounted quickly and enveloped her in a tight hug, for the first time realizing how much he had missed her.

“You look well,” he remarked, beaming down at her. Eyes the same deep blue as his own smiled back at him.

“It is good to see you, brother. Welcome to Emyn Arnen!”

For a long moment they just stood there silently, delighting in each other’s company, before Éowyn recollected her role as hostess. She turned to greet Lady Melian who was helped down from her horse by Faramir and who looked very tired. Then her eyes widened as Lothiriel rode up.

“Éomer!” she exclaimed, “that is Nightwind, isn’t it? You never told me you…”

“I did not give her the horse!” Éomer interrupted hastily, trying to keep his sister from jumping to conclusions.

Éowyn looked confused. “What do you mean? That is your mare, isn’t it?”

“She won it from me. I will explain later.”

Faramir had turned to Lothiriel and had swung her down from her horse. “And how is my favorite cousin?” he asked laughing, “Still up to your usual tricks?”

Her eyes met Éomer’s for one moment and she colored slightly. “Not at all,” she replied meekly as Éomer returned her gaze with a sardonic smile.

Éowyn had watched the exchange with open interest. “So this is your ‘little’ cousin?” she asked Faramir and embraced the princess warmly. The two women were of the same height.

“She has grown somewhat since last I saw her,” Faramir admitted, “and in more than one way,” he added, looking Lothiriel up and down with open approval. Lothiriel blushed and he grinned at her mischievously.

Éowyn cut in with a playful frown at her husband. “If you are quite finished with teasing our guests, maybe they would like to step inside and freshen up. I’ve had hot baths prepared for you.“

Melian looked relieved. “That sounds wonderful,” she admitted with a tired smile.

It certainly did, Lothiriel thought to herself as she made to follow Éowyn up the steps. After spending two full days on horseback all her muscles were aching and a certain part of her anatomy was rather sore.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Éomer stopped her, indicating Nightwind with a raised eyebrow. She looked at him in disbelief. He cannot be serious, she thought with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“You’re not giving up on your first day already, are you?” he asked with a grin and Lothiriel recognized he was serious after all.

“Certainly not!” she replied through gritted teeth.

***

By the time she had finished grooming and feeding the mare her muscles were aching in earnest but by then the promised bath was no more than lukewarm. Not that she would have had much time to enjoy it anyway, Lothiriel thought, as she hurriedly slipped on one of her gowns at random. She did not even have the time to dry and braid up her hair again before one of the maids knocked on her door to announce that dinner was ready.

“Poor Lothiriel, did you fall asleep in the bath?” Faramir asked her solicitously when he noticed her damp hair as he escorted her to her seat.

“I was delayed somewhat,” she admitted and nodded coldly at Éomer who was seated across from her.

He gave her an ironic smile. “Your cousin has earned her dinner for once,” he said to Faramir, “she has agreed to look after her horse completely by herself.” When the Prince of Ithilien looked startled he added, “I hope you didn’t let Beda help you?”

Lothiriel, who had in fact received an offer of help from the squire and had been sorely tempted by it, took a deep breath and silently counted to ten and back in Rohirric to keep from retorting in an unladylike manner. “No.” was all she said in reply, but the look she gave the King of Rohan promised revenge.

Mercifully Melian and Éowyn came in just then and the conversation moved on to other topics. When the food was served Lothiriel found she was ravenous and for a while concentrated almost exclusively on eating, only listening absentmindedly to what her cousin was telling Éomer about the building work still going on.

“You are our first guests,” he was saying now, “and I think this house is unlikely to ever see a more illustrious company: a king, a prince and no less than three beautiful princesses!”

Éowyn laughed. “All that is missing is a queen,” she said with a wink at her brother who just groaned. Then she turned to Melian and Lothiriel. “Tell me, did you make Éomer’s acquaintance in Minas Tirith?”

Melian just nodded, but Lothiriel suddenly saw an unexpected chance for revenge open up before her. The opportunity was simply too good to pass up. “We did,” she said in a nonchalant tone while watching the King of Rohan out of the corner of her eye. He was talking to Faramir again and was just lifting his wineglass to his lips. In a voice pitched to carry across the table she announced “the first time we met he jumped at me in the Queen’s Garden.”

Éomer choked on his wine.

As Faramir gave her a horrified look she innocently added, “luckily he was unarmed or I would now be dead, or so he informed me.” The look the King of Rohan gave her through his violent coughing fit promised her she might well still suffer that fate.

Even so, she started to feel slightly concerned when his coughing showed no sign of abating and he went red in the face. She had just intended to punish him for his teasing words and certainly did not want to be the one to finish off the last King of Rohan. Wasn’t there a Steward once who choked on a fishbone? Lothiriel thought worriedly. Fortunately for her peace of mind and the future of the Mark, Éomer recovered after having several strong pats administered on his back by his sister.

While he was cautiously sipping a glass of water Faramir said in a severe voice to his cousin, “perhaps you would care to explain your remarks?” In a considerably chastened frame of mind Lothiriel did just that and told them the story of that night’s adventure. Melian, who had previously only been given a heavily edited version of events looked close to fainting again while Faramir didn’t know if he should be amused or horrified.

“I can’t believe you took the route across the stable roof,” he exclaimed, “I’d completely forgotten about it.” Éomer who for the first time realized she had had to cross Firefoot’s box to get to the trapdoor in the roof closed his eyes. The Princess of Dol Amroth would probably never know how lucky she had been to survive that experience.

Melian and Lothiriel retired soon after, the one genuinely exhausted, the other feeling she had said enough for one evening.

Faramir looked after them, shaking his head. “I can see Lothiriel hasn’t changed one bit, she always was a handful!” He smiled reminiscently as he remembered some of the mischief they had gotten into as children. “And you haven’t even told us yet how she got hold of a Rohirric warhorse,” he added shrewdly.

Éomer hesitated for a moment when they looked at him expectantly, then he sighed. Éowyn would hear the whole story from his men anyway, so he might as well tell them himself. “She won it in an archery competition,” he explained and went on to tell them the whole story, only leaving out their acrimonious argument at the end, not being very proud of the way he had lost his temper that day. Éowyn probably wasn’t fooled, but she held her peace for the moment.

Faramir was chuckling when he finished his tale. “Lothiriel was always in some sort of trouble and still is by the sounds of it. I think the only one who ever managed to quell her was my father. She was always on her best behavior around him.” Éomer wished he could ask the late Steward his secret but didn’t voice the thought.

Faramir now got up and gave his wife an affectionate kiss on the brow, “Well, no doubt you two have a lot of catching up to do in that incomprehensible language of yours. I’ve still got some work to do and will be in my study for a while.”

Éomer had taken him aside before dinner and told him about the incident at the crossroads and Faramir had decided to send some of his rangers to scout out the area around Morgul vale. A number of travelers had disappeared over the last few months and he was hoping that with the help of his brother-in-law’s men they might to be able to flush out the bandits. The only problem was finding their lair amongst the many caves and hidden passages that riddled the Ephel Dúath.

Between them they had decided not to mention anything to the women in order not to alarm them unnecessarily. It was a well-meant decision and it was really not their fault that it should turn out to have such unfortunate consequences.

Companionable silence descended as Faramir left the dining room. Éomer watched his sister as she poured herself another glass of wine and made a thorough inspection of the sweetmeats on offer, finally settling on a particularly sugary looking confection. She looked well, he thought, and it wasn’t just the added color brought to her complexion by the southern sun. Éomer had noticed during dinner how she seemed more relaxed and happy than what she used to be, laughing with her guests and being teased gently by her obviously adoring husband. He was glad to see that the wall of icy reserve she had built up in the unhappy years before the war had finally been broken down.

“I see Faramir has found out the secret of how to win your heart,” he remarked as she picked out another revoltingly sweet looking sweetmeat. His cousin Théodred and he had always teased Éowyn for her predilection for honeyed sweets.

“He is a wise man,” she replied, licking the sugar off her sticky fingers.

“Well I can see he hasn’t managed to turn you into a Gondorian lady yet,” he said with mock severity.

“Faramir knows a hopeless task when he sees one,” Éowyn replied and they shared a grin.

“Married life seems to agree with you,” Éomer observed more seriously.

“It does,” she said simply, “oh, I miss the plains of the Riddermark and I miss you, but this is the first time I have really got a place I can call my own.”

“But Meduseld was your home!” Éomer protested, honestly shocked.

“It was my home, but I always felt like a caretaker. First for Théodred’s future wife and then for yours.” Noticing his surprise at her frank words she added, “I’ve done a lot of thinking lately and have realized this house is like a fresh start with no bitter memories attached to it. Simply a place to share my life with Faramir and to be happy.”

Éomer sighed. “Your happiness is all I ever wished for. I still miss you, though,” he added wistfully, “Meduseld has been grim and empty without you.”

“What you need is a wife,” Éowyn replied impulsively and he groaned.

“Don’t you start as well! My advisors have been telling me little else these last few months than that the Mark needs an heir. The only good thing about it is the fact that they can’t seem to agree on who is to provide it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Éowyn protested, “although they are of course right. I’m just worried about you being all on your own without any family.” What her brother needed, she thought privately, was somebody he loved to come home to, somebody to keep him from brooding on the past too much.

“I know my advisors are right,” he admitted with a sigh, “it’s just that I have spent my whole life fighting and I don’t really know how to go about looking for a wife.”

“Well, what qualities are you looking for?” Éowyn asked.

“I suppose she should be able to run the household in Meduseld and be capable of looking after things while I’m away and she should be liked by the people of the Mark.”

His sister frowned. “You are only speaking of your queen, yet what of your wife?”

“I will have to consider myself lucky if she’s moderately pretty.”

Éowyn looked at him in dismay. It squeezed her heart to hear him speak so despondently and made her realize anew what a precious thing she and Faramir had between them. “Oh Éomer,” she exclaimed and took his hand in hers, “I wish you could have the same good fortune as myself.”

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about me, sister. After all I’m the lucky one, I survived the ring war against all expectations,” he added bitterly and they fell silent remembering their cousin Théodred who had died fighting Saruman’s armies.

Éomer tried to lighten the mood again. “I will do my duty by the Mark eventually. After all Rohan was nearly left without an heir a little earlier tonight,” he joked.

Éowyn smiled at that, but she was not fooled. Her brother had always been very good at hiding his true feelings behind being the consummate warrior and a façade of self-deprecating jokes. “So whom are your advisors recommending as a queen?” she asked, unwilling to drop the matter.

“Fortunately they can’t make up their minds whether she should be from the Westmark or the Eastmark. I don’t know what I will do if they ever gang up on me.”

Éowyn, who didn’t have the slightest doubt that he was the absolute master in his own home, frowned. “Does she have to be from Rohan?”

“They seem to think so. You would be astonished at the number of Rohirric maidens who have visited Edoras recently.” He named a few of them and she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Impressive list, isn’t it,” he said bitterly, “considering I haven’t spent more than a week at a stretch in Meduseld since your wedding anyway, I was so busy. Mind you, Minas Tirith was worse.”

“Worse?” Éowyn asked, starting to feel amused.

“In the future I will have more sympathy for the stags I hunt. It was like being pursued by a pack of dogs, what with all the Gondorian lords pushing their womenfolk at me!”

Éowyn had a vision of her brother being hunted through the palace gardens by shrieking women throwing themselves at his feet and started laughing helplessly. “Poor Éomer! Having all these ravishing Gondorian beauties yearning after you...”

“Ravishing indeed! I would rather face a pack of orcs.” When Éowyn broke into fresh laughter he added severely, “I see I can count on no sympathy from your side.”

His sister was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “What do you expect? It’s your own fault for being such an attractive warrior king. After all, it’s not as if there ever was a dearth of women wanting to share your bed, I seem to remember.”

He looked surprised at her outspoken words, then gave her a grin. “The problem is, this lot wants to share my life as well.” He sighed. “Half of them are too much awed and frightened of me to utter more than a few words, being pushed at me by their fathers, while the other half only have one thing in mind, to become a queen.”

“To which category does the Princess of Dol Amroth belong?” Éowyn asked unexpectedly.

He looked startled. “Lothiriel? Well, she certainly isn’t awed by me. Fortunately she is too young to think of marriage yet or I would probably have that brother of hers after me as well.”

Éowyn gave him a questioning look. “When she rode up on Nightwind today I thought for a moment you had gotten engaged.”

He winced. “Yes, I noticed. But like I explained I didn’t gift her the horse, she won it from me.”

“You didn’t tell us the whole story, though, did you?”

Inwardly he groaned. His sister knew him altogether too well. “No, I did not. We had a terrible argument after the tournament and I lost my temper with her.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “You don’t usually loose your temper with women, I thought you reserved that for your foes.”

“Well I did that time. She said some unforgivable things.”

“Yet she seems to have been forgiven.” Éowyn remarked dryly.

“She apologized and we made a deal,“ Éomer replied, starting to feel being cornered.

“What kind of deal?”

“I teach her how to control her horse, but if I judge her not to be capable of it by the end of her stay I take Nightwind back with me.”

“That seems fair enough,” Éowyn remarked thoughtfully, “so why did she make you choke like that at dinner? Don’t tell me it wasn’t deliberate, I saw the guilt on her face.”

He grinned. “I am sure it was deliberate. Still, I deserved it really. I made her groom her horse before she could have her bath and then teased her about it.”

“You made the Princess of Dol Amroth groom her own horse like a common stable hand?” Éowyn asked aghast. She had met Prince Imrahil during the war and she could imagine what he would think of his only daughter being forced to do that kind of menial work.

“It won’t hurt her. In fact it might settle her down a bit. She reminds me of a box of Gandalf’s famous fireworks, you never quite know when they are going to go off.”

With a smile Éomer added, “don’t tell her I said that, though. I am already in her bad books for comparing her to a bag of grain earlier on today.”

“A bag of grain?” Éowyn repeated incredulously, “why, you had it coming to you! If word ever gets back to Dol Amroth you will have all the courtiers there howling for your blood.”

He didn’t seem particularly worried about it. “Let them,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

His sister gave him another searching look. “Faramir tells me Lothiriel has been managing the castle for her father for the last three years,” she remarked conversationally.

“Has she?” Éomer seemed surprised but then he nodded, “well, she can be quite commanding and certainly knows how to get her way.”

“She is a princess and she’s beautiful.” Éowyn pointed out.

“I suppose she’s quite attractive,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Quite attractive?” Éowyn exclaimed, “Why, she has that famous Gondorian beauty, raven hair, fair skin, gray eyes...”

“Her eyes aren’t gray,” he unexpectedly found himself forced to point out, “they are green.”

“So you noticed.”

“Well they are difficult to miss, aren’t they,” he said and then added hurriedly when he saw the triumphant look on her face, “and you must be mad if you think she would make me a suitable queen. The only suitable thing about her is the fact that she is a princess. You can’t leave her on her own for one moment without her getting into some sort of mischief. She would drive me crazy within a month!”

When his sister still looked unconvinced he declared firmly, “I would probably end up murdering her and I have no intention of going down in the annals of Rohan as Éomer wife-slayer, the first King of the Mark to kill his own queen. And that is my last word on it!”

Wisely Éowyn decided to leave it at that and changed the subject.

Let sleeping warriors lie

It was with a certain amount of trepidation that Lothiriel faced the King of Rohan at the breakfast table the next day, but nothing untoward happened. He was deep in conversation with Faramir and only nodded a civil greeting at her. In her turn she devoted herself studiously to her food and congratulated herself silently when she was able to slip outside unnoticed at the end of the meal.

However, her relief was short-lived. She was just about to lead a freshly groomed Nightwind out of the stables when Firefoot in the next-door box announced his master’s arrival by whinnying with evident pleasure. Lothiriel was rather less pleased to see the king and when asked where she was headed, answered rather evasively that she was just going for a short ride, all the time trying not to meet his eyes.

“An excellent idea, Princess Lothiriel,” he said in a genial tone, “you won’t mind if I join you, will you?”

She looked up in alarm, trying to frame some sort of excuse so as to decline his company when she noticed the amused glint in his eyes. Apparently he knew only too well that she was trying to avoid him.

“Very well then, if you must,” Lothiriel replied ungraciously and braced herself for the dressing-down she would surely receive once they were out of earshot of the manor house.

However, still nothing happened. Not once did he touch on her unfortunate remarks at the dinner table the night before. Instead the King of Rohan commented on the impressive view, the continuing fair weather and the trees heavy with fruit as they made their way down the steep switchback trail, forcing her to reply in the same manner.

The princess had to admit to herself that here was a worthy opponent and decided to put an end to the charade when they reached the valley floor.

“I think you’ve had your fun, my Lord King,” she said, drawing her mare to a halt and looking him straight in the eye, “so why don’t we get this over with and you tell me exactly what you think of my abominable behavior yesterday evening.”

Éomer started to laugh. “Oh, I think I deserved it for teasing you like I did,” he admitted, disarming her completely, “but you can’t blame me for trying to get my own back, can you?”

Taken completely by surprise she stared at him with her mouth open.

He grinned down at her. “What about a temporary truce? Shall we cease hostilities, at least for today?”

Lothiriel gave a slow smile. “Very well then,” she agreed, “I will strive not to make you choke again.”

“And I will strive not to make you late for your bath again,” he replied solemnly.

The pact was sealed with a handshake and then Éomer looked at her enquiringly. “I see you have got your stirrups and reins back. What about going for a quick run along the river bank?”

Lothiriel’s face lit up and her excitement translated itself to Nightwind who began to dance from side to side nervously. “Oh yes, let’s do that,” she replied eagerly and Éomer couldn’t help smiling at her open delight.

Without another word they turned their horses towards the river and started galloping across the meadow.

She was an intrepid rider, laughing out loud when they had to jump a fallen log half buried in the grass, but then Éomer had not expected anything else. Too soon they reached the end of the valley and had to draw rein. Lothiriel’s eyes were shining with pleasure and she leaned forward and stroked her mare’s neck tenderly.

“Oh, you are the best, Melamin, that was wonderful!”

Éomer fell a strange pang as he watched the princess lavish affection on Nightwind. Surely he wasn’t getting jealous of a horse? He shook his head resolutely as they turned round and began to ride back slowly to cool down their mounts.

“That was the best ride I’ve had since I left Dol Amroth. Thank you, King Éomer,” Lothiriel said impulsively.

He smiled back at her. “Do you often go riding back home?”

“Everyday, if I can talk one of my brothers into accompanying me.” She smiled mischievously. “I can’t wait to see Amrothos’ face when he sees Nightwind’s turn of speed. He’ll go green with envy.”

“I get the feeling I have not made myself very popular with your brothers,” Éomer remarked with a laugh.

“Oh, Amrothos is harmless. Erchirion is the only dangerous one.”

He shot her an amused glance. “And why is that?”

“He’s the best swordsman in Dol Amroth and he’s got my temper.”

“That does sound like a deadly combination,” he agreed seriously, earning him an urchin grin.

“I thought we had agreed on a truce?” she challenged him and he held up his hands in surrender.

“Very well. Let’s talk about something else. I have told you about ents and elves, so it’s your turn. Tell me about the sea.”

“The sea?” she asked with surprise, “what about it?”

“I’ve never seen it,” he explained patiently, “what is it like?”

“Never seen the sea!” she repeated incredulously.

“A grave fault of character, I know,” he agreed soberly.

“At least it is one you can remedy,” she shot back at once. “The sea, yes,” she added hastily when she saw the look on his face, “it’s difficult to describe.”

“A lot of water?” he prompted politely.

“Yes. Well, it changes constantly. It might be blue and calm one moment and then a squall draws in and suddenly the sea is stormy and gray.”

“A bit like a woman then,” he murmured with a sideways look.

She ignored his interruption. “It smells of salt and fish and there always is some wind. I think that is what I miss most here.”

Indeed the day was completely wind still and it was warm already, even in the dappled shade of the trees along the riverbank. He gave her a thoughtful look. “That sounds a bit like the Riddermark, I’ve heard it called the Sea of Grass. There is a place on the hills above Edoras where on a clear day you can see forever and all you can hear is the wind sighing through the grass. If you ever come to Rohan I will take you there.”

She smiled, pleased. “And if you ever come to Dol Amroth I will take you sailing in the Alqua.”

“What is the Alqua?” Éomer asked puzzled.

“It’s a small sailboat and quite seaworthy,” she reassured him when she saw his skeptical look, “we are not allowed to go out of sight of the shore anyway.”

Éomer wasn’t sure if he wanted to visit Dol Amroth with such dubious pleasures in store, but he was too polite to say so. Instead he asked, “Who is ‘we’ then?”

“My brothers and me,” Lothiriel explained, “we use the boat to go swimming.” She smiled, remembering, “I was born in a caul, so tradition says I can’t drown. Well, one day Amrothos decided to put the old wives’ tale to the test and threw me overboard.”

Lothiriel laughed at his shocked look. “Luckily Erchirion was along and fished me out before I swallowed more than half the water in the Bay of Belfalas. I’ve never seen my father as angry as when he heard about it. Afterwards he insisted I learn to swim properly, though.”

Éomer could only shake his head. “No wonder you take being jumped at in the Queen’s Garden in your stride.”

They had reached the orchards at the foot of the house now and by silent agreement dismounted and turned to the banks of the stream to water their horses.

“Do you still remember the Rohirric I taught you yesterday?” he asked and took some apples out of his saddlebags. When she nodded he drew his knife and cut one into quarters, handing her the pieces. “What I want you to do today is to practice calling Nightwind to come to you and to stand still.”

“Watch!” he commanded and called Firefoot’s name. The big bay stallion lifted his head from the water and obediently came to his master. “Stay,” Éomer said in Rohirric and walked away from him, openly carrying an apple in his hand. The stallion’s ears pricked forward and his eyes followed him, but he stayed where he had been ordered.

“Good boy,” Éomer said, turning back, and gave him the apple as a reward. Firefoot nuzzled his hair affectionately and he laughed. “Your turn now!”

Lothiriel cleared her throat and called Nightwind’s name. The mare lifted her head but showed no inclination to come out of the water until she spotted the apples.

“It’s a start,” Éomer remarked, “now tell her to stay.”

But instead of staying where she was, the mare followed Lothiriel close behind, eager for more tidbits.

“You mustn’t reward her until she obeys you,” Éomer explained at her frustrated look, “she knows the commands, but she has to accept you as her mistress. Have patience,” he recommended as he cut up some more apples for her.

Then he took Firefoot’s reins and led him over to where a conveniently placed boulder lay in the grass. Leaning back against the sun warmed stone he settled down to watch the princess practice and suddenly found himself yawning. Having a lot of catching up to do, Éowyn and he had talked until the early hours of the morning, yet by habit he had still gotten up at his usual early hour to check on his men. The sound of Firefoot cropping the grass and the lazy droning of bees made him feel drowsy. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

Lothiriel was slowly having more success. By putting considerable command in her voice she had finally gotten the mare to stand still and had then praised her lavishly. Now she was going further and further away and called her to come to her. Nightwind was a quick learner and soon picked up what was wanted of her. When all the apple pieces were gone she turned to Éomer to ask him his opinion of her progress, only to see that the King of Rohan had fallen fast asleep.

Firefoot lifted his head as she walked over but then settled down to grazing again, apparently not considering her a threat to his master. Lothiriel sat down in the grass a few paces away from him and regarded Éomer thoughtfully. It was a rare opportunity to study him unobserved. In repose and with his cool blue eyes closed he looked much younger and she was suddenly struck by how much responsibility rested on his shoulders. From what she had heard he had inherited a kingdom ravaged by war and now devoted all his time and energy to rebuilding it. The deep love he bore his country and the pride he took in its people was evident in every word he had told her about Rohan. He had seemed more at ease and relaxed this morning and she wondered if it was due to the presence of his obviously much beloved sister.

Suddenly she grinned; she could now tease him mercilessly about what a good guard he made. First she would let him sleep a bit longer, though, after all it was still early and they weren’t expected back at the house anytime soon. What was more she didn’t have any chores to do, being a guest here.

Idly she started to pick some flowers when she heard him mutter unintelligible words in Rohirric and glanced over. He was frowning in his sleep and was tossing from side to side, plagued by some sort of bad dream.

Hesitantly Lothiriel leaned over and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “King Éomer?” she asked.

It happened so quickly she didn’t even have the chance to scream. One moment he was fast asleep, the next he had rolled over onto her, pinning her down beneath him. Still caught up in his dream, he was looking down at her unseeingly, holding a naked dagger to her throat.

“Éomer!” she gasped in alarm, not daring to move, “Éomer, wake up! It’s me!” Suddenly she remember that this was the man her father had once called one of the deadliest warriors on Middle-earth.

The fog slowly cleared from his eyes to be replaced by incomprehension. “Lothiriel?” he asked, “What has happened? Are you all right?”

“I will be, if could please remove your knife from my throat?” she answered, relief flooding through her.

He looked down in horror, only now realizing what he held in his hand and abruptly rolled off her. The dagger fell to the ground. “What have I done?” he groaned.

She sat up gingerly and with shaking hands felt the back of her head where it had hit the ground. Her hair was full of bits of grass. I will have to brush them out before we go back she thought inconsequentially. Then she cast a look at the King of Rohan who had buried his head in his hands. “Éomer?” she said tentatively.

He looked up slowly and she saw the pain in his eyes. “I very nearly killed you Lothiriel,” he said incredulously, “had you struggled I would surely have killed you...” His voice trailed off.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said reasonably.

“Not my fault?” he echoed incredulously, “I hold a knife to your throat and you say it’s not my fault?”

“You had a nightmare…”

“Lots of people have nightmares,” he interrupted bitterly, “yet they don’t go around hurting defenseless women.”

“Éomer, you didn’t hurt me,” she protested, starting to feel concerned for him.

He shook his head in wonder. “How can you defend me, after what I very nearly did to you?”

“I know you would never ever harm me intentionally,” she pointed out, “and indeed you didn’t. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“I don’t deserve your generosity, Lothiriel,” he said bleakly.

“You must have seen a lot of horrors in the battles of the ring war, it’s no wonder you suffer from nightmares.” Lothiriel said hesitantly. She knew her brothers had seen some disturbing sights even though they had tried to keep it from her and had not told her much.

“It’s not the battles I’ve been through that I dream of,” he burst out unexpectedly, “it’s the one I haven’t.”

“What do you mean?” Lothiriel asked in confusion.

“It’s always the same dream, of the battle on the Fords of the Isen,” he explained bitterly, “I watch my cousin Théodred being cut down by Uruk-hai and I try to reach him in time, but I’m too late. I am always too late!”

“Yet you weren’t there?”

He shook his head. “I had orders to stay in Meduseld, but I should have been there. He died in despair, without a kinsman by his side, thinking the Mark would fall to Saruman.”

Lothiriel didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, feeling her words to be totally inadequate.

He went on without hearing her. “I never wanted that stupid crown! I would much rather be Third Marshall again and have Théodred back!”

She didn’t know what to say at this revelation. He had always seemed the quintessential king to her and she could not imagine him as anything else, he was so self-assured and absolutely in command. It came as a bit of a shock to find out he was human after all.

“He was your uncle’s only son?” Lothiriel might know the genealogy of all the noble families of Gondor for many generations back, but she only had a vague idea of the Kings of Rohan.

Éomer nodded silently and she suddenly wondered what it would feel like if all her brothers had died and she had inherited the Princedom of Dol Amroth. Lothiriel shivered. It didn’t even bear thinking about, for she loved them all dearly, even poor stuffy Elphir.

“I cannot say why your cousin should have died and you should have lived,” she said slowly, “yet you cannot bring him back. All you can do is to be the kind of king he would have wanted you to be and to keep his memory green.”

“I will,” Éomer said tiredly and they were silent for a long time.

“Well, thank you for listening to me, Princess Lothiriel,” he finally said in a more formal tone. Apparently the time for confidences was over. He extended a hand and helped her to her feet but did not let go for a moment.

“Will you forgive me?” he asked, his blue eyes serious.

When she nodded, he wordlessly tucked away a wayward strand of hair behind her ears.

“You’re not afraid of me now?”

Lothiriel shook her head silently and it was nothing but the truth. For a moment his fingers lingered on her cheek.

Then they mounted up again and slowly rode back to the house, both of them deep in thought. Just before they passed through the gate Éomer stopped and looked over at her.

“I promise you it won’t happen again.”

“Oh no, it won’t,” she replied fervently, “next time you have a nightmare I will send in Firefoot to wake you up.”

He gave a weak chuckle. “You do that, it’s his fault anyway. He shouldn’t really let anybody near me when I’m asleep.” In a more serious tone he added, “You really are all right?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” she replied with a smile, “don’t worry. After all, nothing happened.”

“No, nothing happened,” he agreed.

Éowyn gave them a sharp look when they rode in together. Something had obviously happened, she thought. The Princess of Ithilien also noticed how quiet both of them were over lunch, but she forbore to comment on it, instead noting with silent approval that some sort of unspoken truce seemed to have been reached between them.

She did wonder, though, where all the grass in Lothiriel’s hair had come from. Maybe it was time for her to get to know her husband’s cousin better?

Melamin – my love

Alqua – swan

Note: A caul is the remnants of the amniotic sac that occasionally covers the newborn child immediately after birth. By tradition possession of a baby's caul was said give its bearer good luck and protect that person from death by drowning. (Source: Wikipedia)

An interesting morning for Éowyn

The chance to talk to Lothiriel presented itself the very next day. Éomer and Faramir had decided to do some sparring and left the breakfast table early while Melian retired to her room after listlessly picking at her porridge, so only Lothiriel and Éowyn were left at the end of the meal.

“Would you like to have a look around the gardens?” Éowyn asked casually and Lothiriel assented readily.

The formal gardens of the old house had gone completely wild during the time the place was uninhabited and were only slowly being returned to some semblance of order, but the kitchen garden, being of more immediate use, had had more effort put into it. It was situated in a sunny spot behind the main house and was enclosed by a low brick wall and divided into neatly kept beds of herbs and vegetables. All along one wall was a burgeoning row of flowers filling the air with their scent. It was here they settled down on a wooden bench beneath an old pear tree that provided some welcome shade.

Éowyn had noticed the princess watching her covertly while she showed her round and now lifted an eyebrow in enquiry.

“I’m sorry if I keep staring,” Lothiriel apologized shyly, “but I find it difficult to reconcile you with being the slayer of the Witch King of Angmar.”

Having encountered this particular reaction many times before Éowyn smiled wryly. “What did you expect?” she asked, “some kind of fierce northern warrior woman wielding a mace? Éomer in skirts?”

Lothiriel had to laugh at the image this brought to mind. “I suppose so. I should have known you weren’t like that. Faramir has always had excellent taste in women,” she added artlessly and then blushed hotly when she realized what she’d said, “Princess Éowyn,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to imply that he…”

Éowyn took pity on her. “Don’t worry. I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, “and please call me Éowyn. When people greet me as ‘Princess’ I always turn round to see whom they address.”

The Princess of Dol Amroth had a lovely smile, Éowyn noted, and her eyes were indeed an unusual green color and not the more common gray. Earlier on, when they had entered the garden, Éowyn had picked up a basket of gardening tools and now she pointed to one of the vegetable beds. “You won’t mind if I do some work while we chat, will you?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Lothiriel replied, but she did look a bit startled at the idea of a princess doing her own gardening. She soon made an offer of help, though, which was gratefully accepted, and a little while later the two women could be seen companionably pulling weeds.

“In Dol Amroth, all I ever get to do is to cut flowers for the dinner table,” Lothiriel said, “this is much more fun.” They shared a grin.

“Just be careful not to pull out my lettuces by mistake,” Éowyn directed and then laughed, “Listen to me giving orders! Considering I’ve only just exchanged my sword for a trowel three months ago!”

Lothiriel gave her a curious glance. “So it is true you have given up sword fighting?” she sounded slightly disappointed.

“Oh, I still practice every now and again, but I have decided to leave the killing to the men, it’s such a grim business. I would rather concern myself with growing things.” She surveyed her garden with pride. “Some people are already calling this the Year of Plenty with all the warm weather we have had.”

She cut off some twine to bind up pea shots. “So what of yourself?” she asked innocently, “My brother has told me you are quite an accomplished archer.”

Lothiriel looked up warily. “He has?”

Éowyn grinned. “Éomer keeps no secrets from me. He recounted the story of how you won your mare and also told me about your argument after.”

When the princess looked acutely embarrassed Éowyn added curiously, “He never divulged, though, what exactly you said to him, only that it was unforgivable.”

“It was,” Lothiriel acknowledged with a blush, “I accused him of not keeping his word.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “That is a serious accusation to level at the King of the Mark,” she said dryly and Lothiriel hung her head, “I’m surprised you lived to tell the tale. It is lucky Éomer doesn’t attack women.”

“It is,” the princess agreed after an infinitesimal pause and bent to pull out some more weeds.

“Well, I hope you get to keep Nightwind,” Éowyn remarked, “is it true you have to look after her yourself?”

Lothiriel nodded, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm. “It has turned into rather a lot of work, but she’s simply wonderful and it’s definitely worth it.”

“I’m sure it is. Éomer’s horses are known to be the best trained in the whole of the Riddermark, which is saying something.”

Éowyn got up to replenish her tin watering can from a bucket standing nearby and carefully started to water her plants. The rich smell of moist soil filled the air. “I am so busy here I don’t get to ride as much as I used to. My poor Windfola probably misses the Mark.”

Lothiriel looked at her curiously. “And what about yourself, don’t you miss Rohan? After all you are very far from home here.”

Éowyn smiled. “This is my home now,” she pointed out gently, “but yes, I long for the open plains sometimes. This densely wooded country is so different from the grass lands of Rohan where you can see for leagues in all directions.”

“But what about your family, don’t you miss them?”

“I do miss Éomer. He’s the only family I have got left.”

“Your only family?” Lothiriel repeated in a shocked voice, “Don’t you have any other siblings or cousins?”

Éowyn shook her head sadly. “Our parents died when I was only seven years old and we were brought up in Meduseld by our uncle. His son was like a brother to us, but he died in the war.”

Lothiriel looked somber. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like. I have three older brothers and countless cousins from my mother’s side that descend on Dol Amroth every summer. Sometimes it even gets too much.”

“You are lucky,” Éowyn said with a sigh.

“I know. Something your brother said about your cousin yesterday made me realize just how fortunate I am really.”

Éowyn gave her a thoughtful look and wondered how much Éomer had told the princess about Théodred. She knew her brother still mourned their cousin, to whom he had been very close, although he didn’t like talking about it.

They had turned their attention to the carrot beds by now and were making good progress with the weeding, as the feathery leaves of the carrots were easily distinguishable.

“So Éomer is the last one left of your family.” Lothiriel picked up the conversation again, “I’m surprised he let you marry Faramir and move to far-away Gondor.”

“Oh, he never even tried to talk me out of it, he loves me too much for that. Not that he could have, anyway.”

When Lothiriel looked pensive, Éowyn added, “Éomer is very generous to those he loves, he will always put himself last…”

The princess of Dol Amroth was not really paying attention. “You are lucky you got to choose your own way,” she said, frowning down at the vegetable bed.

“Why do you say so?”

Lothiriel hesitated. “It’s just that sometimes it seems to me that everybody thinks they know what is best for me.”

“Who is everybody then?” Éowyn asked sympathetically.

Lothiriel was attacking a particular weed with more force than was strictly necessary. “My father Prince Imrahil,” she answered after a long pause, “he wants me to return to Dol Amroth for my twenty-first birthday.”

Éowyn looked puzzled. “That seems reasonable enough, to want to celebrate your only daughter’s birthday.”

“That is not the only thing he wants to celebrate,” Lothiriel explained darkly, “you wouldn’t know of course, but it’s another of our stupid family traditions. My mother got engaged on her twenty-first birthday and so did my grandmother and two of my aunts. They never even considered what they let their daughters in for!” she pointed out indignantly.

“So does your father have any particular candidate in mind?” Éowyn asked casually.

“I will get a choice,” Lothiriel answered bitterly, “he has probably got the traditional half a dozen suitors lined up for me by now.” Then she sighed. “Oh, I know my father means well. He wants me to settle down with one of his vassals near Dol Amroth, so I will be safe and well looked after for the rest of my life.”

“And is that what you want?” Éowyn asked her.

“I don’t really know what I want,” Lothiriel replied moodily, aimlessly digging a hole in Éowyn’s vegetable beds with her trowel, “I would be perfectly happy just continuing to look after the castle for my father. But I suppose I will have to consider myself lucky that I get to stay near the sea and near my family.”

A gilded cage, Éowyn was thinking to herself, shivering. And unless I am very much mistaken this princess is no gentle songbird to appreciate its comfort.

“Does Éomer know about this?” Éowyn asked without pausing to think and then bit her lip.

The Princess of Dol Amroth looked confused. “Your brother? What has he got to do with it?”

“Nothing!” Éowyn improvised quickly, “I was just thinking he is in a similar situation to you, what with his council wanting him to marry as soon as possible.”

Lothiriel nodded. “I have heard about it, in fact it was the talk of Minas Tirith. But at least nobody can force him into marriage.”

“Well his advisors are certainly trying to,” Éowyn replied dryly and Lothiriel had to laugh.

“I can’t see anybody forcing King Éomer to do what he doesn’t want to!”

Éowyn gave her a long look. “Lothiriel,“ she said intently, “just remember nobody can force you either. I have always believed some things are worth fighting for!”

Lothiriel looked surprised at the vehemence in Éowyn’s tone. “Yes, I know,” she said and the two women were silent for a moment, both of them lost in their thoughts. Suddenly Lothiriel looked down with chagrin at the hole she had been digging. “Oh dear, I hope I haven’t damaged your carrot crop!”

“Never mind about that,” Éowyn said with a frown, unwilling to drop the subject. As her brother had found out repeatedly, she could be very persistent if she felt the need to. “So what is going to happen on your birthday?”

Lothiriel sighed again. “My father will expect me to make up my mind as to whom I wish to marry. You know, sometimes it would be easier if he were being unreasonable, if he just promised me without my consent to someone I have never met or if I had to move to a foreign country, away from my family and my people. That I could and would fight, but he is just having my best interest at heart.”

Éowyn was thinking that in her experience cages made from love were the most durable, but aloud she only asked, “Why the rush, though?”

“I think the war made him realize his own mortality and now he wants me settled safely. Anyway, Gondorian weddings are complicated affairs and sometimes the engagement period lasts several years.”

“Years!” Éowyn exclaimed in surprise, “and I thought I had to wait a long time for my wedding to Faramir to take place. Customs are simpler in the Mark!”

“Are they?” Lothiriel asked interested.

“Definitely. There is a tradition in my homeland. You share bread and mead, bed and roof and you are married.”

“That easily?” Lothiriel sounded surprised.

“Well, there might be presents exchanged first,” Éowyn explained, “usually horses or jewellery for the bride, and of course it is slightly more complicated for kings,” she added slyly.

“Yes, I would think so,” Lothiriel replied absentmindedly, “I suppose that explains it.”

“Explains what?” Éowyn asked, mystified by these cryptic remarks.

“Oh, just a story that was making the rounds in Minas Tirith.” Lothiriel suddenly grinned mischievously. “Melian’s maid told me. Apparently one of King Éomer’s more generously built admirers tried to creep into his tent one night to share his bed and roof to become Queen of Rohan. Only the cot collapsed under her weight while she was lying there waiting for him to return and she had to be rescued from the wreckage.”

The two women looked at each other and then suddenly exploded into helpless laughter. Éowyn was wiping tears from her eyes. “I wish I had been there to see Éomer’s face when he came back.”

“I heard he was most put out over the loss of his bed,” Lothiriel added, fighting to keep her composure, “mind you, I don’t know if this truly happened. His cot looked quite sturdy to me, really.”

Éowyn did wonder when and why the Princess of Dol Amroth had been inside her brother’s tent to asses the sturdiness or otherwise of his furniture, but she didn’t voice the thought. Instead she said, “So you see, it isn’t easy for him either.”

“True,” Lothiriel replied and nodded.

“I told him getting married would put an end to all this nonsense,” Éowyn remarked casually while watching the princess closely.

Lothiriel bent down to pull some more weeds, “And what did he say to that idea?”

“He wasn’t best pleased. Apparently he thinks he hasn’t found the right woman yet.”

Lothiriel looked up, her expression guarded, “It does seem a difficult task to find somebody suitably meek and biddable for him.”

“Is that what you think he’s looking for?” Éowyn asked with amusement.

“Without intending any offence … I think your brother will need an extraordinarily patient and understanding wife,” Lothiriel replied with some heat “Why, I have never met a more dictatorial and overbearing man in my entire life!”

“Well, he is a king,” Éowyn replied blandly and grinned. This was proving to be a most interesting morning. Now she got up and stretched her cramped limbs. “What about a break?” she asked and Lothiriel nodded gratefully.

They had been working under the blazing sun and were both of them hot and sweaty. Over in one corner of the garden there was a well and now they drew up a bucket of water to drink from.

“I wish we were near the sea and could go swimming now,” Lothiriel said wistfully.

Éowyn cast her a curious look, “You like to swim?”

Lothiriel nodded. “In this kind of weather it’s simply wonderful!” She was watching the bucket of cold water speculatively.

Éowyn shook her head laughingly. “You know what’s going to happen if you upend it over yourself?”

“What is?”

“Some man is bound to come round the corner that very moment!”

Lothiriel nodded in resignation and contended herself with washing her face and arms.

Éomer, who came to get them for lunch soon after did wonder why his appearance sent the two women into gales of laughter. He stood there looking down at them while they were holding onto each other to keep from doubling over. “You could both do with some cleaning up,” he stated in a severe voice, but for some reason this remark only elicited fresh bouts of laughter.

“Would you care to explain the reason for all this levity?” he finally asked exasperated, but his sister only shook her head. “Never mind, brother of mine. So tell me, is my husband still alive?”

“Don’t worry,” Éomer said insouciantly, “we were only using wooden practice swords today. We will progress to real weaponry and full armor later on.”

“You are being careful?” Éowyn was looking worried.

He grinned. “I know you prefer Faramir undamaged. Anyway, he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” In fact they would probably both sport a spectacular set of bruises tomorrow. His brother-in-law had proven to be a formidable fighter and they had both enjoyed the rare opportunity to spar without having to hold back.

Now Éomer was looking the two women over critically. “And what have you been up to?”

“Lothiriel has been helping me with my garden,” Éowyn replied mildly.

Éomer frowned. He had noticed the princess looking tired; his sister’s company could be rather exhausting at times. “You haven’t made your guest grub in the dirt with you, have you?”

“It’s called gardening,” Éowyn replied sweetly, “and she volunteered.”

“Did she?” he was looking suspicious.

“I did indeed,” Lothiriel intervened at this point, “although I have to agree that your family seems to be very intent on finding useful work for me to do.”

Éomer laughed. “It does seem to be a bit of a family trait,” he admitted, looking down at her with a warm smile in his eyes.

“More like a family failing,” she replied dryly, “I will have to talk to Faramir. He never mentioned all this hard work in his invitation.”

They all laughed and Éomer linked his arms with them as they walked back to the main house. “I came to ask you if you wanted to train Nightwind in the afternoon, “ he said to Lothiriel and added solicitously, “that is, if you aren’t feeling too tired?”

Her eyes had lit up at his words. “I would love to!” she exclaimed.

“Bring your bow as well,” he commanded, “your shooting from horseback in Minas Tirith was absolutely disgraceful.”

Éowyn looked askance at him at these censuring words, but the princess just nodded unperturbed. “I will.”

***

During the next few days they settled into a pleasant routine. In the mornings Lothiriel would help Éowyn in the garden while the men trained at arms on their own. “Too much distraction otherwise,” Éomer had decreed and Éowyn had secretly wondered who exactly he was afraid would be distracted.

After lunch he would teach the princess how to handle her mare and while he was absolutely merciless in his criticism, his sister also noticed he took very good care not to overtax Lothiriel’s strength, so both of them enjoyed these sessions. Éowyn watched them exchange a high-spirited flow of banter and began to think the two were really made for each other. Even Firefoot appeared to agree and he was more difficult to please than his master.

Yet while they were on excellent terms they obviously still needed a push in the right direction. Fortunately Éowyn had just the thing in mind. She was a firm believer in the adage that the end justified the means.

Éowyn’s plan

Lothiriel was watching her reflection in the mirror. It was probably an heirloom of Faramir’s family, old yet hardly tarnished and sported an ornate gilded frame. Éowyn had lent it to her for the occasion and had admonished her to wear her nicest dress. Lothiriel had been a bit puzzled as to why a simple get-together with a few neighbouring families involving a shared meal and some dancing merited such preparations, but she had come to like her cousin’s wife and had acquiesced to her wishes.

So here she stood in the gown her father had given her for her last birthday, surveying herself critically as she turned round slowly. It was made from shimmering, midnight blue Dol Amroth silk, its only adornment a row of tiny pearls along the hem, with trumpet sleeves and a long sweeping skirt that flared out at the waist. Meeting Queen Arwen, who would have looked regal and beautiful in a dress made of sackcloth, had taught her that it did not matter what you wore but rather how you did so, yet it certainly helped to have a pretty gown.

Lothiriel had grown so used to wearing trousers all the time, it seemed strange to have soft fabric brushing against her legs and rustling softly with every step she took. The top of the dress was hugging her figure tightly, baring rather more skin than she was used to and she had to fight the urge to grab the corsage and pull it up higher. She had briefly considered wearing a shawl with it, but had decided against it, for some reason feeling daring tonight.

Behind her, the door opened and Melian entered the room. “Oh Lothiriel,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands together, “you look beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Lothiriel replied, flushing with pleasure, and embraced her sister-in-law impulsively. Melian had offered to dress her hair for her as she had very clever hands and a talent for it. Now Lothiriel fetched a chair and sat down in front of the mirror while Melian started to brush out her hair.

Lothiriel hadn’t seen much of her sister-in-law lately as she had been kept very busy, but as she watched Melian in the mirror, she was suddenly struck by the other woman’s pallor and a hint of dark circles under her eyes.

“Melian,” she began hesitantly, “are you feeling well?”

Melian looked startled. “What makes you ask so?”

“You look tired,” Lothiriel pointed out, “and come to think of it, you seem to have lost your appetite lately.”

Melian blushed slightly. “I have been feeling slightly sick the last few days,” she admitted.

“Sick?” Lothiriel asked worriedly, “Have you seen a healer?”

Melian blushed even more. “I don’t need to. It’s entirely natural…”

Lothiriel stared at her for a moment, then she jumped up and whooped in a most unladylike manner, “Melian! Don’t tell me you’re pregnant!”

When Melian only nodded shyly, Lothiriel embraced her warmly. She knew how long her brother and sister-in-law had been hoping for a baby. “I am going to be an aunt!” she exclaimed happily and started to dance about the room. Then she suddenly stopped. “Does Elphir know?”

Melian shook her head. “I wasn’t quite sure when we left Minas Tirith, although I suspected it, but now I’m certain.”

“Should you be standing up?” Lothiriel enquired solicitously and Melian couldn’t help laughing.

“Don’t fuss! It’s early days yet.”

“Father is going to be so pleased,” Lothiriel mused, sitting down on her chair again.

“Don’t write to him yet,” Melian begged, “you are the first I have told, although I believe Lady Éowyn suspects.”

“Of course I won’t,” Lothiriel promised and lost herself in thoughts on the pleasures of becoming an aunt while her sister-in-law busied herself with her hair.

When she looked up again it was to see the face of a stranger in her mirror. Melian had wound her long raven tresses into a sort of crown around her head, adorning it with dozens of small pearls. Her neck felt strangely exposed without the familiar weight of a braid hanging down and somehow the new hairdo accentuated her cheekbones. Green eyes looked back at her warily and when she met Melian’s eyes in the mirror the other woman looked faintly amused for some reason.

“Thank you,” Lothiriel said slowly, “I look just like a princess. Father would be pleased to see me like this.”

The informal atmosphere here in Emyn Arnen had almost made her forget that first and foremost she was still Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. She had an unspoken agreement with her father, who allowed her much freedom to follow what Elphir called her hoydenish ways, as long as she kept the castle running smoothly and appeared like this in the evenings and when guests were present. But in the end her course in life would still be decided by the simple fact that she was Prince Imrahil’s daughter, no matter what she thought about it.

For a moment she was almost tempted to undo all of Melian’s careful work, but then she sighed. Éowyn had asked her to look her best, although it was a mystery to her why a few neighbours should be so important.

“Let’s go downstairs,” was all she said.

***

Faramir was puzzled. ”Where has our mirror gone?” he asked in some bewilderment as his wife entered their bedroom.

“What do you need a mirror for?” Éowyn asked airily, “You look as handsome as ever.”

He gave a bow. “Thank you my lady wife!” he said with a smile, “and you look absolutely beautiful.” It was nothing but the truth, he thought as she sent him a mocking glance. She was clad entirely in white tonight in one of the flowing dresses she favored, her long blond hair hanging loose to her waist.

Faramir stepped closer and took her gently in his arms. “My white lady,” he murmured and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She gave a contended sigh and slipped her arms around him. At times he still couldn’t quite believe that she had actually consented to marry him and to join him here in Ithilien, leaving her brother and her people behind.

Breaking away reluctantly she looked up at him with a playful smile. “Much as I enjoy this, we are expected by our guests downstairs.”

“A pity,” he replied regretfully and then suddenly remember his earlier question. “So what has happened to the mirror?” he asked again.

“Oh, I’ve lent it to Lothiriel,” Éowyn answered nonchalantly.

Faramir frowned. The mirror was so heavy it took two strong men to lift it and he had been surprised that it had survived the long journey from Minas Tirith at all. “What does my cousin need that mirror for, surely she is perfectly capable of getting herself dressed for a small dinner?” he asked mystified.

“I just wanted to make sure she took extra care,” Éowyn said, still in the same insouciant tone. Faramir did not miss the way she would not quite meet his eyes. Six months of matrimony had taught him a few things about his beautiful wife, amongst other things that she could be extremely difficult to stop once she had set her mind on a certain course of action.

Lately he had spent a lot of his time conferring with his rangers on the whereabouts of the elusive brigands in the Shadow Mountains and now he started to wonder with a certain amount of misgiving if he shouldn’t have paid more attention to his domestic affairs.

“You are up to something, aren’t you?” he asked suspiciously.

“Don’t worry,” she said and stepped back into the embrace of his arms, removing an imaginary speck of dust from his already spotless shirt, “it will all turn out well. Trust me.”

He looked down into her guileless blue eyes. “You know I would trust you with my very life,” he replied seriously, “I’m just not always sure you know what you are doing.”

“I do this time. Kiss me again,” she murmured and lifted her face invitingly. Faramir was too much the seasoned warrior not to recognize an attempt at diversion when he saw one, yet he could not resist her.

“We have to go and greet our guests,” she reminded him after another long moment and he nodded reluctantly.

“I’ll just go and get Éomer,” she said as they reached the head of the stairs, “you go on ahead. Oh, and I’ve invited all our neighbours.”

What did she mean by that last remark? Faramir wondered as he descended the stairs. It belatedly became clear to him when he opened the door to the parlour where their guests had assembled.

***

Éomer was standing by the open window when his sister entered his room. The hot weather was continuing unabated and it was only in the evenings, such as now, that a bit of a breeze would bring relief.

He turned round with a smile. “Come to check up on me sister? Do I pass muster?” he asked her mockingly.

She looked him over critically and decided that he would do, indeed. He looked very handsome in black breeches and a dark green shirt with a sun emblem emblazoned on it in gold thread. His hair, which she had often considered entirely wasted on a man, was gleaming in the light from the window.

“I suppose, you’ll do,” she replied matching his tone. They grinned at each other affectionately.

“I have managed very well to survive on my own in Meduseld for the last six months,” he reminded her, “I have even had the forethought to take a bath.”

“You amaze me,” Éowyn shot back, “or maybe even you noticed the persistent smell of horse following you about.”

He laughed out loud. “Does Faramir know what he has let himself in for?”

“He’s slowly coming to understand, now that it is too late. I have this fierce brother who will make sure he honors his wedding vows.”

“I believe you are quite fierce enough to make sure of that entirely by yourself.”

After this amiable exchange of insults the two linked arms and went downstairs together.

“There is going to be dancing tonight,” Éowyn told her brother with a sideways look.

He gave her a horrified look. “Éowyn, you know what I think of Gondorian court dances!”

“I’m not talking of those stiff Gondorian court affairs, my musicians have been practicing Rohirric dance music.”

“Well in that case,” he said grudgingly, “but I’m warning you, I do not intend to dance with all the dowagers present, no matter what your wishes are.”

“Don’t worry,” Éowyn replied casually, “I’m sure we can find a pleasing partner for you.”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs by now and entered the parlour where the guests had assembled. So it came that Éowyn could appraise first hand the impact the Princess of Dol Amroth had on her brother.

Lothiriel was talking to her sister-in-law when they entered the room, but looked up and threw them a warm smile. Éowyn felt her brother’s steps falter for a moment and had to admit that Lothiriel had done her proud. She looked every inch the princess as she came over and swept them a deep curtsey.

“You look lovely, Princess Lothiriel,” Éomer said and bowed over her hand. Perhaps not the most inventive compliment ever, Éowyn thought critically, but at least spoken with all sincerity.

“Thank you, my Lord King,” Lothiriel replied with a pleased smile, “you have cleaned up rather well yourself. Don’t tell me you’ve put on a new shirt,” she teased him.

He groaned in mock despair. “Not you as well! My sister has already accused me of smelling of horse and now this. I command no respect anymore.”

“As a last resort a crown might help…but I forgot, it pinches.” Lothiriel answered, her eyes dancing with devilment. She seemed in high spirits tonight.

At that moment Éowyn found herself greeted by a suave voice. “What a pleasure to behold the fair Princess of Ithilien! The flower of Gondorian womanhood, a white lily tonight!”

She turned round with a forced smile. “Lord Dorlas!”

“Indeed, my dear Princess,” the nobleman in question said with a rakish smile and kissed the back of her hand, holding it for just a moment too long and giving it a gentle squeeze, “would you do me the honor of introducing me to your charming companion?”

Éowyn had forgotten just how much she disliked the man, but then she had only herself to blame for inviting him. “Of course,” she said now and introduced him to Lothiriel and her brother.

The Princess of Dol Amroth was watching him with fascinated wonder. Indeed he was quite a sight, easily the most flamboyantly dressed man in the whole room. From his spotlessly polished boots over tightly fitting pantaloons in a delicate shade of mauve to a white shirt thickly encrusted with silver and gold embroidery, there was not a hair out of place. His clothing would have earned him the instant derision of all the men present and the deep admiration of not a few of the ladies.

A sickening wave of perfume preceded him as he took Lothiriel’s hand in his own heavily jeweled fingers and bowed over it. “I’m delighted at such a graceful swan from the far away ocean shores paying a visit to us poor, drab inland birds.”

“Drab?” Lothiriel echoed, looking slightly stunned. Meeting Lord Dorlas for the first time tended to have that kind of effect on most people. His style of clothing and the impact of his personality could be rather overwhelming.

Next to her Éowyn could feel her brother starting to bristle, as the man showed no inclination of letting go of Lothiriel’s hand. Instead he looked deep into the princess’ eyes. “Beholding you, the moon itself would cover her face and weep in envy of your loveliness.”

There was not much one could say in reply to such an outrageous statement. “You are too kind,” was all Lothiriel managed as she gently disengaged her hand. She threw a look full of mute appeal for help at Éowyn, not realizing there was no succor to be expected from that quarter.

Indeed, things were going just according to plan, Éowyn mused as she watched her brother directing another unfriendly glare at Dorlas, who was completely engrossed with monopolizing Lothiriel’s attention.

“Who is this cockerel, anyway?” Éomer asked his sister in an annoyed tone.

“Just one of our neighbours. Faramir insisted I invite them all,” she lied shamelessly.

Her husband came up just then to take his wife in to dinner and Éowyn watched with amusement as Lord Dorlas with practiced ease at once took possession of the princess’ hand and was halfway to the door by the time Éomer looked around for his usual dinner companion.

You have to quicker off the mark than that, brother! She thought as Éomer was forced to offer his arm to Lady Melian instead.

Faramir was watching the whole scene with a frown. “I thought you weren’t going to invite Dorlas again after the impudent way he behaved at his last visit?” he asked her softly as he led her outside.

“Well, he’s one of our closest neighbours, isn’t he, so I thought he deserved another chance,” she replied innocently, “also last time I saw him, I gave him a graphic description of how I killed the Witch King, which worked wonders with his attitude towards me.”

Her husband didn’t look entirely satisfied with this explanation, but he held his peace.

Taking advantage of the warm weather they had set up tables and benches in the courtyard outside with one end kept free for the dancing later on. All their neighbours living within a day’s ride had been invited and with Éomer’s men and Faramir’s rangers the place was full to bursting. The tables were already piled high with food and more was continuously brought out from the kitchen. Over in one corner a fire pit had been set up and two whole pigs were roasting on spits. The occasion being informal, people were already sitting down and helping themselves, chatting animatedly to each other.

Lord Dorlas had installed his companion in a seat at the head table and Éowyn noted with interest that her brother had secured the seats opposite them. As they sat down themselves, Éowyn continued to watch them out of the corner of her eye. Lothiriel was starting to look decidedly uncomfortable and for a moment Éowyn felt a twinge of guilt. She appeased her conscience with the reflection that while Dorlas could be a nuisance he was basically harmless.

But as the meal continued her brother’s countenance darkened ever further and Éowyn began to worry just slightly. Lord Dorlas seemed to be completely oblivious of the hostile looks sent his way by the King of Rohan and she wondered if he was at all aware that his chances of surviving the evening unscathed were sinking rapidly.

Maybe she had gone just a little bit too far?

Of swans

Lothiriel was not enjoying herself. She had been brought up to be considerate and polite, and this put her at a distinct disadvantage when dealing with somebody like Lord Dorlas, who did not suffer from a similar handicap. Only now was she beginning to appreciate that the courtiers of Dol Amroth were far too well bred to make advances at the daughter of their Prince. And of course there had always been a watchful brother or her father lurking in the background, keeping an eye on her. By now Lothiriel had arrived at the stage where she would even have welcomed Elphir with open arms.

She shot the man sitting next to her a look of dislike, but he was completely impervious to it, obviously being of the firm opinion that no female could resist his charms. Lothiriel shuddered when she remembered how he had handed her into her chair, had brushed against her bare shoulder as if by accident several times and had been leering down at her. It was a shame she had left that shawl in her room.

Lord Dorlas had noticed her shivering and was leaning over towards her. “Are you cold, Lady Lothiriel?” he asked, somehow managing to intimate in that single innocuous sentence that he would have liked nothing better than to warm her up in a very personal manner, indeed.

Lothiriel couldn’t help blushing. “Not at all,” she replied coldly, shifting as far away from him as possible.

“I’m surprised your father let a jewel such as yourself out of his sight,” Dorlas said now with what he doubtlessly considered a seductive smile, “isn’t he afraid some other man might covet his precious Dol Amroth pearl?”

His legs touched hers as if by accident and she had to suppress the urge to give him an unladylike kick. “My father trusts me to take care of myself,” she answered curtly, not wanting to start another conversation with him.

She had had enough compliments showered on her to last her a lifetime. If he compares me to a swan one more time I’ll start screaming, Lothiriel thought savagely. She would rather be called a falcon she mused with a small smile and cast a quick look across the table at the King of Rohan. For some reason he had been glowering at them throughout the meal, not exactly adding to her enjoyment either. But as he looked up now from speaking to Melian and met her eyes he gave her an encouraging smile and for some reason she felt considerably better. The meal couldn’t last forever and at the first opportunity she would make her escape, Lothiriel vowed to herself.

It had been a mistake to smile, though. Feeling encouraged by it, Lord Dorlas leaned over even further and under the table covertly put his hand on her thigh. “My beautiful swan,” he whispered in her ear.

Lothiriel stiffened. It was at this moment that she decided she had enough. She was a Princess of the House of Amroth and would not let herself be treated in this way. The furious look she cast at Lord Dorlas suddenly made him remember that this was the descendant of many generations of fierce warriors and he hurriedly removed his hand.

She was not finished with him yet, though. Her brothers had always told her that attack was the best defense. “Why do you keep comparing me to a swan?” she asked in a threatening tone, “is my neck too long?”

This ridiculous accusation caught him completely off balance. “Not at all, Princess Lothiriel,” he stammered.

“Are my feet too wide, then?” she pressed him.

“Of course not!” was all he managed to say before she moved in for the kill.

“My brothers won’t be too pleased to hear you have been making disparaging remarks about me,” she pointed out in a deceptively soft voice, “and as for my betrothed…” Lothiriel paused a moment to savor the effects of her words on him, “…he can be most unpleasant when he feels I have been insulted. The last man to do so was left barely conscious and all he had done was to compare my eyes to the sea on a stormy day.”

“Brothers? Betrothed?” Lord Dorlas repeated in a stunned voice. This was obviously news to him.

“Oh yes,” Lothiriel replied, warming up to her story, “all of them ferocious Swan Knights, capable of hewing a man in two with a single stroke of their swords.” By now it was her leaning over and Dorlas shifting out of the way.

“Fascinating,” was all he managed to say in reply, but he excused himself soon after and left her to enjoy the spoils of her victory, a plate of berry tarts all for herself.

Night had fallen by now and all around the courtyard torches had been lit. Over on the opposite side some of the tables and benches were moved aside and the musicians struck up. Lothiriel had been expecting the stately cadences of Gondorian court dances, but instead the music they played, while sounding foreign to her ears, had a lively sound and she found herself tapping her feet.

“Music from the Riddermark,” a voice said next to her and she looked up to see Éowyn standing behind her. “Would you like to dance?” she asked Lothiriel and when the princess hesitated she added, “I’ll show you the steps, it’s really very easy.”

Without waiting for an answer Éowyn imperiously called to her brother to come over. The King of Rohan raised his eyebrows at her tone, but obediently got up.

“I need you to show the Princess of Dol Amroth how we dance in the Mark,” Éowyn explained, taking both of them by the hand and leading them to the impromptu dance floor, quite ignoring Lothiriel’s feeble protests.

Éomer looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “We might as well go along. Believe me, there is not much else one can do once my sister has made up her mind.”

Lothiriel had to smile at this and they obediently joined the other couples, finding a place next to Éowyn and Faramir. Most of the other dancers were riders of his éored as well as a few of the more adventurous young Gondorian noblewomen and a couple of women from Rohan who had followed their mistress to Ithilien.

Éowyn showed her the steps and Lothiriel had to concede that to someone used to the extremely formal and complicated court dances of Gondor they were easy to learn. With the dances she had been schooled in however, all you ever touched were your partner’s fingertips and it felt strange to have a man’s hand round one’s waist and to be whirled around by him. For a moment she wondered what her father would say, could he see her now.

At first she felt extremely self-conscious at being so close to King Éomer, but he just held her gently and after a while she dared to take her eyes off her feet and to look up. He smiled down at her warmly. “That’s better, I prefer to see my partner’s face, no matter how pretty her hairdo might be.”

Lothiriel felt herself blush. “I’m still concentrating on my steps,” she explained with disarming candour, “I hope I won’t step on your feet too often.”

“Your are doing very nicely,” he reassured her, “and anyway I have been toughened up by years of learning to dance with my sister.”

They went on dancing for a while and as Lothiriel was getting more confident she started to enjoy herself. It rather reminded her of the harvest festivals back home, when the peasants used to dance while she looked on in envy from the table of honour, not being allowed to join in.

The first dance ended, but Éomer showed no inclination of letting go of her. “Would you grant me another dance?”

Lothiriel was slightly breathless and feeling rather flushed, although with the coming of the night the air had cooled down a bit, but she nodded spiritedly.

“So tell me Lady Lothiriel,” the King of Rohan took up the conversation again as the music started up, “do you like our style of dancing?”

“I do!” she replied enthusiastically, “With you it’s fun, although with the wrong partner it would probably be torture.” By now she was quite used to speaking her mind with King Éomer.

“The wrong partner being?” he asked with a frown.

“Well, I was thinking of that horrible Lord Dorlas,” she replied with remembered indignation, “I am sure he would never keep his hands to himself.”

Lothiriel was considerably startled when his hands tightened convulsively around her waist and they nearly collided with another couple. He recovered with his usual quick reflexes, but the look on his face was thunderous. “Lothiriel, would you like me to teach him manners?”

Lothiriel looked at him in surprise. She had grown so used to treating him like an indulgent elder brother, that it was only in moments like these that she remembered he was a king and a warrior not to be trifled with. For a moment she was tempted to say yes, but then she shook her head. “I don’t want to cause trouble for Éowyn, after all it’s not her fault.” Was it her imagination or did he look slightly disappointed?

However, all he said was. “Next time something like this happens, you tell me and I will deal with it.”

She felt strangely warmed by his words, but nevertheless found herself forced to point out, “I am quite capable of looking after myself. I got rid of him in the end, didn’t I?” It was a victory she would savour for some time.

He nodded. “I don’t doubt your abilities, it’s just easier for a barbarian king from the Northlands like me to be rude to people like that. They more or less expect it.”

“You’re not a barbarian king!” she exclaimed with indignation and then reddened as she suddenly remembered that she had called him just that not so very long ago.

“Thank you,” he grinned down at her, obviously enjoying her mortification.

Her eyes narrowed. “My Lord King, I thought we had agreed on a truce?”

“So we have, My Lady Princess,” he agreed and went on in a more conversational tone, “so tell me, how did you get rid of your persistent admirer, anyway?”

She chuckled as she remembered the look on Lord Dorlas’ face. “I invented a story about my fierce brothers.”

“That put him off, did it?” he sounded rather contemptuous of the man.

“It did when I told him they could cut a man in half without even trying.”

Éomer grinned down at her. “You are rather bloodthirsty at times!”

The music came to an end now and he gave her a bow as she curtsied. Lothiriel did not get another chance to catch her breath, for her hand was claimed at once by Éothain and after him by various others of the riders from Rohan. While training Nightwind she had gotten to know them and had found that most of them spoke at least a couple of words of Westron. Even Éomer’s squire Beda asked for a dance, although he spent the whole time blushing furiously and only managed to stammer a few words of conversation.

Éomer wasn’t really a very keen dancer, so when he saw Faramir sit down on a bench and pour himself a glass of wine he excused himself from his partner and went to join his brother-in-law.

“Feeling exhausted, too?” Faramir asked with a lopsided grin and poured him some wine as well. Éomer accepted with a word of thanks and for a while they just sat there and watched the dancers. He smiled to see Beda whirling by with Lothiriel laughing in his arms, her eyes flashing in delight. The poor boy was so obviously smitten with the princess, the other riders had been pulling his leg and taking bets whether he would get up the courage to ask her for a dance. It wasn’t surprising the squire had fallen for her, Éomer mused, she was looking very pretty tonight and was a graceful dancer.

“It’s nice to see Lady Lothiriel enjoying herself again,” he finally remarked, his tone causing Faramir to frown.

“Has something happened?” he asked concerned, “did Lord Dorlas bother her?”

“By the sound of it he’s a complete cad,” Éomer replied, “Whatever possessed you to invite him?”

Faramir looked annoyed. “I know he bothered Éowyn last time he was here, but she soon put him in his place. It’s a mystery to me why she wanted to invite him again tonight, but this will be the last time he’s here, no matter what she says.”

Éomer was very much surprised by this piece of information, as it did not agree with what Éowyn had told him earlier on. With the benefit of twenty years’ experience of his sister’s innocent expressions he had thought at the beginning of the evening that she was up to something and now he decided to get to the bottom of things.

So when Éowyn soon afterwards arrived at their table, out of breath and eager to sit down, he swept her up and led her back to the dance floor. Her laughing protests died down when she saw the determined look on his face. Experience had taught Éomer it was best to get his sister off balance from the beginning and to keep her there.

“I thought you liked Lothiriel?” he accordingly asked in an accusing tone.

“I do!” she replied, looking startled.

“So why did you invite somebody like Lord Dorlas and more or less forced him on her?”

“I didn’t!” she protested, but he saw the quick flash of guilt pass across her face.

“That’s not what Faramir just told me. He said it was your idea to invite him.”

She cast an annoyed look at her husband who was deep in conversation with a friend.

Éomer gave her a stern look. “I don’t know what kind of practical joke you were planning, but I won’t have the Princess of Dol Amroth subjected to that kind of behaviour again. Is that clear?”

His words came out sharper than he had intended and he half expected his sister to fire up in defense, but she just cast down her eyes and nodded silently. She did look inordinately pleased with herself, however, just like she used to when they had carried out a successful prank as children. Only who was the butt of the joke this time? Somehow he didn’t think it was Lothiriel or Faramir.

His eyes narrowed. “You invited him for my sake, “ he breathed slowly, thinking aloud and seeing the confirmation of his reasoning in the guilty look in her eyes. “Only why?” he wondered, “It seems rather an extreme measure just to tease me.”

They had come to a halt at one end of the dance floor and brother and sister were facing each other, oblivious to everything else around them. Éowyn was pressing her lips together, stubbornly refusing to answer, but he could tell he was getting nearer the truth.

“If it’s not to annoy and tease me…” his voice trailed off as he was suddenly struck by a monstrous idea. “Oh no,” he said in disbelief, “even you couldn’t think up such a harebrained idea!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Éowyn protested but he just ignored her.

“You still haven’t given up on the idea of me marrying Lothiriel, have you? You wanted to make me jealous!” he accused her.

Éowyn felt that her plans were unraveling fast. “So what if I did,” she defended herself, throwing discretion to the winds, “it worked, didn’t it? Don’t even try to deny it, I saw the looks you cast at Lord Dorlas over the dinner table.”

He looked angry. “Have you any idea what you put the princess through? I think you owe her an apology! Of course I was annoyed, she’s the daughter of a good friend of mine.”

Éowyn was not at all convinced by this explanation, but she suddenly noticed the people around them looking at them in open curiosity. It was a good thing they had been talking in Rohirric, she thought, only to spot Éothain nearby who looked at her and gave her a wink.

More softly she said. “I’m only trying to help you sort out your feelings, brother.”

“Help me?” he echoed incredulously, “with help like that I don’t need any enemies! I would be grateful if in the future you would keep from meddling in my affairs, Éowyn,” he added scathingly and just left her standing there on her own.

She watched him go back to his seat next to Lady Melian and pour himself another glass of wine. He was obviously very much annoyed and downed his wine in one go. Poor Melian watched him rather nervously, not sure what to say and in the end settled on silence as the safest course.

Éowyn sighed inwardly. There would be no talking to him now, she thought. She knew only too well how stubborn he could be; after all she shared the same trait. Looking round at the other dancers she noticed with some relief that at least Lothiriel hadn’t been a witness to their altercation. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the princess for quite a while and couldn’t spot her anywhere amongst her guests.

Making her way to the head table and ignoring her brother’s unfriendly look, she enquired of Melian if Lothiriel had retired already.

“I don’t think so,” Melian replied thoughtfully, “she said she was hot and needed some cool air. That was quite a while ago, though...”

Éomer looked up with a frown, their animosity forgotten for the moment. Searching the crowd for a sight of Lothiriel, he was the first to spot the absence of another of their guests.

“Dorlas is missing as well,” he said grimly, looking at Éowyn as if she was to blame for that as well. “You go and look in your garden,” he ordered her curtly, his glance lingering on a bowl of apples on the table, “I have an idea where she could be.”

Éomer’s shirt gets ruined

“You are a glutton,” Lothiriel said fondly as Nightwind searched her hands for more apples. She had only been able to bring two and one of them had gone to Firefoot, so now the mare was watching her with a disappointed look in her velvety eyes.

Lothiriel was stroking her glossy black coat, savouring the quiet in the stables. Although she had been enjoying herself, after a while her head had been spinning from all the dancing and she had decided she needed a break. Now she was humming softly to herself, as she remembered how she had danced with the King of Rohan. “Do you think he will ask me again, Melamin?” she whispered softly.

The only warning she got was her mare throwing back her head, her ears laid flat, before the door to the box opened and Lord Dorlas stood there, an arrogant smirk on his face.

“What a lovely surprise,” he purred, “the enchanting Lady Lothiriel, all on her own.”

She could smell the ale on his breath from where she stood; yet his voice was remarkably steady. Firefoot in the box next door suddenly gave the wooden dividing wall a violent kick and beside her Nightwind was shifting nervously.

She held out a hand to calm down the mare. “This is a Rohirric warhorse,” she warned him sharply, “don’t step any closer.”

He snorted. “A very likely tale. How would a gentle little thing like you get hold of a warhorse?”

“It is a long story, so I won’t bore you with it, but for your own sake you had better believe me,” she retorted angrily.

“I am sure you could spin me a riveting tale,” he replied, his eyes glittering dangerously, “like the story you told me at the dinner table.”

Caught on the defensive Lothiriel took a step back. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.

“Let me refresh your memory, my little swan maiden,” he said sarcastically, “what about a fierce warrior you are betrothed to. Only I have been talking to some of the other guests and nobody seems to have heard of him.”

“It’s a secret betrothal,” she improvised after a slight pause, “we haven’t told my father yet.”

He gave a nasty laugh and stepped closer. “You are a bewitching little minx, but somehow I don’t quite believe you. What is more, I think you owe me a forfeit for all the lies you have told me. What about a kiss?”

“I would rather kiss a toad!” Lothiriel replied hotly, all the time trying to keep Nightwind from attacking the stranger in her box. It didn’t help that Firefoot next door was neighing angrily.

Incensed at her contemptuous tone Lord Dorlas crossed the distance between them with a couple of quick steps and tried to snatch a kiss, but Lothiriel quickly turned her face to the side so he only managed to plant a soggy kiss on her ear.

“What do you think you are doing?” she exclaimed in disgust, wiping her wet ear and trying to push him away. His only reply was to grab her even tighter.

At first Lothiriel was more annoyed than concerned, only to find there were hard muscles beneath that soft exterior. He probably expected her to melt into his arms once he got hold of her and was completely unprepared for the vicious kick she dealt him in the shin. He still didn’t let go of her, however, but swore savagely and only grabbed her harder. As she struggled in his arms, Nightwind reared up in alarm behind her.

Then several things happened at once. Firefoot stopped trying to batter down the wall, a man’s voice cursed roundly in Rohirric and Dorlas was abruptly hauled off her.

“Éomer!” she exclaimed in relief, somehow knowing at once who had come to her rescue. He had Lord Dorlas by the scruff of the neck and now slammed him against the wall of the box, looking down at him with murder in his eyes.

“You cur!” he hissed through clenched teeth, “you will pay for this!” Dorlas was clawing ineffectually at the iron hands holding him up and his eyes started to pop when the King of Rohan shifted his grip and began to slowly strangle him.

“Éomer!” Lothiriel exclaimed again, this time in alarm, but he ignored her completely, he was so caught up in his deadly rage. While she had not liked being assaulted by Lord Dorlas she did not really want to see the man dead. When his face started to turn purple she tried to pull back Éomer’s arms, but she might as well have tried to shift an ent. Without even taking his eyes off the other man, he effortlessly shook her off, causing her to nearly fall over a bucket of water she had brought earlier on for Nightwind to drink from.

For a moment Lothiriel stared down at it unseeingly, then inspiration struck her and without pausing to think she picked it up and emptied it over the two men. It certainly had the desired effect; Éomer let go of Dorlas with a curse and the other man sank to the ground desperately gasping for air. The King of Rohan, however, turned on her with an angry snarl. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded.

Lothiriel stood her ground. “Éomer,” she said again, talking hold of one of his sopping wet sleeves, “please stop now! I’m fine, nothing happened.”

The rage cleared from his eyes as quickly as it had arisen. “Lothiriel,” he said deeply chagrined, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to frighten you. Are you all right?”

“I am now,” she replied with a sigh and sagged against him in relief, closing her eyes for a moment. “I thought you were going to kill him before my very eyes,” she said weakly as he looked down at her in concern.

He laughed ruefully. “I might well have done so. It’s my temper again. I’m sorry I gave you fright.” He sounded remarkably unconcerned over just nearly having strangled somebody.

They turned to look at Lord Dorlas who was cowering on the floor, coughing wildly and holding his throat. As the King of Rohan took a threatening step towards him, he scrambled to his feet unsteadily and gave him a frightened look. “Don’t hurt me,” he croaked.

Éomer felt his hands curl into fists again. “Not so brave now, are we? Attacking helpless women is considerably easier, isn’t it?”

“Please, your majesty, I meant no harm.” He was shivering with fear.

Lothiriel looked with astonishment at the transformation from a confident nobleman to a shivering wreck.

Éomer mustered the other man with disdain. “You needn’t be afraid, I won’t foul my hands with you any further. You will apologize to Princess Lothiriel and then you will leave and not come back ever again.”

The relief on Dorlas face was laughable. He stammered a profuse if incoherent apology and then staggered out of the stables as quickly as he could manage.

“Good riddance! I don’t think he will be pestering you again,” Éomer said with some satisfaction.

Lothiriel could only nod faintly and sank down on a conveniently placed bale of hay, the events of the last minutes finally catching up with her. She found her heart was hammering in her chest as if she had just run a race. Nightwind gave her a concerned nudge with her head and she stroked her absentmindedly.

Éomer knelt down next to her and gently took hold of one of her hands. “I’m sorry you were put through this nasty experience. You should have let Nightwind deal with him, after all that is what this warhorse is here for, to protect you, not just to get stuffed with apples.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed, “I just didn’t want Éowyn to have one of her guests reduced to a bloody pulp.”

Éomer snorted. “You are being far too considerate of my sister, when she’s partly to blame anyway. I will have words with Éowyn.”

She looked surprised at this statement. “Well, it’s hardly her fault, is it? Please don’t worry about me. As I have told you before I am tougher than I look.”

Éomer had no intention of telling the princess of his sister’s mad ideas and embarrass her even further, so he contented himself to saying. “I only meant that she should choose her guests more carefully.”

“She might, if you tell her she nearly ended up with a dead body in her stables,” Lothiriel quipped, having recovered somewhat.

He grinned. “It’s a good thing you kept a cool head, most women I know would just have had a fit of hysterics. You might have tried to empty the bucket of water over Dorlas, though, and spare me. This is my best shirt, or at least it used to be.”

Lothiriel stared at him for a moment, and then she started to laugh weakly. “I’m sorry if I spoilt your shirt, but it seemed to me you were the one in need of cooling down. Anyway, it could have been worse, what if it had been a bucket of manure?”

“You would have been in serious trouble, then!” he shot back at once.

Lothiriel looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t think so,” she said simply and after a short hesitation added solemnly, “Thank you for coming to my rescue King Éomer.”

“Rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty,” he answered flippantly and held out a hand to help her up. Then, however, he did not let go of her at once, but instead looked down at her searchingly. “My friends call me Éomer, would you?” he asked her softly.

She blushed. “I would be honoured to…if you call me Lothiriel.”

Very slowly he lifted up her hand and kissed the palm of it, his eyes not once leaving hers. “I will.”

Lothiriel felt a strange and slightly unsettling shiver run down her spine and was suddenly very much aware of how close he stood to her with his wet clothes plastered to his body. She cast her eyes down in confusion and blushed even more furiously. Very gently he took hold of her chin with his other hand and lifted up her face. In the dim light of the stables his blue eyes were almost black and there was an unnervingly intense look in them as he stared down at her.

The Princess of Ithilien chose that very moment to come storming into the stables, causing Éomer to drop Lothiriel’s hand as if it was a piece of red-hot coal and jump back a step.

“You’ve found her!” Éowyn exclaimed as she spotted them. “Are you all right, Lothiriel?” she asked solicitously and then stopped in her tracks when she saw Éomer’s wet clothes.

“What has happened to you?” she exclaimed in consternation.

“Lothiriel poured a bucket of water over me,” her brother replied, his usual cool look of amusement back on his face.

Éowyn stared at him incredulously and then rather unwisely said the first thing that came to her mind. “What did you do to deserve that? Don’t tell me you tried to kiss her. I knew it!”

The amusement was wiped from his face and for the second time that evening his temper got the better of him. He had had a trying evening and now his patience snapped. “What are you talking about? Have you had too much wine? I did nothing of the sort and never intended to, either. Cease talking nonsense!”

At Éowyn’s words Lothiriel had first gone white, then scarlet. “I think I will retire now,” she interposed stiffly, “if you’ll excuse me, Éowyn … Éomer.” The formal curtsy she gave them would not have been amiss in the halls of King Elessar himself and she swept out of the stables without once looking back.

Éomer watched her go with a wooden expression on his face and when the stable doors had closed on the Princess of Dol Amroth rounded on his sister. “Look what you’ve done now!” he said savagely and made his own not quite so dignified exit by the other door, slamming it violently behind him.

Éowyn was left staring after him, standing on the soggy straw while Nightwind snorted softly beside her. It was then that it dawned on her that her plans might have gone slightly awry.

***

Later that night, after the last guests had departed, Faramir joined his wife at the window of their bedroom. She had thrown the casements open to let in the cool night air and was staring unseeingly at the view over her garden.

“Counting your carrots?” he asked as he slipped his arms around her waist.

She started. “No, I was just thinking.”

“What about? Do you want to tell me what happened tonight?”

Éowyn looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“First you have a very public argument with your brother, then you both disappear looking for Lothiriel, but in the end only you come back,” he pointed out with impeccable logic, “and then of course there was that business with Lord Dorlas…”

“Dorlas!” she exclaimed, “I had wondered what happened to him.”

“Well, when last I saw him he looked as if he had encountered something exceedingly unpleasant,” Faramir recounted with a reminiscent smile, “in fact he was riding out of here as if he had a pack of slavering wargs baying at his heels… and he was wet through.”

“Wet?” his wife asked in astonishment, turning round to face him. “Are you sure?”

When he nodded, a look of speculation crossed her face. “I wonder what this means? Ah, I see! He must have been in the stables…” her voice trailed off as she was thinking furiously.

“Éowyn, dear heart,” Faramir interrupted her firmly, “this seems to make perfect sense to you, but I assure you it doesn’t to me, so why don’t you tell me what happened tonight and make sure you start at the beginning.”

Éowyn hesitated a moment, but by his tone she knew he would not be satisfied with anything but the complete truth, so she decided to make a clean breast of it.

His eyes widened as she told him of her plans and by the end of her tale he was shaking his head. “You wanted to make your brother jealous?” he repeated incredulously.

“It seemed like a good idea,” she answered defensively, “at least at the time it did.”

He could only stare at her in wonder. “Don’t you think that trying to make Éomer jealous is a bit like taunting a sleeping lion?” he asked finally.

“What, inadvisable?”

“Dangerous!” he stated with deep conviction.

Éowyn gave a weak smile. “It looks like it. He was a little bit annoyed when he found out.”

“I am not surprised. He is a grown man, surely he can make up his own mind.” Only Faramir’s sense of self-preservation stopped him from telling her outright not to meddle in her brother’s affairs.

“I don’t think he really knows his mind where Lothiriel is concerned,” Éowyn replied obstinately, “you didn’t see the look he wore when I entered the stables. But he is so stubborn; he won’t even admit his feelings to himself.”

“Maybe you should just give him some time,” her husband suggested mildly.

“How much more time? I think he needs something to shake him up.”

“Stubbornness seems to be one of the traits of the House of Éorl.” Faramir commented dryly, causing his wife to grin.

“Well, this descendant of the House of Éorl certainly isn’t going to give up that easily,” she declared and threw back her long blonde hair.

Faramir paused for a moment, not sure how to phrase his next words. “Éowyn,” he began hesitantly, “has it ever occurred to you that Lothiriel might not want to marry Éomer?”

She looked offended and took a step back. “Why not? What is wrong with my brother?”

“Nothing!” he said in a placating tone, pulling her close again, “you know I like Éomer very much. But Rohan is a long way away from Dol Amroth and Lothiriel might not like the idea of leaving her family and everything she knows so far behind.”

“I did,” she pointed out, still sounding ruffled.

“So you did and I love you for it. But Lothiriel is young and life in Rohan could prove difficult for her. She knows neither the language nor the customs.”

“I think you underestimate Lothiriel,” Éowyn replied stoutly, “and anyway she would have Éomer to support her. I am sure he would do his outmost to make her happy.”

He hesitated again. “I am sure he would, but he will not always be there. What if he has to go to war?”

She looked up in alarm. ”What makes you say so?”

Faramir sighed. “Aragorn reckons that at some stage we will have to go to war with the Southrons. They are already testing our southern borders again. And I don’t think your brother will sit safe in Meduseld while Aragorn rides into battle.”

Éowyn shivered despite the tepid night air. They both knew only too well that when the King of Gondor went to war so would the Prince of Ithilien. “How long have we got?” she asked quietly.

Faramir didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “A couple of years of peace, maybe three, but certainly not more,” he replied soberly and pulled her into his arms, giving her a gentle kiss.

Éowyn remembered the many times she had stood outside the great wooden doors of the Golden Hall and watched her brother and her cousin ride into battle. “Just hold me close,” she whispered into Faramir’s ears and he did just that.

But later still, as she lay in her slumbering husband’s arms and sleep was just about to claim her, she made a decision. Experience had taught her that you had to snatch whatever happiness came your way and not to dwell too much on what might one day come to pass.

No, she would not give up that easily.

***

Sleep was eluding Lothiriel. The music had ended some while ago so she could not even blame the musicians for keeping her awake. In the end she gave up the unequal fight and got up again. Maybe it was simply too hot in the room, she thought and went to open her windows.

The guest rooms looked out over the gardens to the back of the house and all was quiet now. She settled down in the window seat and leaned her head back, watching the stars that were bright tonight with no moon in the sky.

Quite unbidden Lothiriel’s thoughts turned to the events that had unfolded earlier in the evening. She smiled in remembered triumph at the way she had routed Lord Dorlas at the dinner table. Too bad the man had turned out not to be shaken off so easily. It was a good thing Éomer had stepped in to rescue her from an uncomfortable situation, although he might have overdone it a bit.

He nearly killed that man, and just because he tried to kiss me, Lothiriel thought with a frown. She would do well to remember that the King of Rohan was a dangerous man, in more than one sense. That look he had given her before his sister had interrupted them still had her feeling unsettled. For a moment she had been absolutely certain he was going to kiss her and had been unsure whether she wanted him to proceed or not. Yet when Éowyn had barged in she had felt a sudden sense of disappointment. Now she would never find out if she would have liked it or not.

You are imagining things, she thought, mentally shaking herself, after all his words of denial were clear enough. And anyway, I’m sure he has looked at many a woman in that way. But still…

She felt annoyed with herself at the way her thoughts kept turning back to the sensation of being whirled around the dance floor by him and feeling the warmth of his hand on her back through the thin silk of her dress.

What had got into her all of a sudden? He had seemed just like an easygoing elder brother and she had treated him accordingly, teasing him at every opportunity. How could a single look change everything between them?

Lothiriel decided not to let her imagination run away with her any further and went back to bed. It took her a long time, though, to finally fall asleep and her dreams were unquiet and filled with images of swans and falcons. All she remembered the next morning was that there had been a mûmak charging through it at the end.

***

High up on the hillside overlooking the valley of Emyn Arnen, Razmir was watching the sleeping house broodingly. They had heard the sounds of revelry earlier on and although the smell of roasting pork had not reached that far they had imagined it had.

It was a perfect night for an ambush as there was no moon, yet his brother Mashrak had decided against it once again. The place was swarming with those cursed horselovers and they could simply not afford to take the chance. The whole area around the valley was heavily patrolled by the rangers and it was only because they had lately concentrated their efforts on the Morgul vale that their band had been able to get that close to the main house.

It had all been in vain, though, as they could not get any closer without running the risk of detection. Razmir’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword as he remembered the sounds of music and laughter drifting up on the warm summer air. How he would have liked to turn them into screams and curses! It was a long while since the last time they had captured any women and he was starting to get tired of his brother’s waiting games. Yes, he thought, his patience was running thin.

A day off

Breakfast the next day was an awkward affair with three of the participants doing their best to act as if nothing had happened while Faramir watched with hidden amusement. The only one seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents running through the room was Melian who picked at her porridge with very little appetite, causing her sister-in-law to momentarily forget about her own concerns.

“How are you feeling?” Lothiriel asked anxiously, “You are looking a bit pale.”

Melian gave a little shrug. “It’s the heat,” she explained, “I found it difficult to sleep, it was so hot in my room last night.”

Indeed the heat wave showed no sign of abating and there had been no rain since before they had arrived in Emyn Arnen. Today was no exception with the sun shining in a cloudless sky and temperatures mounting already.

“Why don’t you find a shady bench in the gardens and have a lie-down?” Lothiriel suggested solicitously and Melian agreed with a tired smile.

“Maybe we should all take a holiday today,” Éowyn proposed ingenuously, “we could go for a ride along the river and have a picnic.”

Her brother gave her a frigid glance. Apparently she was not forgiven yet. “I’m afraid I am too busy training my men, but you and Lothiriel may go ahead.”

Éowyn noted that at his words the Princess of Dol Amroth looked distinctly relieved. It is downright disheartening, she thought, after all the effort I’ve gone to over the party. The only progress she could make out was the fact that they seemed to be on a first name basis now, but all their usual light-hearted banter was absent today.

The atmosphere didn’t lighten until the two men left for their morning sparring match – that had become a tradition - leaving the women to their own devices. Éowyn, who had been up since dawn overseeing the removal of the tables and benches and the general tidying-up, decided to take a break from matchmaking for the rest of the day. The servants, too, deserved a day off after all the hard work they had gone to.

“Let’s just collect some of the leftovers from yesterday and find a cool spot in the forest to enjoy them,” she suggested and Lothiriel agreed readily. Éowyn had the lowering suspicion that she would have agreed to just about any plan in order not to have to face Éomer in the afternoon.

The kitchen was pretty much deserted when they filled a couple of saddlebags with cold pork pastries, a wedge of cheese and some freshly baked bread. While Éowyn filled a leather flask with wine Lothiriel noted with regret that the berry tarts had all been eaten, but she managed to find some small cakes, and on the way out she raided a bowl of apples.

At first she felt awkward and embarrassed to be back in the stables, but Éowyn tactfully refrained from making any comments and soon the soothing routine of looking after Nightwind and getting her mare ready to ride out settled her nerves. When saddling up she suddenly noticed that she still used the Rohirric saddlecloth with its white horse on a green field. She had grown quite used to it, she mused and smoothed it out carefully.

Melian having declined an invitation to join them, it was just the two of them who rode out the main gates soon after and took the switchback road down to the valley floor.

“Are we going anywhere in particular?” Lothiriel asked curiously when Éowyn left the main road to cross the stream at a shallow ford.

“We are, but it’s a surprise.”

Lothiriel was quite content to just enjoy the cool shade underneath the ancient trees as they followed a narrow path along one of the many nameless tributaries to the main stream, leading them further up the side of the valley. The banks of the stream were lined with willows and thickly overgrown with ferns. The path started to climb now and soon they decided to stop for a short rest. They had drawn level with the main house again by now and were facing it across the wide valley. It wasn’t very far away as the crow flies and they could see the sun twinkling on the helmets and spears of the guards, even though they had covered a considerable distance.

The path levelled out soon after and they entered a small side valley where the trees drew in even closer. Lothiriel could hear the song of many different birds although they were all but invisible in the dense canopy of oak and beech trees, and once she saw a family of grey squirrels racing up a thick tree trunk, disturbed by their passage.

She was starting to wonder if Éowyn had lost her way when suddenly the path widened again and the trees stopped as if cut by a knife and gave way to a large clearing. Lothiriel caught her breath when she saw the forest pool lying in its centre with its surface sparkling in the bright sunshine. A herd of deer had been grazing at the far end and now they took off and vanished into the forest, causing Lothiriel to sigh in regret.

“It’s absolutely beautiful!” she breathed.

Éowyn nodded in satisfaction at her reaction. “It is, isn’t it? It’s so hidden away, hardly anybody knows about this place. Faramir calls this the ‘bottomless pool’ because it’s so deep. There are underground springs emptying into it, so even at the height of summer the water is plentiful and quite cold.”

They unsaddled the horses and turned them loose to graze while they settled down near the waterside. When Éowyn saw Lothiriel look wistfully at the water she laughed.

“Well, go ahead then!”

“Go ahead with what?” Lothiriel asked, startled.

“I can see you are longing to go for a swim. What is more I think I’ll join you.”

Lothiriel hesitated. “What if we’re disturbed?”

“Nobody ever comes here,“ Éowyn asserted, “and even if they did, the horses would give us warning.”

“That’s true, “ Lothiriel agreed, brightening up. Without another word the two women took off their clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap on the grass, and raced into the water.

***

Éomer shifted his grip on his sword, silently cursing the sweat that was running down his arm and making it slippery. Wearing heavy armour in the blazing July sunshine was a bit like being baked slowly but thoroughly. Still, he welcomed the discomfort as it kept his thoughts on the here and now instead of wandering off into memories of last night. He could not shake the vision of the Princess of Dol Amroth looking at him with that peculiar mixture of apprehension and eagerness in her green eyes.

Wake up and concentrate! He told himself sternly as he barely evaded a savage slash at his left side, only just catching it on his shield. The impact jarred his shoulder painfully and he had to take a step back, ceding precious ground to his opponent. Then the world narrowed to what he could see through the twin slits of his helmet and his body’s reflexes took over. He welcomed the familiar sensation. Thrust and parry, watch your foe’s eyes for the next move and try to anticipate it.

He was used to fighting men smaller and weaker than himself, but this warrior was his equal in strength. Cool grey eyes stared back at him and then widened as he aimed a lightning strike at the winged helmet. An unorthodox move, but certainly effective as it forced the other man to duck and step back.

They circled each other warily, neither one quite ready to commit himself to an all-out attack yet. Then Éomer suddenly feinted to the left and when his opponent parried this, followed it up with a vicious thrust to the right. He was parried again, but only barely and for a moment they found themselves shield to shield straining against each other, before they both jumped back a step and started to circle again.

Éomer felt the familiar elation of measuring his skill at arms against someone else rise within him and grinned menacingly at his adversary. He let his shield drop a little as if his shoulder was still hurting him and sure enough the other man was led to assay a thrust at his upper body. Éomer had been waiting for just that and smoothly moved to the side and over, letting his opponent’s impetus carry him into the reach of his sword. He was fast, though, and recovered quickly before Éomer could do any damage. Even so he was caught off balance and had to hastily take a couple of steps back. Éomer took the opportunity to deliver a backhand blow to the head, which his opponent only just managed to avoid, causing him to curse violently. The grey eyes were blazing with anger now and for a while the two men were fighting in earnest, their blades clanging against each other.

Then suddenly they both lowered their blades and took a step back.

Faramir took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Maybe we should stop before we do any real damage.”

Éomer actually felt better than he had all day. He was even almost ready to forgive his sister for interfering. Fleetingly the thought crossed his mind whether he was angry with her for trying to meddle in his life or for coming into the stables just when she had. He dismissed that firmly, however, and nodded at Faramir reluctantly.

“A shame, I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

“You won’t tomorrow, when the bruises start to show,” Faramir grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. He hesitated for a moment and then asked diffidently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Éomer had come to like his brother-in-law so he contented himself to simply answering “No.” His tone, however, brooked no argument and Faramir just shrugged good-naturedly.

“Let’s go back to the house and have some lunch then,” he suggested.

When they got to the house they were welcomed with the news that the Ladies Éowyn and Lothiriel had taken themselves off for an outing. Éomer thought nothing of it until he saw Faramir talking to one of his rangers, a worried expression on his face.

“What is it?” he demanded as he joined them.

“This is Damrod, the captain of my rangers,” Faramir said, introducing the other man who gave the King of Rohan a polite bow, “he just reported that one of his men has found traces of a large band of armed men to the south of Emyn Arnen.”

“We found the site of a cold camp, but the outward trail is already a couple of days old,” the ranger explained. He was a tall man with the black hair and grey eyes of his race and Éomer remembered him from the march on the Black Gate.

“They could be anywhere by now,” Faramir remarked and they looked at each other, the first stirrings of unease apparent in their eyes.

***

Lothiriel gave a deep sigh of contentment. She was floating on her back with her eyes closed, simply enjoying the sensation of the cool water caressing her skin. It was as if all the tension of the last day was draining out of her and was being washed away by the gentle waves.

“How do you do that?” Éowyn asked, sounding distinctly frustrated as she was spluttering in the water beside her.

“Do what?” Lothiriel asked with surprise and opened her eyes to look over.

“Float in the water like that! I just keep going under. Have you always been able to swim like an otter?”

The Princess of Dol Amroth grinned. It was an unusual feeling to be better at something than the redoubtable slayer of the Witch King of Angmar. “You just have to believe firmly that you will stay afloat, “ she explained, “then you won’t sink. It’s all a matter of willpower. As for the other, we go swimming in Dol Amroth every day in the summer, so I’ve had lots of practice.”

“I wish I could swim like that,” Éowyn said enviously, “I was able to ride before I could talk, yet I never learnt to swim. Faramir has started to teach me.”

Lothiriel could have sworn she saw the other woman blush slightly and wondered what else her cousin had taught his beautiful wife. “Well, come on then,” she said and Éowyn took a few cautious steps towards her.

The pool was in fact quite treacherous, being shallow to begin with and then suddenly dropping off sharply further in. When they had first gone in, she had slipped and had gone right under, causing Éowyn considerable alarm. Fortunately she was as good a swimmer as she had claimed and had just surfaced again laughing. Later on Lothiriel had tried to dive down to the bottom, but hadn’t been able to reach it, the pool was so deep.

Éowyn lowered herself into the water and took a few cautious swimming strokes, being careful to stay well within her depth. The water was quite cold, though, and after a while, when they both started to shiver, they got out and got dressed again.

Now they were grateful for the hot sunshine and sat down in the grass to dry their hair. Éowyn had brought a large blanket to sit on and began to spread out their food on it. They were both of them hungry and without another word they gave their picnic short shrift.

“This is just like home,” Lothiriel said after a while, her mouth full of delicious pork pastry, “we always take something to eat with us when I go sailing with my brothers.”

Éowyn smiled at her enthusiasm. The princess had told her all about her beloved boat. “Is that how you manage to go swimming every day?” she enquired.

“Mostly,” Lothiriel nodded, “but sometimes the ladies of the court go together.”

Éowyn took a swig of wine and passed the wineskin to Lothiriel. “Don’t you get men spying on you?” she asked with a wicked grin.

Lothiriel laughed. “There is a small private beach at the foot of the castle for our use and we take a couple of Swan Knights to guard the access.”

“Don’t they peek?” Éowyn asked incredulously.

“They are Swan Knights!” Lothiriel replied with a wink, “my brothers maintain it’s a good test of their dedication to duty.”

Éowyn laughed out loud at the picture presented. “I bet it is,” she chuckled, “I feel sorry for them! I don’t think that would work in the Riddermark.”

She suddenly thought of what Faramir had said to her the night before. “Tell me,” she asked impulsively, “have you ever considered leaving Dol Amroth?”

Lothiriel showed a sudden marked interest in cutting off a thin slice of cheese and arranging it to her liking on a piece of bread. “What makes you ask so?” she replied finally, her expression guarded.

Éowyn hesitated. She could hardly tell her friend what she had discussed with Faramir. Maybe her husband was right when he accused her of sometimes being to forthright in her speech. Then inspiration struck her. “I was just thinking of what you told me the other day,” she explained ingenuously, “about having to choose a husband on your twenty-first birthday.”

“Oh that!” Lothiriel almost sounded a bit disappointed. “You are right of course, I will have to leave Dol Amroth eventually.” She was absentmindedly shredding her piece of bread. “Staying here with you, I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s so nice not having to act like a princess all the time.”

She gave a deep sigh. “At home everybody is always trying to make me behave according to their ideas. Sometimes I think you and your brother are the only people willing to let me be and not meddle in my life.”

It was a good thing she was so intent on her piece of bread or she would surely have noticed the look of sudden guilt crossing her companion’s face. Éowyn hurriedly busied herself tidying up the remains of their meal. “Speaking of Éomer,” she said nonchalantly, “what made you pour a bucket of water over him last night?” She had been wondering all morning how to manoeuvre the conversation onto that.

Lothiriel didn’t look very happy at her question, but was too polite to refuse to answer. “It was an accident, “ she explained hesitantly. “Lord Dorlas followed me to the stables and then tried to kiss me. Your brother very kindly came to my rescue, but he got so angry he started to strangle Dorlas. I couldn’t think of anything else to make him stop.”

“So you poured a bucket of water over him?” This was not the explanation Éowyn had expected, but it was very interesting nevertheless. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost yet…

“What else was I supposed to do? I didn’t want Éomer to kill him.”

“Why not? Dorlas certainly deserved it.” Éowyn didn’t sound as if finding his body in her stables would have particularly bothered her.

Lothiriel looked at her a bit helplessly. With their good-natured banter Éomer and his sister lulled you into thinking they were harmless, when really there was a streak of ruthless ferocity lurking just beneath the surface. Somehow this rather added to their appeal.

Lothiriel finally settled on “It would have made a mess” as an explanation. Éowyn seemed to find this quite reasonable.

“We don’t have to hurry back yet,” she said, changing the subject, “we could always have another swim a little later on.”

Lothiriel nodded wordlessly and the two women lay down on the soft grass for a moment, simply enjoying the warm sunshine and listening to the birdsong. From somewhere within the forest the staccato sounds of a woodpecker could be heard.

Between them they had emptied the wineskin and neither of them had slept very long or very well the night before, so it was really not at all surprising that they should both fall asleep. In this way it came to pass that they did not notice the birds suddenly falling silent and the woodpecker flying away scolding. Not even the fact of their horses growing increasingly restless penetrated their deep slumber.

If you want to find out how Faramir tried to teach Éowyn to swim for the first time, check out 'Sun on the Water' by cuthalion.

Captured

It was the angry neighing of their horses that woke them in the end. Unfortunately by then it was already too late, much too late.

Lothiriel sat up with a start, trying to get her bearings. She did not usually sleep in the afternoon and felt thoroughly disorientated for a moment. Somebody is trying to steal the horses! was her first thought and she scrambled to her feet only to cry out in alarm when she was suddenly grabbed from behind. Without thinking she kicked her assailant’s shin, but although she wore heavy riding boots he didn’t let go but only gripped her harder. There was a strange choking sound beside them and when she looked over, Éowyn was calmly removing a knife from another man’s chest as he was crumbling to the ground, his eyes glazing over already.

Everything seemed to slow down and the sounds around her receded. She’s just killed a man. That’s the cheese knife, Lothiriel thought inconsequentially, standing rooted to the spot. With deadly grace Éowyn pivoted and aimed a slash at the man still holding Lothiriel. With an angry oath he let go of her and jumped back, holding his arm where she had grazed him. Blood spurted between his fingers and turned his sleeve red.

“To the horses!” Éowyn shouted, seizing Lothiriel by the hand and propelling her forward. The world speeded up again and Lothiriel found herself galvanised into action. They ran across the grass towards where Nightwind was rearing up and neighing furiously. Some of the men had thrown a rope around her neck and were trying to pull her down. Over on one side a limp form lay trampled on the grass and Lothiriel felt her gorge rise. Later, she told herself, you can be sick to your heart’s content when everything’s over.

They never really had a chance.

Suddenly the place was swarming with armed men and Lothiriel was tackled from behind and thrown to the ground. The weight of her attacker landing on her knocked the breath right out of her and her vision went blank for a moment. Next to her Éowyn went still as somebody pointed a naked blade at her throat.

They were unceremoniously hauled to their feet and Lothiriel could not help exclaiming in pain as her arm was cruelly twisted behind her back. The man holding her gave an evil chuckle and she could feel his foul breath on her neck, making her shudder. As she looked on helplessly another rope was thrown over her mare’s neck.

Then a cold voice said behind her. “Shoot the nag. It’s not worth the bother.”

“No!” Lothiriel exclaimed, starting to struggle again. She more felt than saw an archer taking aim and did the only thing she could think of.

“Run Nightwind!” she shouted at the top of her voice, somehow finding the right Rohirric words, “Find Éomer!”

Her gallant horse, bred to fight and trained to obey took off without hesitation. One of the men tried to hang on to his rope, but had to let go after being dragged along the ground and hitting his head on a tree stump. Two arrows whizzed after the mare, but although she gave an angry neigh she kept on going. Windfola, too, took off after her friend and soon the sound of their hooves faded away.

Unbidden the thought entered Lothiriel’s mind that she might just have jettisoned their only hope of escape and she felt her heart plummeting.

She got her first good look at her attackers now. They were not as many as Lothiriel had thought at first, maybe a dozen men altogether, but of course that was more than enough to capture two unarmed women.

All of them were dark haired and dark skinned, rough looking men clad in an ill-fitting assortment of tattered and much patched clothes. Most of them wore chain mail under this and their weapons looked well cared for. Their leader was tall and powerfully built and might even have been considered handsome if there hadn’t been a certain streak of cruelty in his black eyes.

A man better not to be crossed shot through Lothiriel’s mind. She felt numb and the seriousness of their predicament was only slowly starting to sink in. This can’t be happening to me, went round and round in her head. It was like a bad dream, only the pain in her arm left her no doubt as to the reality of it.

I will need Éomer’s ointment again when this is over, Lothiriel thought. When or if? asked a treacherous voice in her mind, but she banished the thought firmly. Now was not a good time to panic, she told herself sternly, she would do so later.

The man pinioning her arm behind her back shifted his grip and she could not help drawing her breath in sharply in pain. That was a mistake, for the bandit leader turned his attention her way from where he was kneeling at the fallen man’s side. He got up slowly and mustered her coldly. Something inside her wanted to make her run away and hide in a dark place until everything was over.

Suddenly she thought of her father. At this time of the day Prince Imrahil would be in his study overlooking the sea, discussing the running of his lands with his advisors, completely unaware of the dangers his only daughter was facing. As for Erchirion and Amrothos, they were probably out sailing. Why had her father ever let her come to Emyn Arnen and what was the use of having the best swordsman of Dol Amroth for a brother if he wasn’t there when you needed him? All her life she had been surrounded by warriors, yet here she was in her hour of need all alone. Lothiriel knew she was being unreasonable, but she started cursing them all in her mind. For good measure she threw in Faramir and Éomer as well, who were no doubt enjoying their midday meal when really they should be up here coming to their rescue.

The women would not be missed for hours yet, unless Nightwind’s return alerted them, and even then Éomer and Faramir would have not idea where to start looking for them. Lothiriel felt perilously close to despair, her only solace being Éowyn’s presence.

The leader had stepped up to them now and Lothiriel noticed he was wearing some sort of surcoat over his heavy armour depicting a black serpent upon scarlet.

“Cursed Southrons!” Éowyn spat and he turned towards her. She looked not at all cowed; on the contrary, she was plainly furious. Lothiriel’s admiration for her cousin’s wife rose another notch and she felt heartened. After all this was the slayer of the Witch King, surely she would think of something.

“You and your filthy band are trespassing,” Éowyn hissed, her eyes blazing with anger, and the man looked taken aback for a moment.

Then he laughed. “Looks like we have bagged ourselves a wildcat!” he mocked her. His glance moved dismissively over Lothiriel. “A wildcat and a scared rabbit.”

The Princess of Dol Amroth stiffened and drew herself up as the men around her laughed at their leader’s joke. They had formed a loose circle around them and were plainly enjoying the sight of the two women held at their mercy. None of them ventured to touch them, but Lothiriel suddenly felt rather underdressed in her loose shirt and close fitting leggings.

Éowyn was not at all impressed. “If you let us go and leave Ithilien at once we will let you live,” she stated.

The man looked amused. “That’s very kind of you,” he purred, “unfortunately for you, I know an empty threat when I hear one.” He took off one of his iron gauntlets and reached out to slowly stroke across Éowyn’s cheek.

She never flinched but only gave him a steely look. “My companion here is the Princess of Dol Amroth. If anything happens to her, you will be hunted down and killed like the rabid dog you are.”

Lothiriel couldn’t blame her friend for keeping quiet the fact that she was the White Lady of Rohan. The Southrons’ fanatical hate for the Rohirrim, who had killed their king at the battle of the Pelennor Fields, was well known.

The man holding her gave a guffaw. “I’ve never seen a princess wearing trousers and riding out all on her own before,” he jeered. “Hey Razmir!” he shouted at their leader, “may I take this wench if you’re having the blonde one?”

The leader frowned. “I haven’t decided yet which one I want,” he growled, “anyway, there’s my brother and his men to consider as well.” The men standing around them started to grumble, but he silenced them with a single look.

There are more of them? Lothiriel thought with something closely resembling panic. She felt like a juicy piece of meat thrown to a pack of dogs and with about as much control over her fate.

She had a choice then, although she didn’t realize it at the time. She could have broken down and begged for her life, useless though this would have been or she could just have fainted. Instead she chose to fight.

“I am Princess Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the descendant in direct line of Imrazor and Mithrellas, “ she declared in a firm voice, “if you harm either of us in the slightest bit you will be eternally sorry for it.”

She had Razmir’s attention now and for a moment wished she had held her peace.

“A real Swan Princess?” he smirked and gave her an exaggerated bow, much to the amusement of his men. At a nod from him the man holding her reluctantly let go of her and Razmir slowly walked round her, surveying her from every side. Lothiriel resisted the urge to rub her aching arm and gave him her haughtiest stare.

For the first time he looked just the slightest bit uncertain and Éowyn was quick to try and take advantage of this. “The Princess’ father would pay you a large ransom to get us back unharmed,” she said in a more reasonable voice, “you could all return home as rich men.”

Some of the brigands surrounding them shifted at that and cast each other questioning looks.

“Just think of it,” she went on persuasively, “gold enough to spend the rest of your lives in luxury. You could buy yourselves a house and some land and as many women as you wanted to.”

She seemed to have hit a nerve, for the men started to mutter amongst each other and some of them lowered their swords. Razmir had watched in growing anger and now he cut in sharply. “You fools! Can’t you see she’s stringing you along? You know perfectly well we can’t go home. Our king is dead, we failed him, and we would receive nothing but a knife across the throat if we returned.”

The muttering died down and the men nodded grimly. If anything they looked more desperate than before. Razmir gave Éowyn a sour look. “I fail to see why anybody would want you back anyway, with a sharp tongue like that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You will pay for that remark!”

Lothiriel could only marvel at her belligerent attitude and even Razmir seemed nonplussed by it, but he soon recovered. “You will change your tune before I’m finished with you,” he snarled, “and as for this one…”

Lothiriel flinched involuntarily when he turned towards her and he smiled cruelly, “I like them gently bred. They are so deliciously…unready…for what can be done to them.”

He let his fingers trail across her cheek and lips, down to her throat and then to the lacings of her shirt.

***

“They left about midmorning, my lord king,” the guard said respectfully.

Éomer looked frustrated. “And you just let them go?” he asked.

The guard shifted his weight uneasily, “Lady Éowyn didn’t want anybody accompanying her, “ he explained diffidently, “I’m sorry if we did something wrong.”

Faramir sighed. “It’s all right. You only did your duty. Of course Lady Éowyn is free to go where she wishes.”

“Did you see where they went?” Éomer cut in sharply.

“They went down the hill and then crossed the stream at the ford at the bottom of it.”

Faramir frowned. “There are several paths leading on from there,” he explained, “did you see which one they took?”

But the guard only shook his head unhappily.

Éomer cursed violently in Rohirric, making the poor man jump. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he said to Faramir who nodded grimly. “Let’s send out search parties.”

So it happened that they already had their horses saddled and were ready to go when one of the men at the gates shouted in surprise as Nightwind came galloping riderless up the path, Windfola following close behind her.

Faramir went white and Éomer felt as if an icy hand was squeezing his heart when he saw the ropes she was trailing. It was nothing short of a miracle they hadn’t got tangled in the underbrush along the trail. Nightwind’s coat was flecked with foam and her eyes were rolling wildly, but she let Éomer approach her and calmed down when he stroked her neck and talked to her soothingly. It was then he saw the black-feathered arrow protruding from her left haunch and knew for certain that the women were in trouble.

“Did you see which way the horse came?” he asked the men guarding the gates and they took a step back at his tone. After a short hesitation one of them ventured, “I think she came down the narrow path leading up the opposite side of the valley.”

His companion nodded cautiously and Éomer turned to Faramir. “What lies up there?”

His brother-in-law looked thoughtful. “Nothing much, unless…”

“Unless?” Éomer snapped.

“There is a forest pool we’ve gone to a couple of times. It’s quite hidden away in the woods.”

Unnoticed by them Melian had joined them and now she spoke up timidly. “They said they wanted to find a cool spot for their midday meal.”

Éomer rounded on her. “Are you sure?”

She looked ready to faint at the fierce look he gave her, but managed a brief nod.

Wordlessly the two men exchanged a glance, for they both knew what happened to women captured by the enemy. Then Éomer shouted. “To the horses, Éorlingas!”

“I’ll lead the way,” said Faramir as he mounted his stallion.

Before they galloped down the path at breakneck speed the King of Rohan picked up his horn and blew it mightily.

Just hold on, he thought, I’m coming.

***

Lothiriel briefly considered fainting when Razmir started to undo the first lacing of her shirt. While it would not change anything, it would still be nice not to have to witness what was about to happen to her. She was under no illusion as to what lay in store for her. During the Ring War the ladies of Dol Amroth had discussed at length what to do in case the worst came to pass and the castle fell to the forces of Sauron. The consensus had been clear; it was far better to end one’s own life than to be taken captive.

Only it didn’t look as if she had that option now.

Razmir stepped closer still and she could feel his hot breath on her neck when she turned her face away. He smelt of sweat and unwashed man and involuntarily she wrinkled her nose.

“You think you’re too good for me, don’t you?” he hissed and taking her chin in his fingers forced her to look at him. His black eyes glittered malevolently. “You won’t feel so high and mighty when I’m through with you, Princess. By the time I’m finished with you, you will yield to me completely, body and soul. Oh yes, you will do anything I tell you to, no matter how degrading, and do so gladly and beg for more.”

He gave a sharp laugh. “I will clip your wings, my little swan, and you might even come to like it. There’s a thin line between pleasure and pain and soon you won’t know anymore where one ends and the other begins, for I am a master at both.”

He bent down to kiss her brutally and deliberately bit her on the lip, causing her to wince. At his chuckle Lothiriel felt something savage awaken deep within her. It took her a moment to recognise it as not fear but fury. Why do all the men I dislike have to compare me to a swan? She thought angrily.

Razmir pleasurably licked her blood from his lips and moved down towards her breasts. Fooled by her passivity he did not notice the sudden fire in those green eyes.

Without thinking Lothiriel brought up her knee between his legs and he doubled over at the sudden pain. Before any of the men around them could react she kicked him in the face and he fell over backwards. Then, however, she was grabbed by two of his men who again pinioned her arms behind her mercilessly. Beside her Éowyn struggled uselessly against her captors and cursed them loudly.

Razmir slowly picked himself up from the ground and wiped the blood from his face where she had caught him across the cheek with her boot.

“We’ll start with lessons in pain, then,” he growled and took hold of the front of her shirt. His eyes were burning with anger now and she should probably have been frightened, but Lothiriel was past caring, welcoming the fury that swept through her.

Her body was her own and she would sooner die than let him touch her. Unfortunately for her, there was really no way she could stop him.

She did not have to.

“What is happening here?” a cold voice demanded just as Razmir was about to tear her clothes from her and he halted abruptly. “Mashrak?” he faltered.

“Whom else were you expecting, brother?” the newcomer asked sarcastically. He was clad much as the other men, but he exuded an air of command and looked every inch the seasoned warrior. Behind him more men were filling into the clearing.

Now he frowned at his brother. “What are you doing here? I told you to scout the way north.”

Razmir shrugged sullenly. “We heard laughter and found these wenches here. I was only having a little sport with them.”

Mashrak’s glance swept the area, coming to rest on the two bodies lying on the grass. “Who killed your men?” he demanded curtly.

Razmir pointed at Éowyn. “She killed one of them and the other was trampled by their horses.”

“And where are the horses now?” Mashrak sounded as if he was rapidly loosing his patience.

“They ran away,” Razmir replied ill temperedly.

“You fool!” his brother exclaimed, “can’t you see she’s one of the cursed horselovers? No doubt she sent them for help. We have to get going at once.”

“Nonsense,” Razmir replied, only to be interrupted by the sound of a horn blowing loudly down in the valley.

Éowyn’s eyes lit up. “That’s Éomer,” she whispered, “they are coming!”

Lothiriel felt as if the sound freed her. Both the fear and the mindless fury were swept away and she finally started thinking again. Éomer might be coming, but he had no idea where they were and would never find them once they disappeared into the forest. She had to delay the brigands in some way to give Éomer the chance to catch up with them.

Then Lothiriel had an idea.

Lothiriel has an idea

The horn blast echoing up from the valley threw the bandits into complete disarray. They had last heard that particular sound at the battle of the Pelennor Fields when the Rohirrim had snatched certain victory right out of their grasp and had brought death and destruction upon them. The men started shouting wildly at each other and a few even raced for the woods. Mashrak and Razmir were both barking orders, but to little effect.

As they were distracted by the uproar around them, Lothiriel could feel the grip of the men holding her weaken. This might well be my only chance she thought. Mustering all her strength in one desperate attempt she managed to break free of them and started running. There were so many men between her and freedom she did not even try to reach the path leading down towards Emyn Arnen, for she would surely have been caught again. Instead she raced for the pool that was lying serenely glinting in the sun.

Her pursuers were hot on her heels, but they stopped at the edge of the water unsure what to do next and perhaps unwilling to get their feet wet. Lothiriel was long past such considerations and splashed right in until the water reached up to her waist. Then she kicked off her boots and turned round.

By now Mashrak and his brother had managed to restore some semblance of order to their band and the commotion had attracted their attention.

“What is going on here?” Razmir demanded and cursed savagely when he spotted her in the pool. “Who let her get away? I’ll have his hide!”

His brother now stepped up to him, Éowyn being forced to follow behind. “We haven’t got time for this,” he said, “let’s just take the horselover wench and leave.”

“No!” Razmir protested furiously, “No woman kicks me like that and gets away with it.”

“Shoot her then.” Mashrak suggested coldly and Lothiriel got ready to dive into the water, but Razmir knocked down the arm of the archer taking aim.

“No,” he commanded, “She’s mine! I will have her if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

Lothiriel had caught her breath by now and decided to put the second part of her partly formed plan into action. “Hey Razmir!” she shouted at the top of her voice, “if you’re so keen to have me, why don’t you come and get me? Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Involuntarily some of the Southrons snickered. She met Éowyn’s eyes for a moment then and the look on her friend’s face asked quite clearly whether she was sure she knew what she was doing.

In fact Lothiriel felt as if for the first time since she had waken up from that disastrous sleep she was in control of her fate again. A strange exhilaration swept through her and for a moment she felt almost drunk with her newfound confidence.

When she saw the stunned look on Razmir’s face turn to blind fury she laughed out loud. Clearly no woman had ever dared to use that tone with him. “You will pay for this!” he hissed, “I will punish you in every conceivable way until you will rue the day you were born and will beg me for release.”

“You’ve said that before, but first you will have to catch me,” she taunted him, “come on! You could do with a bath!”

It was too much for Razmir. With a violent curse he unbuckled his sword and thrust it into his brother’s hands, then he waded into the water. Lothiriel gave him her most enticing smile, the one that had already created considerable havoc amongst her brothers’ friends back in Dol Amroth, but it did not reach her eyes.

Razmir was unexpectedly reminded of a story his mother used to tell him when they were small children. She had hailed from the southern coast and his father had beaten her for putting silly ideas into his son’s head, yet the tale had somehow remained with him. She had told him of a mysterious and alluring people of merfolk who lived in the ocean and at full moon came out to take mortal men as lovers for one night.

Looking at the woman standing there before him, he half expected her to suddenly sport a fishtail. She had taken another step back and the water was now lapping against her breasts, but at the same time she held out her arms invitingly.

“Come and claim me,” she crooned. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to have such a woman give her love freely, but then he firmly squashed the thought. Beautiful women like her were there to be used by men like him. She was simply irresistible. He felt his desire rise within him and decided to take her then and there in the water and damn the consequences.

“Meet your master,” he growled and grabbed her for a rough kiss. She wound her sinuous arms about his neck and gave him a beatific smile.

“Meet yours,” she whispered in his ears and let herself fall backwards into the water, pulling him with her. He was caught off-balance and tried to save himself by taking a step forward, only to feel the ground falling off sharply. The footing was treacherous and as the water closed over his head he finally realized his mistake. Frenziedly he tried to save himself, but the weight of his heavy metal armour inexorably pulled him down. His superior strength and his skill at arms availed him absolutely nothing; he sank like a stone.

Panicking, he reached out for the woman, but she evaded him easily, moving through the water as one born to it. Her hair was floating around her pale face like black seaweed and she had never looked more beautiful.

Razmir remember the rest of his mother’s tale then. The merfolk had drowned their lovers when dawn broke. This can’t be happening to me! was his last unbelieving thought.

***

Lothiriel resurfaced in the center of the pool and looked towards the shore. Mashrak and his men had stood frozen, but when they saw her reappear on her own they started yelling wildly and pointing at her.

“Where’s Razmir?” Mashrak shouted, “get my brother out of there!”

Several of his men started to wade into the water at his words and Lothiriel dived again. She had done this a hundred times before with her brothers, only then it had been a game, now she was in deadly earnest.

Two of the men went under with a cut-off scream as she pulled their legs out from under them and joined their leader. The rest backed off hastily, spooked by the fate of their comrades.

“What are you doing?” Mashrak raged, “Get back in at once!”

“I’m not going in there again,” exclaimed one of the men, “that’s some sort of water witch.”

Lothiriel smiled triumphantly. Her plan was working out just as she had thought. It was almost too easy.

It was then she suddenly heard furious splashing behind her and before she could even turn round felt something grab her ankle and pull her down.

With what superhuman strength Razmir had clawed his way back to the surface she would never know, but now it gave out and he rapidly sank down again. He seemed determined to take her with him, though, despite her frantic struggles. His grip was like a vice around her ankle and she could feel panic rising within her, threatening to overwhelm her completely.

Her lungs were crying out for air and the light grew dimmer and dimmer until they hit the bottom of the pool, disturbing the soft mud that had accumulated there over the years. Still he would not let go but held on like grim death, even though he was barely conscious.

Lothiriel could feel her vision narrowing and her struggles grew weaker. Unwittingly her thoughts turned to Éomer who was riding to their rescue. He will be annoyed if I die before he can get here. I told him I could not drown.

She cast about for something, anything, to help her escape. Her hand closed on a sharp edged stone lying in the mud and she grabbed it and brought it down on Razmir’s hand again and again with all the strength she had left. In the end his grip loosened and with a last desperate effort she pulled herself free and swam up towards the light.

No breath of air had ever been sweeter than the one she took as she broke the surface of the water and never before had the sky been so blue and the sun so bright. She was gasping for air and had only the single thought to reach the shore before her strength gave out altogether.

It was only when she was once more grabbed by ungentle hands that Lothiriel remembered the Southrons, but she was far too spent to struggle and was deposited in a wet heap at Mashrak’s feet.

“What have you done to my brother?” he asked white with rage and pulled her to her feet. She swayed and would have fallen if he hadn’t held her by the arms. Nevertheless she looked him straight in the eyes, for a strange calm had taken hold of her.

“I killed him,” she stated flatly.

Absolute silence descended on the clearing and it was then that the mighty thunder of hooves was heard and the lookout belatedly turned back to his duty of watching the path leading up from the valley. He paid the ultimate price for his neglect as Firefoot charging into the clearing trampled him.

The King of Rohan riding up was easily the most beautiful sight Lothiriel had ever beheld in her life and in a way also the most terrifying. None dared stand before him. His mouth was set in a grim line, his blue eyes were blazing with fury and the white horsetail on his helmet was flying behind him as he rode straight towards her, cutting down the bandits between them with a fluid and almost absentminded grace.

Beside her Mashrak cursed and drew his sword. “You shall join my brother in the halls of our ancestors and forever be his slave!” he shouted, mad with grief, and lifted his scimitar above his head.

Lothiriel had gone beyond exhaustion. Her mind shouted at her to duck, run, do something, but her body simply refused to move. She watched in paralysed fascination as the sun glinted on the blade beginning its fatal descent towards her.

There was the grating sound of metal on metal as Éomer caught the stroke meant for her on his sword. Mashrak had to jump back hastily to avoid being trampled by Firefoot’s hooves.

She looked up in stunned relief as he halted mere inches from her.

“Get up behind me at once!” Éomer ordered her, taking in her bedraggled appearance in a single glance.

Lothiriel tried to obey, but she could hardly manage to stand up, let alone mount a warhorse unaided. When she just stood there swaying slightly and holding on to his stirrups Éomer swore and then dismounted.

With no more effort than if she had been a child he picked her up and lifted her onto his saddle. He had to sheathe his sword to do so, though, and suddenly she spotted movement behind him.

To her surprise Lothiriel found that she could move after all. “Éomer!” she gasped, “look out!”

In a single movement he spun round and drew his sword again. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Mashrak as the man who had tried to kill her.

“You!” Éomer said with quiet menace in his voice, “This is the last time you will ever threaten me and mine.”

The bandit leader laughed. “Brave words, horselover! We will see how well you fare on foot.”

Before Lothiriel’s horrified eyes the two men squared off against each other, quite oblivious to everything else going on around them.

Éomer had been working out in the blazing sun all morning, he had had a gruelling ride through the forest and a battle at the end of it while Mashrak was rested and had years of experience at this kind of struggle. Within the first few strokes being exchanged even Lothiriel realized the fight was patently unfair.

Mashrak never had a chance. He faced the King of Rohan in his wrath and there were only two men on Middle Earth who might have hoped to hold their own against Éomer that day. He was not one of them.

It was over almost before it had begun. With a sweeping series of backhand blows Éomer drove his opponent back into the water. One moment Mashrak was frantically trying to ward off the shattering blows raining down on him, the next he was staring in disbelief at the blade protruding from his chest.

Éomer pulled his sword free with a violent twist as Mashrak crumbled into the water, joining his brother.

Without pausing to catch his breath Éomer spun back towards Lothiriel, just as the first arrow whizzed past him.

“Quick,” he shouted and climbed onto Firefoot’s saddle behind her, “we’ll have to get back amongst the bandits. The archers won’t shoot if there’s a chance of hitting their own men.”

She was not given the opportunity of questioning the sanity of this plan of action, for he gathered up the reins, spurred his horse and plunged back into the thick of the fighting towards where Faramir and Éowyn were battling back to back.

Lothiriel was past wondering where Éowyn had gotten hold of a sword and just prayed that her strength would hold out and she would not simply topple from Firefoot’s back. To her, the melee seemed utterly confusing and terrifying, yet Éomer seemed to know instinctively how to block his opponents’ blades, being always one step ahead of them. Man and horse moved as one unit and all Lothiriel could do was to try her best not to hinder them.

There was a strange chuckling sound from behind her and with disbelief Lothiriel realized that the King of Rohan was laughing as he fought for their lives. Her brothers had told her tales of the Rohirrim singing as they cut down their foes on the Pelennor Fields and she had dismissed this as fanciful embellishment, but now she was starting to believe them.

The rest of the éored had arrived by now and even her inexperienced eyes could tell that the tide of battle was turning in their favour. The Southrons were desperate men, though, determined to fight to the bitter end. There would be no quarter given by either side.

***

At last it was over. Éomer drew his horse to a halt and surveyed the clearing. A quick glance reassured him that casualties had been surprisingly few; their onslaught had been so sudden and so furious. There were a couple of horses down and plenty of his men were sporting cuts and gashes, yet they seemed to have gotten off lightly. As luck would have it the Southrons had committed the unexpected folly of waiting for them out in the open where his men had the advantage instead of taking refuge in the woods.

Both of the women were alive. Éomer closed his eyes for a moment, relief sweeping through him. They were alive! Riding up he had feared the worst and when he had seen the bandit draw his sword to kill Lothiriel his heart had nearly stopped. He still did not know how Firefoot had managed to get there in time for him to counter that strike, somehow the stallion had sensed his master’s overwhelming need and had grown wings for a moment.

He turned his attention to the woman sitting in front of him. For some reason she was wet through and he wondered why. The Southrons did not usually drown their prisoners as far as he knew; they preferred far more lingering deaths.

“Are you all right?” he asked and then cursed himself for his inane question. Of course she wasn’t, he could feel her trembling with shock, after all she had just been through a horrifying experience.

“Éomer,” she replied in a small voice, “I think I am going to be sick.”

That spurred him into action and he hastily slid off Firefoot’s back and helped her down. She managed to take a few steps and then fell to her knees and started retching.

He knelt down next to her and gently held back the hair from her face. “Poor sweet,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered between bouts of vomiting, “it’s the smell.”

“Don’t worry, it’s entirely understandable.” Many a novice rider had done the same thing after his first battle. He himself was so used to war he did not even notice the charnel house smell anymore, but there were bodies lying around everywhere and his armour was splattered with blood. Soon the first carrion crows would arrive.

Éowyn came up at this point, bringing a wineskin filled with fresh water and offered it to Lothiriel who accepted it gratefully. Faramir was hovering anxiously behind her.

“How are you?” Éomer asked his sister and she gave him a tremulous smile.

“I’m fine brother, thank you. I’m afraid Lothiriel got the worst of it.”

The princess had stopped retching by now and sat back on her heels, her face white and pinched. Éomertook in her dishevelled appearance, her swollen lips and the fact that her shirt was half undone and felt a sudden wave of overpowering fury sweep through him. What have these animals done to her? he raged inwardly. Éomer was glad he had killed the man attacking her, but his death had been far too quick and painless. He had to suppress the savage urge to get up and kick the body of Lothiriel’s attacker.

She noticed the direction of his look, glanced down and blushed furiously. Wet through as her clothes were, not much was left to the imagination.

Éomer got up abruptly and stepped over to where Firefoot was waiting patiently for his master. By old habit he still had his cloak fastened to his saddle, although he did not really need it in this warm climate, unlike in Rohan where the weather could change with startling speed.

He gently wrapped the thick green fabric around her and she gave him a grateful look.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he remarked dryly.

There was a sound of protest from his sister, but it seemed the right thing to say for Lothiriel gave him a weak smile.

“Thank you, I certainly feel like one.”

“Really Éomer,” Éowyn remonstrated, “what a thing to say after what she’s just been through! She nearly died!”

“It’s all right,” Lothiriel said, sounding a lot more like her usual self, “like I’ve told your brother before, I can’t drown.”

Éomer snorted. “Well, you look like you gave it a good try, though. Come on, let’s get you home.”

He helped her to her feet and then unceremoniously picked her up and deposited her on Firefoot’s back. There might still be enemy archers about and he would not feel safe until the women were back at the house. His second-in-command Éothain was well capable of looking after things here.

Soon after they were on their way back down to Emyn Arnen. Éomer wrapped his arms firmly around the princess sitting in front of him and with an exhausted sigh she leaned back against him. It could not have been very comfortable for he was still wearing full armour, yet she did not seem to mind.

When he looked down a little later she had closed her eyes and was fast asleep. Gently he shifted her so she would be more comfortable and she made a small contented sound in her sleep and nestled closer into the shelter of his arms. Éomer felt inexpressibly warmed by the trust he saw in her relaxed features.

He regarded her for a long time as Firefoot carried his precious burden home. For the first time he noticed the very slight sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and the way her long thick lashes curved delightfully at the tips. His blood still ran cold at the thought of what she had been through today.

I nearly lost her before I even knew I had found her he thought and vowed to keep his lady safe from now on.

Always.

On the nature of courage

They were pulling her down! Lothiriel could not get any air. They had got hold of her legs and arms and they were pulling her down! She could see the light grow dimmer and started to struggle desperately, but they were too strong. Lothiriel could hear them laughing and cackling in her ears. “We’ve caught you, little swan,” they were saying. She was kicking frantically, but it was no use. They were pulling her down!

Lothiriel sat up in bed, gasping for air, her pulse hammering wildly as the nightmare receded slowly. I am safe! It’s only a bad dream.

With shaking hands she untangled herself from her sweat soaked bed sheets and stood up. The room was stiflingly hot and she quickly opened one of the windows. Taking deep breaths of cool night air she could feel her heart slowing down to its normal rate again. The house was silent around her and she wondered how late it was.

Lothiriel’s thoughts went back to her nightmare and she shuddered. It had been so vivid, she almost expected to be wet through again. Indeed her thin linen shift clung to her, but it was only sweat. Why was her room so hot? Uncomprehendingly she stared at the fire burning in the grate. Why light a fire in the middle of the summer? Then her glance fell on the green cloak drying in front of it and she remembered.

She must have fallen asleep on the way home from the forest pool and had only woken up when Éomer had carried her upstairs. She had been shivering with cold and Melian had insisted on putting her straight to bed and lighting a fire to warm her up again. Lothiriel smiled when she remembered the King of Rohan being unceremoniously shooed out the room by her gentle sister-in-law. She had fussed over her like an anxious mother hen, but Lothiriel had only really wanted one thing, to seek the oblivion of sleep.

Now, though, she felt quite rested and realized with some surprise that she was actually hungry. It was not astonishing really; after all she had missed her dinner and had lost her lunch in that most embarrassing manner right in front of King Éomer. She had to admit he had been very understanding about it, but he was bound to think her rather weak and squeamish. Well, there was nothing she could do about that now.

What she could do something about, however, was that empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was always some hot stew and bread kept in the kitchen for the night guards and she would help herself to some of that.

For a moment she debated putting on one of her dresses, but they all laced up the back and she didn’t want to wake up any of the maids. In the end she decided not to bother with one and just picked up Éomer’s cloak and wrapped it round her.

As she walked softly down the hallway she could hear voices issuing from Faramir’s study. By the sounds of it Éowyn and her brother were still up. Lothiriel hesitated outside the door, but then she decided to just continue on to the kitchen. She didn’t really feel up to facing anybody just now, not even her friends.

Mercifully the kitchen was empty and she felt a lot better once she had some hot food inside her, even though her bruised lips stung when they came in contact with the hot liquid. The worst of her hunger assuaged she picked up an apple and started nibbling it. Was it really only this morning she had emptied that very bowl of apples for their picnic? It seemed more like a lifetime ago.

Her thoughts went to Nightwind. Before she had fallen asleep Éomer had reassured her that her mare had not been too badly hurt, but now she wondered. Maybe she had better check up on her before going back to bed.

***

Éomer yawned. “Well I think that’s all we can do at the moment,” he remarked and his brother-in-law nodded in agreement. They had spent all evening planning their campaign against the remaining bandits. By the time they were finished with them there would not be a single Southron brigand left alive in Southern Ithilien to threaten their people, not if Éomer could help it.

He could still feel the rage boiling inside him. He would have liked nothing better than to gather his army and to wipe this scum off the face of Middle Earth. Of course that was not feasible at the moment, for they were still too much weakened by their losses in the ring war, but eventually he and Aragorn would deal with their southern neighbours. He was looking forward to the day when he would finally teach them to fear the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark.

Faramir was regarding him shrewdly. “Why don’t you get some rest now?” he suggested and Éowyn seconded that. “You look tired, brother,” she observed, “let’s continue this discussion tomorrow.”

Éomer nodded. It had been a long day and a hard fight. There was still one thing he had to take care of, though. “I’ll just go and check on the horses,” he said.

When he got to the stables the first thing he noticed was a lamp hanging outside Nightwind’s box and then he heard her whispering. Somehow he wasn’t surprised to find her here.

Lothiriel was stroking her mare’s neck, whispering endearments to her in Elvish and looked up when she heard his steps. Her hair was still tousled from sleep and her eyes seemed enormous in the dim light. For a moment she looked very much like a startled fawn, then she gave him a brief nod as she recognized him.

Somehow Éomer knew instinctively he would have to tread carefully tonight. She reminded him of a filly that had been spooked by rough handling and needed to have her trust restored.

“How is your mare?” he asked softly as he stepped into the box.

The princess took a step back and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. “She seems all right,” she said.

Éomer inspected the mare’s haunches, where the arrow had hit her. The wound itself was clean and the flesh around it didn’t seem infected.

”My horse leech told me to let her rest for a few days and to take it easy afterwards,” he remarked and Lothiriel nodded in agreement. An awkward silence descended.

“And how are you feeling?” Éomer asked at last.

“I’m better now,” she replied and then hesitated before asking in a low voice, “did many of your men get hurt?”

“We were lucky and nobody got killed,” Éomer replied, “although there were some nasty cuts and bruises.”

The worst off was Beda who had a deep gash on his left cheek, but he wasn’t going to tell the princess about it, she looked guilty enough as it was. The young squire had fought like a madman.

“What about the horses?” Lothiriel now asked.

“Two horses got killed,” Éomer acknowledged, “but it could have been worse, much worse in fact.”

It was warm in the stables and he wondered why she didn’t take her cloak off. “Are you still cold?” he asked her.

She only shook her head, but it didn’t look as if he was going to get his cloak back anytime soon. It covered her from her head to her toes.

“I never even thanked you for coming to our rescue,“ Lothiriel said haltingly, “seeing you riding up was the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen in my life.”

It was Éomer’s turn to look guilty. “I don’t want your gratitude,“ he said more harshly than he intended and she looked up startled. “I’m sorry that I failed you,” he added more softly.

“You didn’t fail me,” she exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

“We knew about the bandits,” Éomer said bitterly, “we didn’t warn you because we didn’t want to worry you, and as a result you were put through this horrifying experience.” Éowyn had been very angry with them, but that was nothing to how he blamed himself. He had failed utterly at protecting them.

“You knew!” Lothiriel was silent for a moment, digesting the impact of his words.

“Well, you acted for the best of reasons,” she pointed out slowly, “You came in the end, didn’t you? That’s the main thing.”

She seemed to have an endless capacity for forgiving him. He would take a lot longer to forgive himself. Once again he could feel rage boiling up inside him.

“You do not have to fear those men anymore,” he said, “we will follow them and stamp them out like the vermin they are.”

Her next question surprised him. “But how will you find their hiding place?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“We have captured one of them and have the means to make him talk,” he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes. It was not something he enjoyed doing, even though it was necessary.

“I suppose I should feel sorry for them, but I don’t,” Lothiriel said after a moment, sounding surprisingly fierce.

Éomer thought to himself that it was nothing to what the Southrons would have done to the women, had they succeeded in capturing them. From what his sister had told him they deserved death ten times over. He would not tell the princess that, though.

There was another silence for a long moment.

Lothiriel took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was sick all over you,” she said falteringly and Éomer gave her a surprised look. Was this what was bothering her?

“Don’t worry about that,” he replied soothingly, “I have seen it many times before. In fact I’ve held many a young rider after his first battle.”

“You have?” she sounded relieved, “The stench was so horrible, I just couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s only natural,” he reassured her.

She gave a self-deprecating smile. “You know, when I was younger I dreamt of sailing to Umbar and freeing it single-handedly. I was going to hand the keys of the city over to my uncle Denethor, much to his eternal gratitude.”

Éomer smiled at the image this brought to mind. He had had similar dreams before being confronted with the realities of war.

“I was so glad Éowyn was there,” she said slowly, “I’m not brave like your sister, without her I would surely have panicked completely.”

“I think you underrate yourself,” Éomer averred, “Éowyn is … Éowyn. Like me she is slightly insane when furious. It makes being brave so much easier.”

Lothiriel shrugged. “I was so afraid. All I wanted to do was faint.”

“You didn’t though, did you?” Éomer replied. “Do you know who is the bravest person I’ve ever met?” he asked her.

“Your sister?”

Éomer shook his head. “No, the halfling Frodo. He wasn’t a trained warrior, yet he went into Mordor with little hope of succeeding and even less hope of ever returning, because it was the right thing to do. People are already forgetting that the ring war wasn’t won by force of arms.”

“That is true,” Lothiriel assented, looking thoughtful.

“It’s a humbling thought to owe your own and your people’s lives to somebody no taller than a child.” Éomer remarked.

Lothiriel looked him straight in the eye. “Are you ever afraid?” she asked.

Éomer remembered the terror he had felt that afternoon. “I was afraid when I rode up that path and didn’t know if you were still alive,” he replied.

“Of course,” she nodded in understanding, “you nearly lost your sister, the last member of your family.”

“Yes,” was all he said after a short pause. He felt that now was not the time to tell her about his true feelings.

Lothiriel extended one slim hand to stroke her mare’s neck. “You know,” she changed the subject, “Nightwind here saved my life in the end.”

Éomer raised one eyebrow. “She did, but not in the way she was meant to. Next time you should know better. You made three very basic mistakes.”

“Only three?” Lothiriel asked quizzically, “what were they?”

Éomer specified them. “First of all you should not have gone on your own, secondly you shouldn’t have fallen asleep…”

“…thirdly we should have managed to escape?” Lothiriel hazarded a guess.

Éomer shook his head. “No, but you should have told the horses to guard you. They would have given you plenty of warning. However, you got everything else right.”

The princess looked surprised. “You think so?”

He nodded. “You managed to send for help, you did not panic and most importantly you survived. You were incredibly lucky, though!”

“What do you mean?”

“You were lucky you didn’t get drowned,” he explained, “it was a stupid idea to try and seek shelter in the lake.”

Lothiriel frowned. “I wasn’t looking for shelter, I was trying to delay them. It worked as well, didn’t it?”

Éomer felt startled. “It was deliberate?”

She looked offended. “Certainly! I couldn’t very well let them take us with them into the woods, could I? I knew I had to give you time to reach us.”

Éomer stared at her. “Are you telling me you planned it?” he asked in disbelief.

“Of course,” she replied, only to qualify “well, not nearly getting drowned myself, but the rest, yes. I’m not completely helpless, you know.” She sounded angry.

Éomer looked at her as if he saw her for the first time. By the sounds of it they had to thank her for the relative ease with which they had defeated the Southrons. It dawned on him that he had once again underestimated the Princess of Dol Amroth.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I didn’t want to snarl at you, not after you just saved my life.”

“Don’t apologize,” Éomer replied, feeling slightly dazed, “just treat me as before and tell me when I say something foolish.” This earned him her first true smile that evening.

He still couldn’t quite believe it. “So you killed that man in cold blood?”

“Yes,” she assented in a small voice and then hesitated. “I suppose I should feel guilty for killing him, yet I just feel relieved.”

“Believe me, he deserved to die!” Éomer exclaimed, “just think of what he would have done to you.” Then he cursed himself for saying such a tactless thing.

“I know.” The princess looked haunted and he swore inwardly. Éowyn had told him some of the things she had been threatened with and once again he wished he had come earlier.

“I’m sorry you had to kill someone.” He reached out, but did not quite touch her. She had wrapped herself even more tightly in her green cloak.

“Well, I’m not much good at it, anyway. He nearly took me with him.” She shivered at the memory.

“You know, my first orc nearly was my last one.” Éomer found himself saying unexpectedly.

She looked up in surprise. “It was? What happened?”

“It was on my first patrol, when I was fifteen,” he remembered, “orc bands were raiding us for horses even then and we surprised one in the Eastemnet. I just froze after I killed him. My cousin Théodred saved my skin that day. I still have the scar to prove it as well.” It was no more than a thin white line under his left armpit now, but he knew he had been lucky.

“Do you enjoy killing?” Lothiriel asked. Her voice was no more than whisper.

Éomer felt he had to be honest with her. “Not usually,” he replied slowly, “but when the battle rage takes me I just don’t care. I’ve inherited that from my father Éomund. His temper betrayed him in the end.”

“How was that?”

“He heard of an orc raid and took after them with too few men. It was a stupid thing to do and he got himself killed.” Éomer’s face darkened when he remembered his mother’s grief. “Our mother Théodwyn died soon after and we had to move to Meduseld.”

Another silence descended. It was Éomer who broke it this time.

“I used to be really angry with him,” he sighed.

“Because he got himself killed?” Lothiriel asked in a gentle voice.

He nodded. “It was foolhardy and stupid. I vowed never to put my wife and children through the same, it’s one of the reasons why I never sought to get married. I didn’t really forgive him until the battle on the Fields of the Pelennor.”

“Why is that?”

Éomer stared into space unseeingly. “I lost my own temper and it betrayed me in its turn. I thought Éowyn was dead and lost all reason for a while. If it hadn’t been for Aragorn we would all have died that day. Oh, we would have done great deeds worthy of song, but we would still all have died.”

“Well, it seems understandable when you thought you had lost your last kin,” Lothiriel defended him.

Éomer sighed. “I am king now and have to better control my temper. But when those I love are threatened it still breaks through…”

“Well I’m glad it did today,” Lothiriel remarked. Absentmindedly she touched her swollen lips and shuddered.

Very gently he reached out and brushed a finger across her cheek. “Was it the one I killed who did this to you?” he whispered.

“No, it was the one I drowned,” she replied and he blinked in surprise.

Lothiriel was absentmindedly twisting a strand of her black hair and didn’t notice. “Do they ever come back to haunt you?” She asked in a low voice, looking very young.

“Why do you ask?” he said gently.

The princess didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I had a nightmare earlier on,” she explained haltingly, “they were trying to pull me down.”

She looked up suddenly. “Oh Éomer,” she exclaimed, “It was so horrible! He had me by the ankle and he just wouldn’t let me go. I thought I would die down there in the cold and the darkness!” Her voice broke.

Éomer somehow found the right words, much to his own surprise. “You are safe now. It’s all right to cry.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then she started weeping. He took her in his arms and held her wordlessly while her slender frame was wracked with sobs. It took a long time for her to cry away all her terror and misery.

“From now on I’ll protect you. You are safe,” Éomer repeated and stroked her soft black hair.

Slowly her sobs died down and she took several deep breaths.

“I must look a sight,” she said weakly and gave a sniff.

Éomer put a finger under her chin and lifted up her face to his. Lothiriel looked up at him, her eyes red, her face blotched with tears.

“You do,” he agreed with a crooked smile.

She was beautiful and he just couldn’t help himself. Her lips tasted of salt when he kissed her gently and it felt as good as he had imagined it would.

Surprised, she drew in her breath, but then her arms went around his neck and she clung to him as if she never wanted to let go again. Unnoticed by either of them her cloak fell to the ground. Éomer was completely undone when she whispered his name and his arms closed around her quite without his volition. His eyes widened when he realized she wore nothing but a thin linen shift, but by then he had gone past the point where stopping was an option.

Their kiss deepened and she laced her fingers in his hair and closed her eyes. Éomer could feel heat cursing through him as he pulled her supple body against him. It felt just so good! To himself he finally acknowledged that he had wanted to do this for a long time now, almost since he had first set eyes on her in the Queen’s Garden in Minas Tirith.

If Éowyn barges in again, I will simply kill her he thought. Lothiriel’s skin was as soft as silk when he slowly slid one hand inside her shift. She gave a little sigh and pressed closer. It was only when he started to slip the sleeves off her shoulders that his mind belatedly caught up with his actions.

What are you doing? he thought in alarm. This is the daughter of a friend you are thinking of dishonouring. This is Lothiriel!

“Oh no!“ he breathed and pulled back abruptly.

Lothiriel’s eyes flew open and a look of horrified realization at what they were doing crossed her face. White as a sheet she simply stared at him for a moment and opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound emerged. Before he could even begin to frame an apology she picked up her cloak, pulled it around herself and with a strangled sob ran from the stables as quickly as she could.

With a groan Éomer buried his head in his hands. Once again he had lost control completely. What had gotten into him? I am as bad as those Southrons who attacked her earlier on today, he thought in despair, to try and take advantage of a complete innocent like her when she’s emotionally vulnerable!

He hesitated, not sure what to do, then he decided to go after her.

It was late and the house was dark and quiet. Very softly he knocked on the door to her room, but there was no answer. “Lothiriel?” he whispered. Again there was no sound from inside her room, but he was absolutely certain she was in there. He could almost see her leaning against the door on the other side. For a brief moment he considered just breaking it down, but then he squashed that impulse. He had done enough damage for one day.

He would talk to her the next day, he decided, and apologize for his abominable behaviour. He couldn’t really blame her if she never wanted to set eyes on him again, but maybe she would forgive him. After all she had done so before.

It would really have been much better to break down the door, but this was Gondor where such things were simply not done.

It would have spared Éomer a lot of trouble, though.

Lothiriel's sins catch up with her

She could hear his steps receding. Lothiriel leant back against the door and slowly slid down to the floor.

What have I done? The thought milled around and around in her mind. She felt as if she didn’t know herself anymore. The only thing she did know with absolute certainty was that she would sooner die than have to face Éomer again. Why couldn’t the earth open up and swallow her!

What had gotten into her? After his first gentle kiss they had hovered on the brink and she could have drawn back. Her upbringing as a princess had shouted at her to draw back at once, but after the events of the day propriety hadn’t seemed so important anymore. Somewhere inside her a barrier had broken and she had just let her emotions take control of her. Lothiriel blushed furiously at the memory of how she had slid her arms around him and had surrendered into his embrace. She had the sinking feeling that he could have asked anything of her that moment and she would have complied. What was infinitely worse was that she would have done so gladly. It had felt so gloriously right!

She caught sight of her reflection in Faramir’s mirror. Her shift was half undone, her face still flushed and her lips had started to bleed again. Somehow she could still feel the sensation of his hands brushing across her skin. Lothiriel drew up her knees and leant her head against them, but no tears would come.

There was a word for women like her and it was not one used in polite company. What would he think of her? That she lifted her skirts at every passing male? She was no better than all those women who had thrown themselves at him in Minas Tirith!

He must think I tried to trap him into marrying me, she thought bleakly, why else would I wear nothing but the thinnest of shifts underneath my cloak and drop that at the first opportunity?

No wonder he had pushed her away from him and had looked so appalled. His disgusted words still rang in her ears.

A fierce longing to be back in Dol Amroth swept through her. All she wanted to do was to go home and throw herself into her father’s arms, no matter that he would be absolutely horrified at her behaviour and would probably marry her off at once if he ever heard about it!

Lothiriel froze as there was another knock on the door, then she recognized Melian’s voice. There was no way she could face anybody else at the moment and so she kept absolutely still. After a while she heard her sister-in-law go back to bed and breathed a sigh of relief.

What an ending to a horrendous day! Lothiriel thought, feeling completely exhausted. Slowly she dragged herself up and stumbled over to the bed. If she was lucky it would all turn out to be a bad dream.

***

Lothiriel woke up the next morning with an aching head and an aching heart. Her eyes felt as if somebody had rubbed sand into them and her arms were bruised all over. She sat up with a wince and surveyed her room. The sun was shining brightly, too brightly, and through the open window she could hear birds singing cheerfully. Éomer’s green cloak lay crumpled on the floor by the door.

It hadn’t been a bad dream then. Lothiriel sagged back against her cushions and closed her eyes again. She did not want to get up and hoped sleep would claim her again so she could just forget about her troubles.

Of course the opposite was the case. The firmer she shut her eyes the more her thoughts kept returning to her unfortunate encounter with Éomer the night before. She still wasn’t sure how it had turned into such an unmitigated disaster. He had been so nice and understanding, had taken her seriously instead of sweeping away her concerns as her brothers so often did. He had even revealed some of his own troubled past, painful though this must have been for him. When she had cried in his arms she had felt sheltered and comforted.

That had been a mistake of course, and not behaviour appropriate to a Gondorian princess. The mere fact that she was alone with a man in the stables at such a late hour would give rise to censure by people like her brother Elphir. Lothiriel had never paid much heed to her eldest brother’s opinions and her father had always trusted her implicitly, but she knew that the amount of freedom she enjoyed was unusual and considered excessive by many. Her aunt Ivriniel had always prophesied it would lead her into trouble one day and now it looked like she had been proven right.

Lothiriel sighed. She supposed she must have led Éomer on somehow, quite without intending to, why else would he have kissed her like that? She knew her experience with men was rather limited, but then how was she supposed to gain any? Oh, she had been kissed by some of Amrothos’ friends in the past – four times altogether to be precise – but although that had been quite pleasant it had not prepared her for the sensations that had swept through her last night.

It isn’t fair, she thought resentfully, Éomer has no business to kiss me like that. Then she cringed inwardly as she remembered his words when he had realized just how little she wore underneath that cloak of his.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her unhappy thoughts and for a moment Lothiriel considered simply acting as if she was still fast asleep. Then she squared her shoulders. It was no use; she would have to face the world again, no matter how little she relished the thought.

“Come in,” she called, expecting one of the maids, but it was Melian who entered the room.

Her sister-in-law was carrying a small tray with a mug of tea and some food on it. “Good morning,” she said brightly, “although I have to say, the morning is nearly gone.”

“It is?” asked Lothiriel and sat up straighter in bed as Melian deposited the tray on her lap.

Her sister-in-law nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s nearly noon, but Éowyn said to let you have a lay-in.”

Lothiriel was inspecting the contents of the tray with little enthusiasm. She wasn’t feeling hungry, but when she noticed Melian watching her anxiously she picked up a roll and started nibbling it.

“Thank you for fetching my breakfast,” she said, doing her best to sound her normal self.

Melian wasn’t fooled. “How are you feeling after yesterday’s terrifying ordeal?” she asked full of worry.

For a moment Lothiriel thought that her encounter with Éomer had already made the rounds and felt her heart sinking, then she realized that Melian meant their capture by the Southrons.

“Oh that,” she said weakly, “a few aches and pains, but not too bad considering.”

When Melian continued to frown, Lothiriel turned her attention back to her tray and started buttering her roll.

“Breakfast in bed, how nice,” she said in a cheerful tone that sounded false even in her own ears, “it’s a long time since I was last spoilt like this.”

She noticed a small earthenware jar and opened it, thinking it would contain honey. Instead a pungent smell, strangely familiar, filled the room.

“I nearly forgot,” Melian exclaimed, “King Éomer gave this to me before he left. He said you’d know how to use it.”

“Éomer has left for Rohan?” Lothiriel felt stunned. She recognized the ointment he had used on her bruises in Minas Tirith, of course, but all she could think of was how disgusted he had to be to leave in this precipitate manner.

“Rohan?” Melian stared at her, “Why should he leave for Rohan? No, they have discovered where the bandits have their lair and are going to surprise them. He and Faramir rode out with their men at first light.”

“Oh,“ Lothiriel felt rather stupid, “I see. Was there a message with it?”

“No,” her sister-in-law replied slowly, “Only what I’ve already told you. I didn’t sleep well and was up early, making myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. King Éomer asked after you and I mentioned your bruises. He didn’t have much time, they were in a hurry.”

Lothiriel turned the jar round in her hands. “I see,” she said again, although she didn’t really see anything at all.

They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door that nearly made Lothiriel spill her tea. It was one of the maids and she was very much out of breath.

“Lady Éowyn sends me,” she gasped, “she asks for you to join her in the courtyard. The guards have spotted a company of riders. They are flying the swan banner of Dol Amroth.”

The two women exchanged a look, then Lothiriel pushed the tray aside and jumped out of bed. It was much too early for it to be their escort back to Minas Tirith. Something must have happened back home, Lothiriel thought, Father?

By the time Melian had helped her to dress and they had joined Éowyn on the steps outside the house the riders had already arrived and were dismounting.

“Elphir!” Lothiriel exclaimed in surprise when she spotted her eldest brother bowing to the Princess of Ithilien.

“Sister,” he nodded coldly before giving his wife a chaste kiss on the cheek and a slightly warmer greeting.

“Has something happened in Dol Amroth?” Lothiriel asked anxiously, “Is father all right?”

“Prince Imrahil is in excellent health as far as I know,” he said in his usual pompous style before suddenly taking a closer look at her.

“You look terrible! What has happened to your face, sister?” he asked, noticing her bruised lips, “did you fall off that horse of yours? I always knew you would not be able to control it!”

Lothiriel felt very much offended. “I did not fall off Nightwind!” she exclaimed, “If you want to know, Éowyn and me were attacked by Southrons yesterday.”

“Southrons! Did they touch you?” he sounded concerned and for a moment Lothiriel wondered cynically if he was worried about her welfare or just her unsullied condition.

“They did not, thanks to Éomer and Faramir who rescued us.”

She discarded her previous thought as unworthy. Lothiriel knew her brother loved her; they just had rather different ideas on what was good for her. When she had recounted the previous day’s events, Elphir shook his head slowly.

“I told father no good would come of you learning to swim, but he would not listen,” he remarked sagely.

Lothiriel could only stare at him. She opened her mouth for a sharp retort then closed it again. From long experience she knew nothing could get past her brother’s armour of self-importance.

“That is not the reason for my being here, however, “ he said loftily “I suggest we retire inside for the rest of this discussion.”

It was an order and not a request. Éowyn blinked at his peremptory tone, but she led the way inside the house and enquired civilly if he wished for some refreshment.

Elphir accepted a glass of wine and looked round critically. “Still quite a lot of work to be done,” he remarked and Lothiriel could see Éowyn starting to bristle.

“I’m sure my husband will be pleased to show you round,” she replied coldly, “unfortunately he’s not here at the moment, he’s hunting down bandits with my brother.” Her tone managed to imply that it would behove Elphir well to make himself useful, too.

Elphir didn’t seem to notice. “I know, we met King Éomer and Faramir on the road. They surrounded our camp as if we were enemies!” He sounded outraged.

“You should be glad it wasn’t the Southrons,” Éowyn snapped, but her comment was simply ignored.

“He seemed very much in a hurry,” Elphir said, “I have to say, I’m surprised he left you here all on your own. Still, I am here now, so you needn’t worry.”

This was too much for the slayer of the king of the ringwraiths. “I don’t need your help!” Éowyn stated, her blue eyes blazing angrily, “My husband left half his men behind and I am perfectly capable of looking after things here.”

After seeing what Éowyn could do with an ordinary cheese knife Lothiriel didn’t doubt her for one moment. Elphir had taken a step back at her tone and finally seemed to remember who exactly he was talking to.

“Of course, Lady Éowyn, I don’t doubt it.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s not why I came.”

“Well why did you come?” Lothiriel asked impatiently when he showed no inclination of going on at once.

He gave her a censuring look. “Because of you, sister,” he said dolefully.

When she looked at him uncomprehendingly he went on in a sombre voice. “I warned you that father would hear of your scandalous behaviour, didn’t I?”

Lothiriel stared at him. There was no way short of owning a palantír that Prince Imrahil could have heard of last night’s unfortunate encounter. Then it dawned on her that Elphir meant her altercation with the King of Rohan in Minas Tirith.

“Oh that!” she exclaimed and her brother frowned at her.

“You don’t seem to take this very seriously, but I assure you father is of a very different opinion. He asked me to deliver this letter to you.”

From an inside pocket of his vest Elphir took a folded parchment and handed it over to her. One look at it sufficed to tell Lothiriel that her day had just gotten a whole deal worse.

It was addressed very formally to ‘Her Royal Highness, Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth’ and to the front was affixed the great seal of state of Dol Amroth with its swan and ship. When she turned it round she noticed with dismay the privy seal of Prince Imrahil on the back plus all her father’s minor seals.

For a long moment she just stared at it before getting up abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me?” she whispered and almost fled the room. Melian made as if to get up and follow her, but was held back by her husband.

“Lothiriel will have to learn to live with the consequences of her behaviour,” she heard him say before the door closed behind her.

Lothiriel’s first impulse had been to seek refuge in the stables, but she changed her mind almost at once. They would be full of Elphir’s men and anyway held too many painful memories for her to ever feel comfortable there again. Instead she headed for the gardens. Éowyn found her there, sitting in the shade of a pear tree, when she came looking for her friend a little later.

“Lothiriel?” she asked worriedly, “what’s the matter?”

Lothiriel looked up and wordlessly handed her the letter. It looked like her sins had finally caught up with her. She was feeling numb. Events during the last couple of days had simply gone from bad to worse: first the Southrons, then Éomer and now her father. This last blow was just proving to be too much for her to take in.

Éowyn perused the letter and her eyes widened. ”…the most puissant and mighty Prince, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, summons said daughter…does your father always write in such a manner?” She sounded awed and under different circumstances Lothiriel would have smiled. Not today, though.

“He doesn’t,” she said in a small voice. Lothiriel knew that when angered her father went cold and controlled, unlike herself who had inherited her mother’s hot temper, yet in her entire life she had never received a missive like this. She had been reluctant to open it and its content had proven her right. Half the page was just taken up with her father’s full list of titles and the salutation was the most formal one possible for the Prince of Dol Amroth to his daughter.

In fact the whole letter was a highly official document and it could be boiled down to two sentences: I am very much displeased with you. Come home at once.

Éowyn looked at her with a wry smile. “It looks like he’s found out about your little disagreement with Éomer. Your brother’s meddling?”

Lothiriel nodded. “It must be. Elphir told me he would write to father before we left Minas Tirith.”

“I wonder what exactly he wrote to him? Surely it’s not so very terrible?”

“He probably wrote nothing but the truth,” Lothiriel answered drearily. Prince Imrahil had made it very clear what he thought of her attempt to endanger Gondor’s vital alliance with Rohan. She did not even want to consider what he would say if he ever found out about her latest diplomatic disaster involving their closest ally.

“By now all of Dol Amroth will know about my disgrace,” she said dully.

“Why?” Éowyn asked in surprise.

Lothiriel gestured at the letter. “It’s not even in my father’s hand, it was written by a scribe… You will have to look after Nightwind for me.”

Éowyn looked confused by this complete non sequitur. “What do you mean?”

“She’s been hurt and I won’t be able to take her with me. Anyway, your brother has not given his verdict yet, whether I will be allowed to keep her.” That looked increasingly unlikely as well, given her recent behaviour.

“Take her with you…?” Apparently her explanation had not made much sense to Éowyn.

“Back home to Dol Amroth. I will have to leave as soon as possible.”

It suddenly dawned on Lothiriel that an avenue of escape had just opened up before her. Wasn’t this what she had been wishing for last night, to be home and safe? Back with her family in her familiar surroundings, away from all the confusion Éomer seemed to engender in her heart and mind by his very presence. She could be gone before he even returned and need never have to face him again.

“I’ll start packing at once,” she breathed and got up.

“Lothiriel!” Éowyn exclaimed, “Surely there’s no need to be in such a rush. Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk it over.”

Lothiriel shook her head violently. A talk with Éomer’s perceptive sister was the last thing she wanted. “No,” she said firmly, “you’ve seen what my father has written. I dare not disobey him. Hopefully we’ll be able to leave by tomorrow.”

I will be a dutiful and obedient daughter from now on, Lothiriel thought as she strode back to the house, it has quite obviously been the wrong idea to think that I could be anything else than what has been ordained for me at birth.

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of activity and when Lothiriel finally went to bed she was so tired she fell asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. This left her with no time to think at all, which suited her down to the ground.

Melian had protested at the speed of their leaving, but for once Elphir had backed his sister. When they departed early the next morning he noted with approval that his sister had reverted to wearing proper riding skirts as befitted her station and he was very much pleased by her subdued manner. Maybe Lothiriel had finally learnt her lesson.

Éowyn watched them go and felt unaccountably disheartened, but there seemed to be nothing she could say except wish them a safe journey. Her friend was no longer the cheerful girl with the mischievous smile who had arrived two weeks ago and Éowyn wondered if it was all up to their misadventure and Prince Imrahil’s letter. She had the niggling feeling she did not know the whole story, but Lothiriel had made it abundantly clear she did not want to talk about it.

Idly Éowyn asked herself what her brother’s reaction would be when he returned and found the Princess of Dol Amroth gone. It might prove to be interesting.

Sisterly advice

There was a cold trickle of water pooling in the nape of his neck and running down his back. Not that it mattered much, he was wet through anyway. Éomer sighed. The rain had started early midmorning, just after they had broken camp, and showed no sign of abating. It did not exactly help, either, that he had no cloak.

Firefoot gave an unhappy snort and Éomer patted the big stallion’s neck.

“Nearly home now, my friend, and then you can have your hot mash. You certainly deserve it today.”

It was what he was looking forward to himself, a hot bath and some proper food. They had sent one of his fastest riders ahead to apprise Éowyn of their coming and he hoped she would have everything ready.

Suddenly the watchtower guarding the entrance to Emyn Arnen loomed up through the drizzle and the early evening gloom. Most of the men were too tired to exchange more than curt nod with the men standing guard there, but Faramir stopped for a quick word with their commander.

“Everything in order?” Éomer asked his brother-in-law when he cantered up again.

Faramir nodded. “Apparently all was quiet here while we were gone.”

Éomer wasn’t surprised. He had the feeling that all the rats had run for their holes and would be hiding there for quite some time to come. At least they had smoked out one particular nest of vermin. With the help of Faramir’s rangers they had been able to surprise the remaining bandits and had wiped them out. It had been a short but desperate struggle, for though they were scum, they were armed and dangerous scum.

He was still feeling grim at what they had found at the Southrons’ secret hiding place in the Ephel Dúath. There had not been many captives left alive to rescue, but they had found a few old men and women kept as slaves. The tales they told were chilling and Éomer recoiled at the thought of what would have happened to Éowyn and Lothiriel had they been taken there. It did not even bear thinking about.

They had reached the bottom of the final ascent by now and Firefoot’s pace picked up as the big bay scented the proximity of his stable and journey’s end. The steep switchback road was slippery with mud, so Éomer dismounted to lead him up the hill. He heaved a real sigh of relief when they finally reached the wide courtyard outside the house. Torches had been lit and on the broad steps stood Éowyn, scanning the arrivals for the sight of her loved ones. When she spotted Faramir she launched herself through the crowd to be embraced in a tight hug by her husband.

Éomer had a sudden vision of coming home to Edoras as he had done so many times in the past. On the paved terrace outside the gates of the great Hall of Meduseld, her hair flowing like a banner in the wind did not stand his sister but rather Lothiriel. Just as he was imagining the welcoming smile in her eyes he was rudely awoken from his reverie.

“Brother? Are you well?” Éowyn was regarding him with a worried expression on her face.

“Just tired,” he replied, colouring slightly.

“Are you sure? You looked strange just now.”

“I’m fine. You know me, I’m like the weeds in your garden,” he joked, “they always grow back, no matter how much they are trodden on.”

Everybody pitched in now with getting the wounded out of the rain and looking after the horses. Éomer waved Beda aside when the squire would have taken up his duties and brushed and fed Firefoot himself. A quick check on Nightwind in the box next door revealed that her injury was healing well, but although immaculately groomed the mare looked slightly dejected and Éomer wondered why.

It was only when the last horse had been seen to and all his men were settled in their quarters that the King of Rohan allowed himself a quick bath and afterwards sought out his own dinner. With a frown he noticed that only three plates had been set, but did not get the chance to ask any questions when Éowyn and Faramir joined him a moment later. His sister wanted to know everything about their expedition and it was not until her curiosity had been satisfied that he could finally ask a question of his own.

“Éowyn, what’s the matter with Lothiriel? Why isn’t she here?”

His sister looked uncomfortable. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” he echoed stupidly.

“She received a letter from her father ordering her to return home at once and left for Dol Amroth a couple of days ago. I’m sorry.”

***

Éomer was sitting on his bed, sharpening his sword. This was really his squire’s job, but he liked doing it himself. Gúthwinë had been his father’s sword and had served him well all through the war. He checked all his equipment regularly, after all his very life depended on it. Only a fool neglected to make sure his armour and weapons were in the best possible condition. And in Éomer’s experience fools died early and messy deaths.

It was late and there was no sound to be heard except the gentle patter of rain against the windowpanes and the faint scraping of his whetstone. These were soothing sounds and reminded him of former, simpler times when he had just been a rider in his cousin’s éored, expected to look after his own equipment. Life had been so much less complicated when all you had to worry about was staying alive for another day.

In those days he had been too busy to worry about women much and his relationships with them had been pleasant and straightforward. That had changed the day he had become King of the Mark and was suddenly expected to marry and beget an heir.

And of course ever since the Princess of Dol Amroth had entered his life he’d had nothing but trouble.

Why has she gone without a word?

Éomer frowned. He had run through a whole gamut of emotions when Éowyn had told him she had left. At first disbelief that she was gone, followed by the urge to ride after her at once and demand an explanation and at last remorse at what he had done to drive her away in this manner. For a short moment his temper had even flared up, that she had robbed him of the opportunity to apologize and maybe even kiss her again. He had sat silent for most of the rest of the meal, lost in thought.

During the journey back he had had plenty of time to think and had come to hope Lothiriel might not be completely indifferent to him and might forgive him. In his mind he had already phrased a tentative apology and now this.

He was a complete fool. Somehow his whole dealings with the Princess of Dol Amroth were turning into one disaster after the other. It had started with him hurting her arms and shouting at her in Minas Tirith and here in Emyn Arnen he had held a knife to her throat and had signally failed to keep her safe, to say nothing of what had happened in the stables that night.

It was really quite an impressive list. Éomer knew that had another man done so by her, he would have killed him without hesitation and would have enjoyed doing so as well. Why, he had nearly strangled that fool Dorlas just for trying to kiss her.

Éowyn said she was really eager to go home.

He had been given a gift and had thoughtlessly thrown it away by grabbing it too greedily. Like the mûmak she had once named him trampling a rare flower, he had destroyed her innocent trust in him.

He heard a soft footfall and the door swung open. By habit Éomer had positioned himself on the bed so he could see both the door and the window, by now this was second nature to him. However, he didn’t need to look up to know who had just entered the room. His even scraping didn’t falter.

Éowyn watched him wordlessly for a while.

“That’s going to be a very sharp sword. Soon you’ll be able to cleave stone with it,” she finally remarked in a conversational tone.

“Just so,” Éomer nodded curtly. His tone should really have warned her he was not in the mood for lengthy discussions, but she had always been insistent.

“Brother, what are you going to do now?”

There were some things a man simply did not want to discuss with his sister.

”Now that I’ve had dinner and a bath, a good night’s sleep sounds nice.”

Éowyn frowned and stepped closer.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she said.

Éomer could feel irritation rising within him. What was the matter with all the women in his life? His sister did not seem to sense his mood and instead sat down uninvited on the other side of the bed.

“Are you just going to let Lothiriel go?” she asked, “I saw the look on your face when I told you the news, don’t deny you care about her.”

“She is a free woman, she can go wherever she wants to,“ he replied, ignoring the last sentence, “It’s quite understandable that being ambushed by those Southrons made her eager to go home. Not everybody has your fearless disposition, sister.”

“I don’t know,“ Éowyn looked thoughtful, “I don’t deny she was shaken by the whole unfortunate episode, yet she was so brave that day.”

Éomer shook his head. Surely only his sister could call nearly being raped and killed an unfortunate episode. Her next sentence surprised him, however.

“I blame myself.”

“You blame yourself?” he asked, startled, “Why?”

“It was my idea to go swimming,“ Éowyn explained, “Had we stayed at home, none of this would have happened. Lothiriel looked so dispirited and haunted when she left, not at all like her usual self.”

She looked haunted? Éomer remembered the horrified look on her face the last time he had seen her and felt like kicking himself. He didn’t deserve her!

“ I am tired and I can’t think straight,” he said and it was nothing but the truth, “Let’s just leave it. Maybe she’s better off back home.”

“Maybe she is. She certainly couldn’t wait to be gone,“ Éowyn agreed with a sigh, “I should have listened to you and not have meddled in her life”.

She got up slowly and made to leave the room. Éomer saw the guilt in his sister’s eyes and found he couldn’t let her go thinking she was to blame for Lothiriel’s unhappiness. They had always been honest with each other.

“Éowyn…” he said hesitantly and she turned back to face him, “…it’s not your fault.”

“What do you mean?” she looked confused.

All of a sudden he had the overwhelming need to unburden himself and to seek her advice.

“I am the one who is to blame,“ he burst out, “I made a complete mess of it. She will never want to see me again.”

“Come on! It can’t be that bad.” Éowyn was frowning at him now.

He looked down at the sword in his lap. “You said yourself she practically ran away.

I’m no better than those brigands who attacked you.”

“You flatter yourself brother, believe me,” Éowyn said dryly, “Come on, what did you do, ravish her?”

This was clearly meant as a joke and when he didn’t answer at once she stepped closer.

“Éomer?”

He gave her a disgruntled look. “It’s not funny.”

Éowyn looked at him with her mouth open.

“Brother? What did you do?”

“That day you were attacked by the Southrons, I happened on her in the stables in the evening and we had a talk,” he said slowly, “She was upset about having killed her first man.” He paused.

“That’s entirely understandable,” Éowyn replied, “What about it?” She sounded impatient.

He squirmed. “Somehow we ended up kissing…”

One of the corners of her mouth twitched. “Again entirely understandable, I would say. Come on, brother, Lothiriel never struck me as being prudish. Surely a kiss is not such a terrible thing.”

He squirmed even more and refused to meet her eyes. “It went a little beyond that.”

“How much beyond it?”

He had not really meant to go into so much detail, but conversations with his sister somehow never went the way he intended them to. Why hadn’t he let her leave the room when he had the chance?

“Éomer?” she asked sharply.

“I am an honourable man,“ he snapped, “I stopped before anything happened, but she was upset.”

“Upset?” she echoed in disbelief, “After what Lothiriel had just been through with those Southrons you could think of nothing better to do than …”

“I know!” he interrupted her, “I feel awful about it. But that’s not the worst.”

“It got worse? How could it get worse?” Éowyn sounded almost furious now. “Well, what is it?” she insisted when he didn’t answer at once.

He gave a sigh. “It’s what I said…”

“Well what did you say?” she was rapidly loosing her patience.

“I said oh no…” his voice trailed off.

“Oh no what?“ she looked confused now.

It looked like he would have to spell it out to her, painful though this was.

“I said ‘oh no’” He emphasized each word carefully, but Éowyn simply stared at him.

“Oh no? You kiss a beautiful woman and then you say ‘oh no’?”

He nodded in misery and suddenly she burst out laughing.

“Where is your finesse gone? You never had problems dealing with women before.”

Éomer groaned. “It’s not funny! Lothiriel is different. I can’t seem to do anything right where she is concerned. I was so horrified at my own behaviour it just slipped out.”

“Well, did you apologize at once?”

“I never got the chance. She just ran away.” Again he remembered the look in her eyes.

His sister was watching him thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised she ran away. I’m more surprised you let her.”

“It was late. I followed her into the house but I did not want to break down her door,” Éomer explained, “I thought I’d talk to her the next day, but we had to leave. I left her a jar of ointment.”

The moment the words left his mouth he knew how stupid they sounded. Éowyn was her usual merciless self.

“How very romantic! It tells her just what you think of her.”

“I knew at the time I should have broken that door down,” Éomer said half to himself.

Éowyn shook her head. “Maybe you should have. Well, brother of mine, as I see it, you’ve got three options open to you now.”

“I have? What are they?”

She numbered them on her fingers. “You can wither away in Meduseld from unrequited love,…”

Éomer groaned again. His sister’s tongue was still as sharp as his sword.

“…you can send her your head on a platter as an apology,…”

He had to laugh despite himself. “The princess might not appreciate that. I think she’s more squeamish than you,” he interjected.

“…or…”

“Or?” he asked.

“Grovel! Go to Dol Amroth and grovel at her feet!” He jumped at the vehemence in her voice.

“I can’t,” he objected, “what if she sends me packing. I’d look a complete fool.”

Thankfully Éowyn refrained from pointing out that he was a complete fool and just held her peace.

“I’ll write her a letter,” Éomer decided after an uncomfortable pause.

“A letter?” Éowyn rolled her eyes, “What will you write?”

“I’ll explain somehow and beg her forgiveness.” Even as he said it, he had to acknowledge to himself it would probably take him as long to write that letter as it would to ride to Dol Amroth.

She only shook her head. “You will have to go in person. Or are you afraid of a twenty-year-old slip of a girl?”

He decided to ignore that last jibe. “Maybe I should just forget about her, we might not suit anyway.”

He recalled the emotions he had felt when he held her in his arms on the way back from their battle with the Southrons.

I was so absolutely certain then.

His sister was watching him closely. “Is that truly how you feel?”

“Yes,” he answered, trying to persuade himself.

“You won’t mind then, if she marries someone else?” Éowyn asked blandly.

“Marry someone else? She wouldn’t!”

“I hate to tell you, brother, but her father expects her to choose a husband on her twenty-first birthday from amongst her suitors.”

“Lothiriel has suitors?” There was a sharp pain in his thumb and when he looked down, he realized he had just cut himself on his sword. Carefully he wiped the blood off the blade and put it aside. He would oil it later, when he was calmer.

His sister was watching him with a knowing expression on her face. “She has half a dozen suitors by her own words.”

He stood up and started to pace the room. “But she’s so young,” he exclaimed, “Surely she’s too young for marriage.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes again, but this time she seemed rather amused. “What exactly did you have in mind then?”

Éomer felt himself colouring and she shook her head. “The workings of the male mind never cease to amaze me.”

Marry her? He remembered the feeling of holding her in his arms, the softness of her skin and her intoxicating scent. In his mind’s eye he saw again the vision of her waiting for him outside the Hall of Meduseld. The thought of maybe not ever seeing her again was all but unbearable. Something must have shown in his face.

“You have to let her know how you feel,” Éowyn said in a gentler voice, “Stop comparing her to drowned rats and what was the other thing? A bag of something or other, wasn’t it?”

“A bag of grain…” he supplied.

She gave him a sharp look. “You look guilty – out with it!”

“I said worse than that when we argued in Minas Tirith,” he had to admit.

“Why am I not surprised?” his sister sighed, “What did you say?”

“I compared her to a falcon.”

“A falcon?” Éowyn frowned, “That’s not so bad. She’s not one of your spoilt court ladies to be offended by being compared to a falcon.”

“Actually, it was a falcon with sharp talons.”

“Éomer!”

“I know, it’s hopeless,” he agreed. He had stopped his pacing and looked out the window. The rain still hadn’t abated and all of a sudden he wondered if she was in Minas Tirith still or already on her way to Dol Amroth. Travelling in this weather was no fun.

“I seem to have got everything wrong in my dealings with Lothiriel,” he said dispiritedly, “and now she’s run away from me. Maybe I should just return home.”

His sister had come up behind him and now she laid a hand on his shoulders.

“Would you be happy there? Go to Dol Amroth and apologize to her is what I recommend you do. And control your suicidal impulses better in the future!”

He still wasn’t convinced and it must have shown in his face.

“Éomer,” his sister said reasonably, “When you kissed her, how did she react? Was it really repugnant to her?”

Casting his mind back to that night, he remembered how Lothiriel had clung to him at first, how she had responded to his kisses before he had ruined it all with his foolish words. True, he had been swept away by his passion, but there had not been anything indifferent in the way she had returned his kisses. Éomer came back with a start and saw his sister was watching him quizzically.

“No…” he said slowly, feeling the first glimmer of hope since he had heard his sister’s news.

“Trust your own feelings,” Éowyn advised him, “and as for myself, I’m off to bed now.”

Just before she closed the door behind her, she delivered a parting shot.

“One more thing: If I were you, I would practice comparing Lothiriel to a swan for a change!”

Moonrise

His lips pressed gently but insistently against hers and she felt his hand slide around her waist. Lothiriel let him do as he pleased. After all she had been encouraging him all evening with just this end in mind. Emboldened by her passivity he pulled her closer and with his other hand stroked across her hair.

“You’re just so beautiful,” he whispered before claiming her lips in another gentle kiss. His chest was soft and warm under her hands and he smelt of soap and the sweet white wine they had shared earlier on.

Lothiriel closed her eyes and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Her breath didn’t grow shorter, her pulse didn’t quicken and she felt completely steady on her feet. In fact she felt no different than she had a moment ago before he started kissing her.

This one’s the last of the lot, her thoughts drifted off, what am I going to do next?

His hand moved down to the small of her back and Lothiriel decided she’d had enough. With a sigh she pushed against his chest and he broke off at once.

“Forgive me, princess,” he exclaimed and dropped to one knee in front of her, “I got carried away by my feelings!”

Did you? Lothiriel waved his apologies away and motioned for him to get up again.

“You’re already forgiven Lord Tarlang, but please leave me now. I need some fresh air.”

“As my lady commands,” he replied and with a last lingering kiss of her hand excused himself. The young man was an excellent dancer and had entertained her with a host of amusing stories.

Lothiriel watched him go with a heavy heart and turned to thread her way deeper into the gardens. These she knew from childhood and she could have found her way even without the colourful little lanterns set at intervals along the gravel paths. In the daytime the gardens were a riot of colour, but Lothiriel preferred them after dark when the night blossoming flowers opened their blooms and released their heady scent.

It wasn’t late yet and there were other people strolling along the paths enjoying the cool night breezes. From the open windows of the great hall strands of music drifted through the air and she could hear many voices. Over on the other side were the water gardens, the favourite haunt of Amrothos and his friends, and she would be quite welcome to join them. In the past she had always found them amusing, but tonight she wasn’t in the mood. Ever since she’d gotten back from Emyn Arnen their games had seemed rather childish to her.

Lothiriel was overcome with the sudden longing to be on her own. Fortunately she knew just the place to go. Making her way with impatient strides across the gardens Lothiriel soon reached the broad stone wall encircling it. In one corner a flight of narrow steps led up onto the walkway along the top of it, which offered a sweeping view of the harbour of Dol Amroth.

It was a busy port and many torches were burning on the quay while the loading and unloading of ships went on late into the night. During the war Lothiriel had come here often to watch for the ships of the corsairs and to ponder her thoughts. Tonight she was just in time to see the full moon rise behind the Hills of Tarnost, casting its pale light over the whitewashed houses of the town.

Full moon again. The thought came unbidden into her mind as she leaned against the balustrade. Was it really only a month ago she had stolen her way into the Queen’s Garden in Minas Tirith? So much had happened since, she felt years distant from that former carefree self.

On her return to Dol Amroth her father had forgiven her the moment she ran into his arms, much to the disgust of Elphir, who had expected a sharp reprimand at her behaviour. Lothiriel had taken up her old duties again and had thought she could simply slip into her old life, but like a gown she had grown out of and that didn’t quite fit her anymore, it chafed in unexpected places. Everything had remained the way it was before she left, it was only herself who had changed.

Then there were her suitors. Lothiriel sighed. Prince Imrahil had indeed chosen the traditional half a dozen from the many applicants to her hand. Oh, they were all decent men of good family, yet Lothiriel somehow found them sadly lacking.

Determined to be a good and obedient daughter, she had made an effort to get to know them better, but was secretly disappointed. Not a single one of them challenged her in the least. As for their kissing…

Lothiriel sighed again. She had now experienced the sum total of eleven kisses and only a single one of them was memorable. Unfortunately it was exactly the wrong one.

Unconsciously she touched her lips, now completely healed. It wasn’t fair! How could a simple kiss destroy her peace of mind like that? No doubt Éomer had forgotten all about her by now or else was congratulating himself for his lucky escape from her clutches.

I should have slapped him when I had the chance, Lothiriel thought and balled her hands into fists. Instead she had been a complete coward and had run home, like a child falling over and seeking shelter in her father’s arms. She was angry with Éomer, but even more she was angry with herself.

You managed to stand up to a bunch of murdering Southrons, so why not to the King of Rohan? Lothiriel leaned her head against the cool stone balustrade. The truth was of course that she hadn’t run from him, she had run from herself.

Only you cannot run from yourself.

It had been Melian who had pointed out this truth in a gentle voice on their first day out of Emyn Arnen and she’d had the whole slow boat trip back to Dol Amroth to brood over it. Because of the rainy weather she had been confined to her cabin most of the time and she had realized almost at once what a fool she had been. At least Elphir had been so stunned by the news of his impending fatherhood that he had left her alone and had spent all of his time fussing over his wife.

Lothiriel’s inborn honesty forced her to admit to herself that the reason why she was so angry with Éomer was not because of what he had done but rather because he had stopped. While this went completely against her upbringing it was nevertheless the truth. What was even more humiliating was the fact that she wanted him to kiss her again. Was it so wrong of her to want to recapture the feelings that had swept through her when he held her in his arms?

Much to her annoyance she had found that she missed him. The King of Rohan could be high-handed and dictatorial, yet he was also amazingly kind and understanding. The keen sense of humour he hid so well behind his stern demeanour had surprised and then charmed her. Life seemed dull and colourless without him. Most of the men she met saw only the Princess of Dol Amroth, whereas Éomer had not been impressed by her title at all, and had treated her as he would any other woman.

Was it just her imagination that he was not completely indifferent to her? After watching her brother Amrothos fall in and out of love for years with the regularity of the sun rising and setting, she knew what value men set on a kiss. But even so…

Sparks had flown that night, but maybe they did every time he kissed a pretty woman. She was only too well aware of the fact that he surely had experienced more than the pitiful eleven kisses that were her own lot.

Lothiriel shook her head. She had been a fool to run and maybe she was a fool now to want him to come and get her. “From now on I’ll protect you. You are safe,” was what he had said that night. Empty words?

Anyway, her hands were bound now. Princesses of Dol Amroth simply did not run off to foreign countries in pursuit of kings. She had already done what little she could think of.

There were soft footsteps on the gravel and for a moment her stomach flipped over, but when she turned round she only saw the familiar tall figure of Prince Imrahil. Quickly suppressing an irrational feeling of disappointment she gave her father a guarded smile. She knew he was worried about her, but there was really no way she could confide in him.

“Lothiriel? Aren’t you cold?” Imrahil stepped up to her and gently put her cloak around her.

While it was true the wind had picked up, the night was still mild and for a moment Lothiriel felt irritated at his fussing. Nevertheless she pulled the cloak around her, for it was Éomer’s and she felt comforted by it.

“I am fine, father, thank you,” she replied and turned to stare out over the harbour again.

“Daughter, your presence has been missed,” he said in a mild voice.

“Has it?”

He nodded, unperturbed by her curt tone. “It has. No less than five of your admirers asked me where you were, so I decided to go in search of you. You are very much sought after.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “I am?”

“Yes indeed, and I’m not surprised either. You look beautiful tonight, the very image of my dear Celerian.”

Lothiriel looked up at him at that, for it was not often that her father spoke of her mother who had died so long ago. Prince Imrahil looked sad and she was tempted to pour out all her troubles to him like she had so often as a child. She was a child no more, though.

“Lothiriel, was troubles you?” he asked her, “Are you angry with me for ordering you back from Ithilien?”

She shook her head. He had explained his reasons for his displeasure and she’d had to concede he was right. It had been a stupid and foolhardy action to insult the King of Rohan the way she had that day in Minas Tirith. Gondor was still beleaguered on all borders by enemies and needed its closest ally to stand by its side. Her thoughtless words could have led to a serious breech, had Éomer been anyone else than the man he was.

“I am not angry, father” she reassured him and they fell silent, watching the activity going on below them.

“I am worried about you, “ Imrahil said at last, “you seem so subdued ever since you‘ve come home.”

“I’m just very busy,” Lothiriel replied evasively.

“I know, but even so…”

The silence hung heavy between them and she felt annoyed at his probing, even though she knew he meant well. What was the matter with all the men in her life?

“Have I failed any of my duties?” she challenged him.

“No,” he conceded, “You run the castle faultlessly, you have been polite and charming to all your suitors, the festivities tonight went without a hitch. And yet it seems to me you aren’t contented.”

“I’m fine, father,” she protested.

“Lothiriel, I would like to see you happy. What is it you want in life?”

What did she want? It was easier to say what she didn’t want. She did not want to be stifled, to be treated like a precious ornament, put away safely in a treasure box most of the time only to be taken out on special occasions.

“I want to be myself,” she answered hesitantly, “not just the Princess of Dol Amroth. I want to see more of Middle Earth than what I have so far. And I want to be trusted for my abilities.”

To herself she added. I want to be loved for myself.

A strand of her hair had come undone and Imrahil tucked it back behind her ears. “You are so much like your mother, she had the same spirit. Maybe I should have brought you up more conventionally like your aunt always recommended, yet I could never deny you anything.”

He sighed. “It’s all my fault. It is difficult for a bird who has known a little freedom to live in a cage again, yet with your many privileges come duties as well.”

“I know!” Lothiriel exclaimed, “And I fulfil my duties, you have said so yourself.”

“You do, but you cannot stay here forever. One day Elphir will move to Dol Amroth and then Melian will take over your duties. You will eventually have to find your own place in life and settle down.”

“I know,” Lothiriel repeated more softly, “But why do I have to marry just now?”

Her father gave her a keen look. “Is it that which troubles you?”

She turned to look back out over the harbour and gave an unhappy nod.

“I want to know you are safe when I am no longer here one day,” her father explained gently, “To know you are cherished.”

“You speak as if you were an old man!”

Imrahil stared into space. “The war has taught me you never know when it’s your turn to go. I do not want to leave it to Elphir to find you a husband.”

“Elphir!” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“He has rather rigid notions of propriety,” Imrahil said and Lothiriel couldn’t help snorting, “The suitors I’ve chosen are all upright and decent men. Surely there is one amongst them you could come to love.”

When Lothiriel didn’t reply he went on. “Love grows out of respect, out of living together and sharing your life. It doesn’t have to be there from the very beginning.”

Lothiriel did not meet his eyes. She found she was too confused about her own feelings to even contemplate explaining them to her father.

“Lothiriel?” he said reasonably, “What about Lord Artamir? He’s a good sensible man, he lives nearby and would be sure to protect you.”

Lord Artamir was a friend of Elphir’s, which was not really a recommendation, yet she had found him quite pleasant. He had a large holding further along the coast, which would mean she would be able to visit her family as often as she wanted. Or as often as he lets me. Once she was his wife he would have the right to tell her what she was allowed to do or not.

“He’s too old,” she said.

“Well, what about Hallas? He seems very much taken with you.”

This was the youngest of her suitors, a friend of her brother Amrothos. He was good fun to be with, yet she had found his jokes wearying after a while.

“Too young,”

Imrahil raised an eyebrow. “Lord Egalmoth of Linhir?”

Lothiriel shuddered. He might be the lord of a large demesne, but kissing him had been like kissing a toad.

“He has no sense of humour.”

“Well, what about Lord Pelendur? He is very well thought of.”

She hesitated. Lord Pelendur had impeccable manners and had amused her with his witty stories. Yet she had found there was something slightly malicious in the way he made fun of his fellow suitors.

“He never stops talking,” she said at last.

“You have very high standards, daughter,” her father said with a frown, “what about Lord Tarlang. He didn’t seem to be able to get enough of your company tonight.”

His kiss had been not unpleasant, and she supposed he would let her do pretty much as she wanted to once they were married. She didn’t think he had it in him to stand up to her.

“Too soft,” she replied.

“Well, that leaves only Belecthor.”

This was a quiet and unassuming man and Lothiriel wasn’t quite sure what to make of him, as he never said much at all. His kiss had been the very faintest brush against her lips and he had watched out nervously for her brothers all the time.

“Too short,” was her verdict.

“Too short?” Imrahil looked at her with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, “daughter of mine, there are not that many men taller than you!”

He seemed at a loss what to say next.

“Lothiriel,” he began hesitantly, “I don’t want you to marry some great lord, I want you to be happy. Did you meet someone in Ithilien? If he is a good and honourable man and truly loves you, I will not stand in your way. I could find a place for him here, even if he is only one of Faramir’s rangers.”

Marry him? Lothiriel remembered the feeling of his hands against her skin, strong warrior hands that were used to dealing death, yet were so gentle and tender with her. She tried to imagine moving to Rohan and sharing the rest of her life with him. When did I start to think of Éomer in terms of marriage?

Lothiriel didn’t know what to say. How could she explain the mess she had landed herself in with the King of Rohan? Her father would be so thoroughly appalled at her behaviour that he might well decide to marry her off to the suitor of his choice at once.

“Lothiriel?” Imrahil asked compassionately when she didn’t answer, “Is it someone so completely unsuitable?”

She nodded in mute misery. Unsuitable didn’t even begin to describe it.

Very gently Prince Imrahil took her in his arms and she rested her head against his chest. While she was not a child anymore it was still nice to be comforted by him.

In little more than another month she would have to make her choice. Lothiriel pictured herself standing in the Great Hall of Dol Amroth and defying her father in front of all their people. She could not do it. He was her father and she owed him her love and loyalty. During the war he had been willing to lay down his life for her, she could not pay him back with defiance and disobedience.

One of her aunt Ivriniel’s favourite sayings came to her mind: As you make your bed, so you must lie in it.

***

The moon rose slowly behind the Ephel Dúath, casting a path of molten silver across the waters of the Anduin. Éomer was sitting on a stone parapet in the Queen’s Garden in Minas Tirith and was watching the spectacle, yet he had no eyes for its beauty.

Full moon again. He half expected to see a gray-cloaked figure creep across the stable roof below him. This was the very spot where he had first met the Princess of Dol Amroth a month ago. Éomer smiled ruefully as he remembered the way she had tried to blackmail him into letting her have a peek through the windows. Little had he known then that here was a woman who would so thoroughly disturb his peace of mind.

He had arrived back in Minas Tirith a couple of days ago and had been irresolute what to next ever since. Then this morning a letter had arrived by fast courier from Dol Amroth. He had half expected a sharp reprimand taking him to task for his behaviour towards the princess, yet instead Imrahil had thanked him warmly for rescuing his daughter from the Southrons and for looking after her. Obviously Lothiriel had told her father nothing about their last encounter and had instead heaped lavish praise on him.

He took out the letter now and slowly turned it round in his hands. It was too dark to read it, but then he didn’t need to, he already knew it by heart. Especially it’s ending: my daughter wishes to be remembered to you.

What did she mean by that? Was it just wishful thinking on his part when he thought it sounded like a plea? Or was it no more than a polite phrase? Éomer groaned inwardly. For a moment he had seriously considered riding back to Emyn Arnen to consult his sister. Why couldn’t Lothiriel just write ‘come and get me’!

There was the sound of soft steps behind him and he whirled round, instantly alert. The next moment Éomer relaxed again, for he recognized the tall form of the King of Gondor.

“You move quietly,” he remarked and his friend gave him a grin.

“Once a ranger, always a ranger,” Aragorn said as he leaned against the stone parapet beside him. A companionable silence descended.

“You’re back early from Emyn Arnen,” Aragorn remarked at last, “I hope there is nothing wrong in Rohan?”

“No, not in the least.” In fact Éomer almost wished there had been something, but the Mark was untroubled by orc incursions or raids by the Dunlendings. In short there was nothing to keep him from travelling to Dol Amroth except his own doubts and fears.

Aragorn was watching him thoughtfully. “Nevertheless you seem troubled, my friend. Is there anything I can do?”

Éomer sighed. The King of Gondor was like a brother to him and was known for his good advice.

“It’s Lothiriel…”

“The Princess of Dol Amroth?” Aragorn asked, “You took her to stay with your sister, didn’t you?”

Éomer nodded and gave a short and heavily edited account of their sojourn in Emyn Arnen. “… and then her father ordered her to return to Dol Amroth,” he finished.

His friend was watching him keenly, obviously very much aware of the fact that he had not been given the whole unvarnished truth.

“And now?” Aragorn asked with something that looked suspiciously like a twinkle in his eyes.

“And now I’m not sure what to do.”

The truth was that he was afraid. Afraid of what she might say, afraid she would never want to see him again and would marry one of those suitors of hers. He was almost angry with her for having that kind of power over him.

Aragorn was looking out over the Pelennor Fields spreading below them.

“My friend, you will have to make your own decision, just as you did the day we met on the green plains of Rohan.”

He laid a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “Trust your heart, just as you did then.”

Swordplay

It just wasn’t the same. Lothiriel winced at the rough gait of her gelding as they trotted along the road leading up to the castle and slowed it down to a walk. She had always been perfectly happy about riding the horses in her father’s stable and it was only since her return from Ithilien that she’d started to find fault with them. After being used to Nightwind’s beautiful manners and smooth gaits they all seemed a bit of a disappointment.

Idly she wondered if any of her suitors would agree to buy her a Rohirric warhorse. Maybe she should hint it would mean a straight path to her heart?

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,” a voice said accusingly by her side and she looked over to see her brother Amrothos regarding her closely.

“I must be getting boring in my old age,” he sighed.

They had been for a ride along the sandy beaches north of Dol Amroth and on the way back he had started to tell her about a practical joke he and his friends had played on Elphir. Amrothos was an excellent storyteller and usually she would have listened with amusement, but today she had found her thoughts wandering.

Again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I was thinking about horses.”

Up to a certain point this was quite true.

They had reached the bottom of the cobbled road leading up to their father’s castle by now and had to slow down for the traffic. There was always a steady stream of carts bringing supplies and the going was slow even though people made way for them once they recognized the prince and princess. It was a hot day and the dust disturbed by so many hooves settled on them like a fine grey coating. Fortunately she would have enough time to clean up before dinner or her father would probably have a seizure on seeing her. She wondered if her suitors would even recognise her if they met her now.

“You’re looking serious, sister. You’re not growing up, are you?” Amrothos asked mockingly. This had always been a favourite joke between them with the answer being a resounding ‘no!’, but lately it had begun to pale on Lothiriel.

“You would be looking serious, too, if you had to make up your mind whom to marry,” she countered, not quite managing to hide the annoyance in her voice.

“Marry!” Amrothos shuddered delicately, “Fortunately father knows I’m not the right material for a husband or no doubt he would present me with half a dozen ravishing ladies to choose from.”

When his sister didn’t answer, he added brightly. “Why don’t you set your suitors a task?”

“A task?”

“Like in the old stories. Whoever fulfils the task gets the hand of the princess.”

Lothiriel stared at Amrothos. “And what exactly did you have in mind?” she enquired sarcastically, “freeing Umbar from the corsairs?”

“That’s not a bad idea, either,” he replied, “I was more thinking along the lines of killing a dragon and bringing back a necklace made from its teeth.”

Lothiriel shook her head. Her brother did have a core of common sense beneath his flippancy and jokes, but it was so well hidden that many people did not even know it existed. It tended to emerge only in times of crisis, as when Imrahil had left Amrothos in charge of Dol Amroth during the war.

She only refrained from uttering a sharp retort because she knew that he had gone out of his way to be kind to her during the last week. In fact both of her next elder brothers had, and Lothiriel wondered if it had anything to do with the talk she’d had with her father that night. Amrothos had accompanied her for rides on several occasions and Erchirion had taken her sailing on their boat.

She had been startled and then rather touched when her middle brother, usually so quiet and reserved, had taken her hand in his and had assured her she would always be able to count on him. “No matter who troubles you,” he had added significantly. Threatening her husband with her brother’s ire might not be the ideal way to ensure marital harmony, but it was still nice to have the best swordsman in Dol Amroth up her sleeve.

The sound of their horses’ hooves striking the cobbles echoed hollowly as they passed the outer gate and entered the short tunnel leading into the bailey. The guards at the inner gate leading into the keep gave them no more than a cursory glance. They were well used by now to seeing the younger offspring of their prince in less than pristine condition.

The inner courtyard boasted a small fountain and several ancient oak trees providing welcome shade and Lothiriel took a deep breath of cool air as they turned left towards the stables. She was really looking forward to that bath now.

With a sigh of relief she dismounted and then searched her pockets for a tidbit for her horse. While it was no Nightwind it had still carried her faithfully and deserved a treat. Amrothos had already disappeared into the stables and after a moment she followed him.

“Have a look at this!” she heard him call out to her as she entered through the door, leading her gelding behind her. Lothiriel blinked her eyes to adjust them to the sudden dimness after the bright sunshine outside and found her brother looking with admiration into one of the boxes kept for the mounts of visitors.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Amrothos asked.

Lothiriel took one look at the big bay stallion looking her way with a pleased nicker and turned tail. She just dropped her horse’s reins and ran as fast as she could.

“Lothiriel?” she heard her brother shout behind her, but by then she had already crossed the courtyard and hurled herself through the gate leading into the main keep. Her only thought was to find the safety of her room to get a chance to compose herself.

Running around another corner she nearly collided with a man and only managed to avoid him at the last moment. She felt her boots slipping on the smooth stone floor and would have fallen then if he had not caught her with an instinctive motion.

“Watch out!” he exclaimed as she fell against his side and grabbed her.

Lothiriel froze. She would have known him anywhere, even in the pitch dark, even after a hundred years had gone by. The feeling of his hands on her, his hard warrior’s body against hers, the sound of his voice sent a sudden wave of joy and exhilaration through her.

She looked up to meet the King of Rohan’s startled gaze. His eyes narrowed as he took in the expression on her face.

“Lothiriel? What’s the matter? Did something frighten you?”

There was the sound of running feet and she found herself unceremoniously pushed behind him.

“Stay there, I’ll handle this,” he ordered her curtly and drew his sword just as Amrothos turned around the corner. Her brother took one glance at the situation and drew his own sword in one fluid motion.

“Lothiriel!” he shouted and engaged his enemy in a furious attack. It was a brave if foolhardy thing to do and the next moment his sword went flying.

Lothiriel’s mind started working again. “Stop it!” she exclaimed, “This is my brother!”

Éomer halted his sword inches away from Amrothos’ throat.

“Your brother?” he asked in surprise as Amrothos went completely still.

“Yes, this is my brother Amrothos.”

“The one who tried to drown you as a child?” Éomer asked suspiciously, not moving his blade, “What has he done this time?”

“Nothing! Please don’t hurt him,” Lothiriel pleaded, “I was just in a rush.”

“In a rush?” Amrothos asked in disbelief as the King of Rohan slowly lowered his sword, “Lothiriel who is this? And why did you look like a ghost when you saw that horse?”

“This is Éomer, King of Rohan,” Lothiriel explained and her heart sank as Éomer turned towards Amrothos.

“What horse?” he asked commandingly.

Amrothos looked nonplussed. “The King of Rohan?” He gave a bow, “What horse? That beautiful bay stallion,” he answered in confusion.

“Firefoot? You ran from Firefoot?” Éomer sounded hurt. “Are you afraid of me?”

Lothiriel didn’t know what to say and hesitated. She was just not ready to face him. Then it hit her. I have done it again! Like a complete coward she had once more run away from him.

Éomer was still staring at her and then suddenly handed her his sword hilt first.

“Take this if you don’t trust me,” he ordered her and thrust the weapon into her hands, “I need to talk to you.”

Reflexively Lothiriel grabbed the sword, even though it was very nearly too heavy for her to wield.

Amrothos had been watching them with bewilderment and now he exclaimed, “You must be joking! What would my sister do with a sword?”

Lothiriel swung round and both men hastily jumped a step back. “You sound like Elphir,” she snapped, “I can handle myself and I’ll be fine with the King of Rohan.”

“But Lothiriel…” Amrothos protested weakly just as Éomer cut in.

“You heard what she said. Off with you.”

“Please, brother,” Lothiriel added more quietly.

Amrothos looked from one of them to the other and then a sudden grin of enlightenment spread across his face.

“Is this your dragon slayer?” he asked and when Lothiriel just groaned he gave her a wink and turned to return to the stables.

Silence descended as his steps receded in the distance. Lothiriel turned to face Éomer again.

He has come! her treacherous heart sang.

Lothiriel scowled at him and lifted the sword. It felt heavy and cold in her hands and she doubted whether she would be able to inflict any damage with it. Nevertheless she kept it.

Éomer was watching her quizzically. “Dragon slayer?” he asked.

“Never mind,” Lothiriel retorted, “What is it you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” he answered, “but do you think we could go somewhere a bit more private where we won’t be interrupted by any more of your brothers?”

Lothiriel hesitated for a moment, but then decided she might as well have it out with him.

“Very well,” she replied ungraciously, “that way!” She motioned down one of the side corridors with her sword.

***

Éomer preceded her down the hallway, his head still reeling from the events of the last minutes. He had meant to approach her slowly, maybe prepare the way with handing Nightwind over and then ask for a hearing. Instead his instincts had taken over when he saw the frightened look in her eyes and he had nearly ended up killing her brother.

The revelation that she was frightened of him had been like a slap in the face. At the same time his body was tingling with the nearness of her and he was tempted to simply take the sword away and take her in his arms again. The need to touch her was nearly overwhelming.

Watch your suicidal impulses, he recalled his sister’s advice and resolved not to let his feelings run away with him this time.

A door at the end of the corridor opened onto a small enclosed courtyard with a well in the middle. After the comparative cool of the castle with its stone walls the trapped heat hit him like a wall. On the opposite side there was a small shed with a row of rakes and hoes leaning against it.

“This leads into the kitchen garden,” Lothiriel explained, nodding towards a door next to the shed, “nobody comes here at this time of the day.”

He noted that she was careful to maintain a considerable distance between them and did not lower her weapon. The light was bright and he saw she was covered in a thin film of dust and sweat from her ride. She looks simply wonderful.

“Well?” she challenged him, “So why did you come to Dol Amroth?”

Éomer found that the carefully crafted speech he had prepared during the long ride from Minas Tirith had fled his mind altogether.

Grovel! he reminded himself.

“I came to apologize for what I said and did that night,” he said, “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

She was watching him unblinkingly. “You’re sorry?”

“I never meant to,” he explained, “Please forgive me.”

“Never meant to?” she asked in a colourless voice.

“Absolutely not,” he assured her, “It just happened. I’m so very sorry.”

“Very well,” she said with quiet dignity, “I accept your apology.”

Surely it could not be so easy. He tried to make her understand the depth of his remorse.

“Truly, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got over me when I touched you.”

“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” Lothiriel said and there was the first hint of temper in her voice, “You never meant to kiss me and now you’re sorry.”

Why was she angry? Was now the right moment to compare her to a swan? Somehow he always ended up saying the wrong thing.

“That’s not what I meant,” he floundered.

“Well what did you mean?” Lothiriel asked crossly.

Éomer tried to explain. “It’s just that when I embraced you and you put your arms around me I couldn’t help myself.”

She was plainly furious now. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

“No!” he exclaimed, but he could feel his own temper beginning to stir. How many more times would he have to say he was sorry?

Grovel! he reminded himself again.

“I apologize for my words,” he said in his most reasonable tone, “but I have to say you should not wander round at night like that.”

Her eyes were flashing dangerously. “You have no right to tell me what to do and what not to do,” she hissed, stabbing the sword in his direction, “I can do whatever I want to. It was entirely your fault!”

Éomer took a deep breath. He would not loose his temper with the Princess of Dol Amroth again. And it had been his fault.

Grovel!

“Very well,” he agreed, “I didn’t mean to make you run away like that. Again, I’m sorry I kissed you in that manner.”

Lothiriel stomped her feet. “I didn’t run,” she said through clenched teeth, “and if you apologize one more time for kissing me I will slap you!” She made a sound much like an enraged kitten.

Éomer stared at her and all of a sudden decided to ditch his sister’s advice. It had been a silly idea as well to give her Gúthwinë.

“Hand me that sword!” he ordered her and she obeyed meekly.

Éomer sheathed his sword.

“Now listen,” he said firmly, “I lied earlier on. I did mean to kiss you that night and I’m not sorry for it. In fact I enjoyed it and what is more I intend to do so again.”

Her eyes widened. She threw back her hair and lifted her chin in challenge.

“Really my Lord King?”

Éomer nodded and took a step closer. “I do indeed, My Lady Princess. So if you intend to run, now is your last chance.”

“A Princess of Dol Amroth never runs.” Her smile lit up her eyes.

“No?” he asked and bent down to kiss her. It was so easy in the end and so gloriously right, the way she fitted into his arms as if she’d always belonged there, the way she put her arms around him as if she’d done so a thousand times before. Éomer felt that he had found something he had been searching for all his life and hadn’t even known he was lacking.

This time he was prepared for the rush of passion and did not let himself be carried away. Even so he was feeling light-headed and their breathing was ragged by the time they broke off. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and she was swaying slightly on her feet, but the look she gave him was direct and filled with joy.

“Éomer,” she whispered and leant against his chest, “You came.”

He stroked her hair and took a deep breath of her wonderful scent. He did not want to ever let her go again.

“Of course I did,” he replied, “there was no way I could have stayed away.” And he suddenly realized this was the absolute truth. It might have taken a little longer without his sister’s prodding, but he would have had to come in the end.

Then he took her chin is his hand and lifted up her face to his.

“One more thing, though. Once we are married, if I ever catch you in the stables half naked with another man I’ll do something exceedingly unpleasant to him.”

“What did you say?” she looked stunned and he had to suppress his laughter.

“I said I’d do something unpleasant.”

“No!” she sounded annoyed, “Before that of course!”

“I said once we’re married?” It was not really a question.

“Are we going to be?” Lothiriel cast down her eyes demurely, “Haven’t you forgotten to ask me?”

“Princess Lothiriel,” Éomer said with the laughter clearly audible in his voice, “If you think you can kiss me like that and then not marry me, I’ll have to have words with your father about your upbringing.”

“Kiss you like what exactly?” She tilted up her face invitingly.

He was quite happy to demonstrate again. Somehow it got better every time.

“Now listen Lothiriel,” he said when they surfaced for air again, “I have one more thing to say sorry for and then I’m done with apologizing.”

“What’s that then?” She was looking slightly dazed.

He grinned. “I refuse to compare you to a swan. I just can’t do it.”

Lothiriel was surprised into laughter. “I hate being compared to a swan, anyway. The last man to do so ended up drowned.”

“Lucky for me I didn’t make the same mistake then.” It looked like his sister was not infallible after all.

Éomer took her face between his hands and lovingly traced the line of her cheekbones with his fingers. Her skin was slightly flushed and incredibly soft.

“You’ve led me a merry chase!”

Lothiriel hung her head. “I’m sorry I ran away. I thought you’d despise me.”

“Despise you!” he exclaimed, “Why should I possibly despise you?”

“I was certain you’d think I wanted to trap you into marriage.” She sounded embarrassed.

Trap me into marriage? Éomer shook his head.

“Lothiriel, you’re such a complete innocent,” he said, “only you could think of such an absurd idea!”

“You sounded so disgusted that night…” She looked upset at the memory and he drew her closer into the circle of his arms.

“Poor sweet,” he said, “did you think I was disgusted with you?”

Lothiriel nodded in silent misery.

“I was angry with myself,” he explained, “that’s why I said those words.”

He saw the unshed tears in her eyes and cursed himself for a brute.

“I never meant to cause you any pain. I wish you had slapped me!”

That made her smile again. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you annoy me,” she threatened.

“You do,” he agreed, “and in the meantime you may trap me into marriage any time you want to. I did not come all this way just to fetch my cloak back, you know.”

“Your cloak!” Lothiriel looked decidedly guilty.

“My cloak.” he agreed with mock severity, “First you ruin my best shirt and then you steal my cloak. Your only saving grace is the fact that you left me Nightwind as an excuse to come to Dol Amroth. At least that’s the reason I gave you father.”

Lothiriel’s eyes had lit up. “Nightwind!” she exclaimed, “is she here?” She looked very much as if she wanted to go and see her mare straight away. Éomer felt laughter bubbling up inside him.

“Now just a minute, dear heart,” he said and made no move to let her go, “I have to warn you, I’m not taking second place to a horse.”

She laughed out loud and settled back into his arms. “No? Very well, as long as I won’t have to either.”

“There is no danger of that,” he replied, “I don’t have the least wish to kiss Firefoot. You, on the other hand…”

He did not think he would ever be able to get enough of her. Her lips were so soft and inviting and the way she pressed her body against his made him want to slide his hands inside her shirt and experience the feel of her silken skin again. Éomer was not such a fool as to make that particular mistake twice, though.

“You’re so wondrous fair,” he whispered and slowly traced one finger down her back.

Lothiriel blushed. “Fair? I don’t know. You always seem to catch me when I’m either half drowned, red eyed from crying or just plain dirty such as now.”

Éomer chuckled. “Believe me, you are eminently kissable even then”

She grinned up at him and cocked her head to one side. “So if you didn’t come for your cloak,” she said slowly, “and you didn’t come to bring back my mare, what did you come for then?”

“I came because a certain impudent Princess of Dol Amroth stole my heart,” he replied and gave her another kiss. It was starting to turn into a habit and not one he would ever want to break.

“Do you want your heart back now?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said, “I would much rather she gave me hers instead.”

“She can’t I’m afraid,” Lothiriel said, “It has long gone to a certain imperious and overbearing King of Rohan.”

Éomer knew he had just been handed a great strength and a great weakness. He had someone to fight for now and there was absolutely nothing that could possibly stop him from claiming her. At the same time fear would accompany him from now on for the rest of his life whenever he wasn’t with her, the fear that something could happen to her.

I will keep her safe. She is mine, only mine he thought and held her close. It was a strangely primitive and possessive feeling, yet it felt so utterly right.

Misgivings

“My Lady?” The housekeeper was watching her questioningly.

Lothiriel came to with a start and coloured. She had been woolgathering again!

“I’m sorry, Hareth. What were you saying?”

Fortunately the housekeeper was a down to earth woman not much given to wondering about her mistress’s strange mood.

“The dried fish,” Hareth repeated herself, “I was saying we’ve nearly run out of dried fish as well as wheat flour for baking bread and also bacon.”

Lothiriel nodded. “I have to go down to the harbour this morning anyway to collect the latest shipment of wine from Linhir. I can get the rest at the same time. Anything else?”

It was amazing what amount of food was consumed in the castle every day, but Hareth was a diligent housekeeper and they worked together well. However, it was a bit of a nuisance to have to go down to the town, half the day would be gone before she could get back. Then she brightened up. Maybe Éomer would like to come along. He had never been to the sea before, so he should find the harbour quite interesting. They could have a look at the market as well and perhaps go for a stroll along the beach.

“My Lady?” Hareth was looking at her enquiringly again.

Lothiriel gave herself a mental shake. Her thoughts had wandered off again. What was the matter with her? She sighed. Of course she knew only too well what or rather who was the matter with her. The King of Rohan had proven a powerful distraction on her mind all morning. Nevertheless she had to carry on with her duties, for the castle did not run itself. Even her father had discovered that during her absence.

“I was just thinking what else I have to get,” she lied shamelessly and Hareth nodded in understanding. They went on to discuss the evening meal, but Lothiriel had difficulties concentrating on the matters at hand.

Contemplating what Éomer had said and done in the kitchen courtyard the day before was so much more pleasurable than thinking of dried fish and wheat flour. Especially what he had done…

Lothiriel was still slightly baffled why his kisses had such a different effect on her than those of the rest of her suitors. She had always thought a kiss was a kiss, but apparently it wasn’t so. Something told her as well that he would not look kindly on her experimenting any further. Not that she wanted to anyway. She had lost track of her count at some stage and had the distinct impression she might as well give it up now.

She had spent the whole evening in a kind of daze, not daring to look at him for fear of betraying her feelings to everybody. Fortunately her father had monopolized his attention all through dinner, reminiscing about the war and enquiring about the progress of rebuilding in Rohan. Amrothos had watched her closely, but had for once kept his own council, for which she had been grateful.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Enter,” she called and of her father’s pages came in and bowed to her.

“My lady, Prince Imrahil requests your presence in his study.”

Her heart skipped a beat. There was only one reason for her father to wish to see her at this time of the morning. Éomer must have spoken to him, just as he had said he would. In Gondor it was the father’s prerogative to choose which suitors were allowed to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage, even if the choice was ultimately hers. All her other suitors had in fact applied to Imrahil first before approaching her.

Lothiriel collected her thoughts with some difficulty. “Please tell my father I will be along as soon as possible,” she told the page and he ran off again.

“Can you manage the rest on your own?” she asked Hareth who nodded placidly.

As the other woman took her leave, Lothiriel realized she didn’t have the faintest idea what they had discussed during the last half hour. Little did the King of Rohan know what a detrimental effect he had on the running of the household of Dol Amroth, she thought with a rueful smile.

Lothiriel took a quick detour through her rooms to check her appearance in the big mirror there. While she was dressed for riding in simple black trousers she had also put on a pretty embroidered linen blouse that accented the green colour of her eyes. After all her father liked to see her dressed as befitted her station.

She was humming to herself as she made her way along the corridors to Prince Imrahil’s study and felt like skipping along like she had done as a little girl. It didn’t seem possible that she had been feeling so low and miserable no more than a day ago. To think that it had all been just one huge misunderstanding! She did not know what she would have done if he hadn’t come for her and had taken her in his arms like he had.

It had been a feeling like a ship finally coming into harbour, like reaching dry land after many days at sea. In a way this should have been a frightening thought, for she knew she would never feel entirely whole again without him by her side. Lothiriel wasn’t sure if she wanted anybody to have that kind of power over her, but at the moment she was simply too happy to worry about that.

When she reached the door to Prince Imrahil’s rooms she paused for a moment to regain her usual calm demeanour. Her father would not appreciate her acting like a giddy girl. Then she took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

The study of the Princes of Dol Amroth was a large room with a breathtaking view over the Bay of Belfalas. The floor was covered with rich carpets and bookshelves lined the walls, housing an impressive collection of books, second only to the great library in Minas Tirith. Over on one side was the huge oak table where the council meetings took place once a week.

It had always amazed Lothiriel that her father could get any work done, for she herself would have spent all her time watching the changing colours of the ocean. He was sitting behind his desk and she suddenly felt uneasy when she saw the reserved expression on his face. She had expected him to be pleased at the turn of events, as it was well known how highly he thought of the King of Rohan, yet this did not seem to be the case.

Then all further thoughts fled her mind when she spotted Éomer. The King of Rohan was standing at the window overlooking the ocean and had turned round at her entrance. Now he crossed the room to greet her and his smile was like having something deliciously warm and soft wrapped round her.

“Princess Lothiriel…” his kiss on her hand was the very faintest touch, yet it sent shivers down her spine. How come she had never noticed before what a beautiful velvety voice he had?

Lothiriel was very much aware of her father watching them and suddenly felt shy. She lowered her gaze and dropped a demure curtsy. “King Éomer…”

Somehow she felt like a child having been caught out while misbehaving when they turned to face her father. How many times had she stood here awaiting Prince Imrahil’s judgement? Usually it had been Amrothos by her side, trying to talk them out of trouble with his clever words. It had seldom worked.

Prince Imrahil was tapping his fingers on the beautifully polished surface of his desk.

“Daughter, Éomer says he has spoken to you already. I suppose you know why I have called you?”

Lothiriel nodded cautiously.

“I have to admit to being very much surprised at receiving this application for your hand. Why didn’t you mention anything before?”

Lothiriel felt at a loss. She knew with absolute certainty that her father would not appreciate hearing about that scene in Faramir’s stables. Fortunately Éomer threw himself into the breech.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” he said, “I never got a chance to talk to Princess Lothiriel before she left Emyn Arnen.”

Lothiriel grasped at this excuse. “I felt it would not be proper.”

Imrahil gave her a faintly ironic look. “It’s rather unusual to see you so concerned with propriety, daughter. From what you told me I gathered you had met someone entirely unsuitable in Ithilien and now this turns out to be the King of Rohan?”

She coloured and Éomer gave her an amused look.

“Unsuitable?” he murmured in her ear, but aloud he said, “I’m afraid, Imrahil, your daughter has very high standards. Fortunately I was finally able to convince her of my … suitability.”

Lothiriel was glad he didn’t explain just how exactly he had convinced her. She was rather afraid her father might be able to read it on her face, though.

Imrahil was watching the interplay between them with a frown. “Daughter, this is very sudden. Have you thought well about the decision you are about to take?”

Lothiriel nodded firmly. “I have.”

“Rohan is far away and you are a stranger to its language and customs, have you considered that?”

Éomer’s arrival had been so sudden, she hadn’t really thought about that much. It was true his country was several weeks’ travel from Dol Amroth and the language sounded foreign to her ears, yet she liked the Rohirrim she had met so far. Also she had never been afraid of a challenge.

“Languages can be learnt and I’m sure Éomer would help me find my way in Rohan.”

Éomer nodded. “In fact I was going to suggest I send someone to instruct you in our customs. I already have someone in mind, a bard.” He seemed to have given it some thought already.

“That’s all very well,” Imrahil conceded, “but have you considered how far away you will be from your family?”

“I will have Éomer.”

The King of Rohan gave her a warm smile. “You will.”

Imrahil frowned. “Without intending any offence to you, Éomer, let me be blunt. Lothiriel, are you sure this is not just an impulse and you’re letting your feelings run away with you?”

What was wrong with that? But Lothiriel didn’t voice the thought. She knew her father was very much in favour of deciding with your mind rather than with your heart. Then she remembered something he had said during their talk that night not long ago.

“Father, you said you wanted me to marry a good and honourable man. Surely Éomer is just that?”

“Of course he is,” Imrahil sighed and got up to pace the room.

“You know I have no objections on those grounds. Nobody knows his worth better than me, after all I planted my banner next to him at the battle before the Black Gate. That is not why I’m reluctant to agree to this match.”

“You said you wanted to see me happy.” Lothiriel felt bewildered at her father’s attitude.

“I said I did not want you to just marry some great lord, but Éomer is a great lord.”

At this Éomer decided to put in his oar as well.

“Actually you might find that life in the Mark is more informal than here. I think it will suit Lothiriel.”

“That might well be,” Imrahil agreed, “after all I saw this for myself when I visited Edoras for your uncle Théoden’s funeral, but Lothiriel would still be Queen of Rohan. That is a grave responsibility.”

Queen of Rohan? She was of course aware that Éomer was a king, but she hadn’t really given it much thought that she was taking on a country as well as a man.

“I agree,” Éomer replied, “but I think your daughter would make a very good queen. The people of the Riddermark expect their rulers to be plain-dealing and direct. I’m sure they would come to love her.”

“I’m no judge of that. My objection is just that it is not the life Lothiriel is used to. She was brought up to marry a Gondorian lord. She has no idea what it means to become the queen of a foreign and distant country. There is more to being Queen of Rohan than merely looking ornamental.”

Lothiriel stared at her father. Was that what he thought of her? That she spent all her day ‘looking ornamental’? She could feel a slow anger beginning to burn inside her and took a deep breath to calm herself. Getting annoyed would earn her nothing but a flat refusal, that much she knew from past experience.

Éomer slowly shook his head. “I think you underestimate your daughter. Surely it’s up to her to decide what she wants to do with her life.”

Exactly.

“I’m just trying to look after her,” Imrahil averred, “As you’ve told me yourself, Rohan is still under threat from the Dunlendings in the West and orc bands are still hiding in the Emyn Muil. Here in Dol Amroth she is safe.”

“Are you saying I could not protect her?” There was a distinct threat in the King of Rohan’s voice.

Her father held out a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Éomer, you know how highly I value your friendship. That’s not what I’m saying and after all I have seen you fight, but you cannot be by her side all the time, can you? What if you have to fulfil your oaths to Gondor? I pray it will never happen, but what if you should fall in battle?”

Éomer looked stubborn. “Imrahil, I know I’m not invulnerable, nobody is, although I promise to do my best to stay alive. But then none of us know what the future holds in store for us. How do you know staying in Dol Amroth will always be safe for her?”

They had obviously covered this ground before and Lothiriel decided to let her opinion be known as well. Enough was enough. She absolutely did not like to be discussed as if she wasn’t there.

“Have the two of you ever considered that I might not want to be kept safe and secure above all else and that I might be able to look after myself?” she asked acerbically.

This earned her a stern look from Prince Imrahil. “Lothiriel, I’m your father, it is my duty to look after your welfare.”

“I’m not a child anymore,” she replied with some heat, “While in Ithilien I killed a man, one of the Southrons who attacked us. I did not enjoy it, but if I had to I would do it again. Can’t you trust my judgement?”

Imrahil looked shocked. “You never mentioned anything of this!”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” she explained more gently, “Father, I absolutely know it is the right thing for me to do to marry Éomer. You might try to hinder us, but you will not stop us.”

Imrahil looked at her in some shock at her outspoken words while Éomer gave her a smile of surprised approval. She moderated her tone.

“Father, you have told me many times that mother was by no means the best match grandfather had selected for you, isn’t this true?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Yet you knew when you first met her that you wanted to marry her?”

Imrahil’s face softened. “Yes I did.”

“Can’t you see it’s the same for me? Please trust me,” Lothiriel pleaded.

“I do trust you, daughter,” he said, “You’re just so young and Rohan is so far away.”

“Mother was twenty-one when she married you,” Lothiriel reminded her father, “the same age as me.”

“Finduilas was not much older than that when she wedded Denethor.” There was old pain in his voice.

Lothiriel felt utterly bewildered. Finduilas? What does my long dead aunt have to do with me marrying Éomer?

Her father was staring into space. “She was so young and gentle, but she withered away in Minas Tirith like a flower deprived of water, always longing for her home by the sea.”

He gave Éomer a piercing look. “In his own way Denethor loved her, yet it was not enough. All her life she was afraid of the Shadow and what would happen to her sons.”

Éomer faced him squarely. “The Shadow has passed and I am not Lord Denethor. I will always cherish your daughter, I promise you.”

Lothiriel took her father’s hands in her own. “And I am nothing like Finduilas, though I might look a lot like her.”

Their eyes met and she saw the shadow of the old memory, slowly fading and giving way to a hesitating consent.

“Trust me?” she said again softly.

Imrahil looked down at her. “Are you sure?”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

“Very well,” Imrahil said after a long pause, “I will accept Éomer as your suitor.” With a joyous cry Lothiriel embraced him.

“But I want you to think carefully of what you are about to embark on and how it will affect your whole life,” he warned her, “I ask you not to announce your decision until your birthday.”

“My birthday?” Lothiriel felt dismayed. That was still five weeks away, “but I don’t think Éomer can stay until September.”

She turned to face him “Can you?”

“I’m afraid not,” he answered regretfully, “I have already been away from home too long. A week is all I can allow myself in Dol Amroth.”

“Éomer doesn’t have to be there when you announce your decision, he can send a representative” her father reminded her, “Lothiriel, I will not agree otherwise.”

“Very well,” said the King of Rohan.

Lothiriel shot him an annoyed look. “You will not have to endure my suitors for another five weeks, I will.”

Éomer gave her a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” He would? How?

“Just a moment,” Imrahil interrupted them, “I also expect both of you to be polite to the rest of Lothiriel’s suitors, they are my guests. Is that clear?”

Éomer did look distinctly disappointed, but he nodded his head in agreement.

“All right then,” Lothiriel said grudgingly, but to her father she added, “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Imrahil shook his head and gave her another penetrating look. “What I hope is that you won’t regret it.”

Then he turned to Éomer and spoke the traditional words.

“King Éomer, I grant you the right to sue for my daughter’s hand.”

Éomer gave him a deep bow. “Thank you, Prince Imrahil.”

There was silence for a moment before Imrahil turned to his daughter and said in a lighter voice, “At least you won’t be able to complain he isn’t tall enough. Were you going down to the town?”

Lothiriel nodded, glad for the change of subject. “Yes father. I still have to collect that wine. I was thinking maybe Éomer would like to come along and have a look at the harbour.”

“I’m sure he would” This was faintly ironic. “I’ll see you later then.” It was clearly a dismissal.

When they reached the door he called out to them.

“Éomer, one last thing. Anyone who makes my daughter unhappy answers to me, no matter who it is. Is that understood?” There was more than just a hint of steel in his voice.

“That is understood.” Éomer replied gravely.

Dol Amroth

Éomer was doing his best to look fierce. The two wine merchants conferring with Lothiriel gave him another nervous glance while she seemingly ignored him. He could see the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, though.

“I always take a guard along when I meet the merchants,” she had explained on the way down to the harbour, “they don’t all know me, so this shows them I’m not to be trifled with.”

“What do I have to do?” he had asked, amused at the thought that she was putting his company to good use.

“Just look fierce,” Lothiriel had answered with a wicked smile, “it keeps them honest.”

And so he scowled threateningly at the two men when Lothiriel pointed out that the shipment was two casks short of what was listed on the manifest. It was surprising with what speed the missing casks were miraculously found and he had to fight hard to hide a grin.

“That’s all then,” Lothiriel said when the last wine cask was loaded onto the two carts she had brought with her from the castle. She turned to the two merchants to take her leave.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.” There was only the faintest hint of irony in her voice.

Their relief was almost comical as they bowed deeply and wished her a good day.

They picked up their horses’ reins and walked further along the quay while the carts rattled away on their way back to the castle.

Lothiriel shook her head. “That should teach them not to try to cheat me. Two casks! Did they really think I would not notice?”

“They probably thought someone so pretty would not be able to count past ten,” Éomer teased her, “I don’t think they will be trying that particular trick with you again.”

She grinned. “No, I don’t think so either. You had them well and truly rattled. Not many Rohirrim ever make it this far and they have a bloodthirsty reputation.”

“Well earned,” he pointed out, “after all we are barbarians.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Her eyes were brimming over with mischief.

Éomer still couldn’t quite believe that he was here, strolling through the town of Dol Amroth with Lothiriel by his side, being gently teased by her. And she had actually consented to marry him! He still felt slightly stunned by the quick turn of events, but at the moment he was quite content to just enjoy her company.

“Where are we going now?” he asked her.

Lothiriel pointed ahead to where a broad alley opened out onto the quay. “That’s where the grain merchants have their stores. Also it’s market day today, so we can have a look at that as well.”

Dol Amroth was a busy seaport and there were over a dozen ships being loaded and unloaded. Several of them belonged to Prince Imrahil’s merchant fleet trading up and down the coast. Éomer was secretly impressed when the princess seemed to know at a glance where they hailed from and explained what cargoes they carried. His sister had of course told him that Lothiriel had managed the running of her father’s castle for years, but even so this was a new side to her.

The harbour was situated in a naturally defensive location with the castle overlooking it on one side and the broad harbour walls ending in two massive towers. Lothiriel had given him a quick tour and had explained that there was a harbour chain suspended between the towers that could be raised in times of war to deny the enemy entry. It was not surprising that the corsairs had never attempted to take Dol Amroth, concentrating on easier prey instead.

They had spent a long time just standing on the harbour wall overlooking the ocean. In his whole life Éomer had never seen a body of water larger than a small lake and he was still coming to terms with the sheer amount of water. It was beautiful and threatening at the same time. Sailors had to be brave men to dare to sail across this featureless vastness. Then there was the plaintive cry of the sea gulls and the smell of salt and sea, all new to him.

They had reached the alley now and Lothiriel stopped at one of the stalls. The trader had bags full of wheat, rye and oats on display and she ran her hand through the grain critically before starting to bargain. It was evident the merchant knew her well and respected his prince’s daughter, but he still drove a hard bargain. Lothiriel seemed to enjoy it, though, and at the end arranged for the man to deliver the bags of grain to the castle.

“Now all I have to get is the dried fish,” she explained when they finally moved on, “it’s one of the staples of our men’s diet.”

The market was held in the town square and was a revelation. Éomer was astonished at the many different kinds of fish on offer and as for the other things the Gondorians apparently considered edible! He very soon determined not to eat anything with more than four legs, no matter how delicious it was said to be. It had been quite enough to have a dead sea creature in his bath for washing, he wasn’t about to eat them as well.

Lothiriel arranged for the rest of her purchases to be delivered to the castle with the grain and they had a look at some more stalls. All along the four sides of the square was a covered arcade where the more prosperous merchants displayed their wares. Dol Amroth was of course famous for its pearls, but there were also amber and furs from the far north and turquoise and silk from the south. One stall sold nothing but colourful spices, most of them completely unknown to Éomer. The gnarled old woman presiding over it had a tiny set of scales to weigh them with.

The princess was well known here as well and he attracted a fair share of curious glances himself. It was funny to think that his blond hair, common as mud in the Riddermark, should seem exotic to these people. He preferred black hair himself, raven black accompanied by laughing green eyes, to be precise. Watching Lothiriel talk to one of the stallholders he was overcome with the sudden longing to undo her thick braid and run his hands through her hair.

Éomer gave himself a mental shake. This was not the right place to indulge in those sorts of thoughts or to remember what it had felt like to kiss her soft lips. It was a good thing she was completely oblivious to what was going through his mind! He watched her examining a piece of jewellery and wondered what exactly made her so different. She was beautiful, of course, but he had met many beautiful women in his life and none of them had woken in him the urge to make her his own and protect her like Lothiriel had. Part of what made her special was her zest for life, her sheer unpredictability and the fact that there never was a dull moment when he was with her. Quite simply, though, she warmed his heart like no other woman ever had.

Éomer had been surprised and touched by her outspoken words this morning. He knew that she loved her father and it was no easy thing for her to stand up to him like she had. What he would have done if Imrahil hadn’t come around in the end he didn’t know, but he had been startled himself by some of the ideas that had flitted through his mind, none of them very honourable.

Lothiriel turned round to ask him something and stopped mid-sentence when she noticed his look.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “my thoughts were wandering.”

She coloured slightly and cocked one eyebrow. “Were they?”

A little while later they were on their way back and Lothiriel hesitated when they passed the city gate. She supposed they should return to the castle straightaway so she could supervise the unloading of the supplies she had bought. At least that was what a dutiful daughter would have done. She didn’t feel like being a dutiful daughter today!

“Would you like to go for a ride along the beach?” she found herself asking, “It takes slightly longer, but it’s well worth it.”

“I’d love to,” he said and patted Firefoot’s neck, “the horses could do with a run as well.”

There was a small path branching off the main road and leading down towards the sea. It was so narrow they had to ride single-file and was little travelled as there were only some small fishing villages further along the shore. They left the rumbling of the carts on the main road behind them and soon the only sound to be heard was their horses’ hooves striking the hard baked earth.

Lothiriel could feel him watching her back. There would be that look in his eyes that she had surprised several times already this morning. She found the hunger in it slightly unnerving, yet something inside her responded to it eagerly. She found that even more unnerving.

I wonder if he will kiss me again? she thought and decided she rather wanted him to. Somehow she did not think he would need much encouragement. Then she blushed and was glad he could not read her mind. These sorts of thoughts were hardly appropriate to a gently bred Princess of Dol Amroth!

Lately she had listened more attentively when the other woman discussed the young men that they fancied and according to them she had done exactly the wrong thing.

“Always keep them uncertain,” one of them had said, “let them snatch one kiss, but then make them suffer for it, otherwise they won’t respect you.”

Well, she doubted that he felt any uncertainty regarding her feelings for him after her outspoken words this morning. She still did not know where she had found the courage to be so blunt with her father. As for snatching a single kiss, he’d had rather more than that already…

The path opened out when they reached the beach. The tide was out and the sand stretched firm and flat before them, only broken by a few large boulders every now and again. Lothiriel cast a mischievous grin behind her and urged Nightwind into a sudden run.

“Race you!” she shouted while her mare’s hooves showered him with wet sand. He laughed in surprise and set his horse after them. She had the advantage at first for she had a head start and was lighter, but neither Éomer nor Firefoot were going to give in that easily. She did not know what exactly he shouted in the stallion’s ear, but Firefoot put on an extra burst of speed and drew level with them. It was an exhilarating feeling to thunder across the sand side by side and she laughed out loud in delight and urged Nightwind to greater speed.

After a while they slowed down to a walk so their horses would cool down again. Lothiriel leant forward to hug Nightwind’s neck.

“You’re the best, melamin” she said with a glad sigh, “I’ve missed you so much!”

He shot her an amused glance. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Just remember what I said yesterday.”

“You’re not getting jealous of a horse, are you?” she mocked him.

“I will if you’re not careful. After all it’s well known I’ve got a terrible temper!”

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

He looked serious all of a sudden. “I have, really. I don’t make any promises I cannot keep, so I won’t promise to never loose my temper with you again, but if I do, you may pour a bucket of cold water over me.”

Lothiriel laughed. “If that’s what you want. If I ever loose my temper you do not have my leave to do the same to me!”

“No matter how tempting it might be?”

“Definitely not,” she shook her head.

They had reached one of the boulders, a large flat slab of rock jutting out of the sand. Éomer dismounted to have a look and after a moment Lothiriel joined him. It was covered in seaweed and mussels and at high tide it would be almost completely submerged in the water. He clambered onto it and then helped her up, even though they both knew she was perfectly able to climb it on her own. From the top they had a sweeping view of the whole coast from the harbour walls of Dol Amroth all the way south.

After a while Éomer jumped down again and reached out a hand to help her, which she accepted gratefully as the footing was rather slippery. He took her by the waist and swung her down and for some reason she ended up caught between the rock and Éomer.

Lothiriel realized three things at that moment. First of all the boulder behind her cut off the view of the town, secondly the beach was deserted except for them and thirdly… the King of Rohan had that look in his eyes again.

“Have I had a reward yet for bringing you Nightwind all the way from Ithilien?” he asked her, but did not wait for an answer.

Éomer wasn’t rushing; he gave her a slow, deliberate and extremely thorough kiss. When they separated at last he put his hand on the nape of her neck and looked down at her, his face mere inches away from hers. His eyes were so blue she could have drowned in them. If I’m not careful I’ll end up melting in a wet puddle at his feet, shot through her mind and she wondered if he could hear the wild beating of her heart.

“It was a very long way…” he murmured and claimed her lips again. Who was she to gainsay him? He filled her senses completely, the slightly rough fabric of his tunic under her fingers, the smell of horse and man, his hand sliding down her back, pressing her against him. There was a hint of barely contained power in his kiss, yet she felt absolutely safe in his arms.

Behind them Nightwind shifted and gave an impatient snort; very reluctantly he let her go.

“We have to get back before we’re missed,” she said breathlessly, “I really shouldn’t be here with you all on my own.” A bit late to think of that now!

He traced the line of her brows with one finger. “No? What would your father do if he found out? Force me to marry you?”

Lothiriel was startled into a laugh. “Quite likely. He would be very much shocked at my behaviour, though.”

Gently she disengaged herself and they remounted and moved their horses into a slow walk again, heading back towards where another narrow path led up to the coast road.

“Your father must love you very much,” Éomer remarked, “He didn’t like to let you go.”

“I know he only wants what’s best for me,” Lothiriel answered, “I just wish he’d have more confidence in me, but apparently he thinks me solely ornamental.” She could not quite keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“I don’t think you’re ornamental.” Éomer stopped abruptly and she raised one of her eyebrows at him.

“That is, you are ornamental, but…“ His voice trailed off and she enjoyed the disconcerted look on his face.

He gave her a sudden grin. “I’m digging my own grave again, aren’t I? What I mean to say is that although you’re very beautiful I don’t think you merely ornamental. Don’t worry, your father will come round in time. We’ll show him.”

“I wish father would just trust my judgement.” He thinks me very beautiful?

“It was rather sudden. He needs time.” Éomer didn’t sound particularly worried.

“We haven’t got much of that,” she reminded him. “Do you really have to leave in a week’s time?” It was embarrassing how wistful she sounded.

“I’m afraid so,” he said regretfully, “It’s a long journey back and although I’ve left capable men in charge of my country I don’t like being away too long.”

It looked like she was already getting a taste of what it meant to marry the King of Rohan, but then that was one of the things that defined him, the care he took of his people. Lothiriel would not have wanted him to be any different.

He seemed to read her mind. “Don’t worry, dear heart, I will think of something.”

“You will?” she could not help sounding doubtful.

“I will,” he said firmly, “before you know it, you will be in Edoras saying your wedding vows.”

She would? It was an agreeable picture, although she felt a flicker of nervousness when her thoughts strayed to what would follow after the wedding vows. Lothiriel couldn’t quite share his optimism, however. I should not have kissed those suitors of mine, she thought, now they will probably hound me mercilessly until my birthday. Although he had said he would ‘handle it’.

“How are we going to get rid of those suitors?” she asked him.

The smile he gave her was plain wicked. “Actually, I have a plan, but I need your help.”

“What do I have to do?” she found herself grinning back at him.

“Just be yourself…”

Lothiriel put her hands on her hips. “And what exactly do you mean by that, my lord King?”

“You will see, my lady Princess.” And that was all he would say.

Lothiriel gave him a fierce scowl, but her heart wasn’t in it. He was so very sure of her it was almost insulting, but then she supposed he had every right to be certain.

They had reached the path to the coast road and stopped for a brief moment to have a last look at the sea. Lothiriel sighed in frustration.

“Things always move so slowly here in Gondor. Afterwards there is the engagement period as well, that usually lasts at least a year.“

“A year?” Éomer exclaimed and turned towards her, “You must be joking! I have to warn you, I’m not going to wait a year to make you my queen.”

“I don’t want to wait either.” The moment the words left her mouth she perceived this was not really something a properly brought up princess would have said.

He grinned in appreciation and gave her a wink. “That’s nice to know. Don’t worry - I’ll handle it, like I said.”

Suddenly he laughed. “Here I’ve been hunted by ambitious fathers all during my stay in Minas Tirith. Trust me to pick the one woman to take to wife whose father isn’t keen to see me marry her.”

She grinned. “I thought you liked a challenge?”

“Oh I do. Anyway, it could be worse.”

“You think so? How?”

“It’s still better than having to kill adragon and bring back its teeth.” He did not move a muscle as he said this.

“What?” When she stared at him in stupefaction he gave another of his contagious grins.

“I shared a couple of tankards of beer with your brothers last night. It was most instructive.”

She wasn’t sure if she liked the sound of that and wondered what else they might have told him. There were certain of her recent activities that she did not really want him to find out about.

“I have to say I like your younger brothers,” Éomer continued, “Amrothos showed a lot of sense yesterday to make himself scarce so quickly.”

Amrothos sensible? That was certainly a novel thought.

“I’m glad my brothers meet with your approval,” she said sarcastically.

“Well not all of them,” he corrected her, “I still think Elphir has a lot to answer for. The only good thing he ever did was foisting you on me for the journey to Ithilien.”

She chuckled. “You didn’t think so at the time! Anyway, Melian is with child, so Elphir is distracted for the time being.”

“She’s expecting?” He sounded pleased, “I suppose I will have to let him live then.”

“It might make a bad impression to kill the heir of Dol Amroth,” Lothiriel pointed out.

“It might, especially as I want something from Imrahil,” he agreed, “…and I want it rather badly.”

The last was said so softly, she wasn’t sure if she had been supposed to hear it.

“You know,” he added, “for a while this morning I was afraid I might have to abduct you.”

Abduct me? Is he really serious? “You didn’t say that to my father, did you?”

“Of course not. It would be stupid to warn him of my intentions. If he insists on a year’s betrothal I might still have to do so.”

“Anyway, you couldn’t abduct me,” she uttered the words without thinking about them first.

“You don’t know me very well if you don’t think so.” Éomer sounded amused.

“No you couldn’t,” Lothiriel shook her head slowly and looked him straight in the eyes, “It would be an elopement. You can only abduct somebody unwilling.”

Again this was something a properly brought up princess would rather have died than said.

Éomer had that look in his eyes again.

“You tempt me sorely…”

Lothiriel felt a thrilling mixture of nervous anticipation and piercing joy sweep through her entire body; it made her heart race like a galloping horse.

“I know,” she smiled shyly.

Thank you to Lady Bluejay for letting me borrow her dead sea creature!

The seventh suitor

Belecthor watched them exchange a look. It wasn’t a smile or words, let alone a touch. No, it was just a look, no more than a glance really. It was enough, though. He knew he might as well pack his bags and leave Dol Amroth at once, for he had as much chance of winning the princess’s hand as of sailing across the sea to the undying lands.

Earlier on he had seen them arrive back from their trip to the town and had noticed with disquiet how that man had helped her down from her horse. His hands had lingered on her waist for a moment as if he had every right to do so and he had said something that had made her laugh and blush rosily. Belecthor had quickly ducked back inside the stables, but he had the suspicion they would not have noticed him anyway, they were so oblivious to everything going on around them.

So this was the King of Rohan. He had heard of him of course - who hadn’t - but he had never realized how intimidating the man was. When Prince Imrahil had announced at the evening meal that he had accepted him as a suitor to his daughter’s hand King Éomer’s glance had raked across the other men sitting at the table of honour. In a single instant Belecthor had felt all his weaknesses assessed with pitiless thoroughness and had lowered his eyes in confusion.

Maybe it was time to return home. His mother’s health was uncertain and he had been away a long time. Suddenly he broke into a cold sweat when he remembered the kiss he had given the princess. He had felt uneasy at the time, but now his heart plummeted. If this man ever finds out…

***

Amrothos died spectacularly. First his knees buckled and he doubled over, pressing his hand to his stomach, then he fell onto his side. Spotting them, he tried to crawl towards them, but collapsed at their feet. After a last gasping plea for help he finally lay still, his arms thrown wide.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically. After a moment Amrothos cocked an eye open and got up to bow to the spectators who cheered wildly. Tarlang watched him with his mouth open. The princess’s brother seemed to take his defeat by a barbarian very calmly.

“That’s the third time he has died today,” a cheerful voice said by his side and Tarlang turned to see the princess give him a guileless smile.

It had been her idea to come and watch her brothers train with the Rohirrim, but they were not the only ones. A whole crowd had gathered to watch the spectacular bouts. The riders of Rohan had a fearsome reputation as warriors, of course, but Tarlang had never realized before just how well earned it was.

After having defeated Amrothos their king was now facing off with Prince Erchirion and the crowd hushed expectantly. Tarlang was not a particularly good swordsman himself, but even he could see these two were in a league of their own. He knew they pulled the blows they rained on each other, but he would not have lasted for a single minute. Attack followed parry with lightning swiftness as the two somehow seemed to anticipate each other’s moves. The fight moved over towards their side, the King of Rohan driving his opponent before him with a series of powerful strokes. Then it was suddenly over, as right in front of them King Éomer somehow managed to slide his blade under Erchirion’s guard.

The prince lowered his own sword and gave a lopsided grin. “I’m not as good at dying as Amrothos, so I’ll just concede defeat.”

The crowd again clapped enthusiastically and the King of Rohan gave a bow. His cold eyes behind the two slits of his helmet roamed across the spectators.

“So who wants to die next?” he called out loudly.

For some reason his glance lingered on Tarlang, who all of a sudden had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was not stupid, he could take a hint.

***

The first arrow hit the target dead centre and so did the second and the third. Pelendur watched in growing irritation. How had she done that? She had been incredibly lucky with her shooting all morning and now this. The princess was sitting on that big brute of a horse, giving him a challenging smile.

Pelendur had very definite ideas of what he expected from his wife to be. She should be graceful and charming, admire his wit and be an adornment to his household. The Princess of Dol Amroth had seemed to fulfil all these requirements admirably, but now he was no longer quite so sure. True, the kiss he’d been allowed had been a very pleasant surprise and had made him eager for more, much more, but he did not like his womenfolk to challenge him.

While he had to admit she looked rather alluring in her unconventional attire of closefitting leggings and shirt, her choice of mount was completely unsuitable. What did Prince Imrahil think to allow her to ride a Rohirric warhorse? Pelendur did not fancy having to rescue her when it ran away with her, which it would no doubt do.

He moved his own horse into a slow canter now and drew his bow. The first arrow went completely wide and he cursed inwardly. He was letting himself be rattled by a woman! The next two arrows at least hit the target, but nowhere near the centre.

Princess Lothiriel was watching critically. “Not bad for a beginner,” she commented and before he had recovered from his shock at being described in this manner, urged her own horse into a canter again. With the same fluid grace and the same deadly accuracy as before she loosened three arrows in quick succession. The Rohirrim who had gathered on one side to watch the shooting cheered her and she gave a friendly wave. She seemed to be on excellent terms with that rabble, knowing all their names and exchanging jokes with them.

At that moment Pelendur resolved to pay a prolonged visit to his estates. While the Princess of Dol Amroth was a considerable prize to be won, some things just weren’t worth the trouble.

No, he did not like his womenfolk to challenge him and even less did he like them to best him at something.

***

Egalmoth missed a step and stumbled.

“Are you all right?” the princess asked solicitously. He nodded weakly and apologized for his clumsiness. These Gondorian court dances were so complicated, any lack of concentration automatically resulted in a misstep. But how was he supposed to concentrate when he’d had the King of Rohan glower at him all evening, ever since he had complimented the princess on her gown?

Egalmoth’s problem was that he had seen the man fight at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. He had been on the ships sailing up the Anduin, had in fact been standing next to King Elessar, when they had seen Éomer raise his sword and laugh at them in defiance! His own king had laughed in delight and had ordered his standard unfurled with its white tree and the seven stars. The man was mad of course, but it was a bright and blazing madness that had called to something within Egalmoth.

The question was only if a man who had laughed in the face of death like that could be relied on to adhere to the niceties of Gondorian court etiquette, specifically that it was bad manners to punch another man in the face, just because they happened to woo the same woman.

The princess gave him a bright smile. “It’s nice to see a man who enjoys dancing,” she said, “I was disappointed when King Éomer told me he did not like to dance.”

“He doesn’t?”

“He does not consider it a manly pursuit,” she explained, “although I have to say I don’t see why you can’t be able to kill a man and still like to dance.”

He stared at her. So far they had mostly talked about her father’s court or he had described his home in Linhir. In fact he had done most of the talking as was really only fitting, him being a man of so vastly more experience. These opinions were entirely new to him.

“You do?” was all he managed to say in reply.

She nodded. “Well just look at me…”

“At you?” he asked.

“I killed the leader of those Southron bandits who attacked us in Ithilien, but that does not mean I can’t still enjoy dancing.”

Egalmoth was left speechless. He had always admired her delicate looks and slender figure. The kiss she had given him that evening in the garden had been like the touch of a butterfly.

Perhaps the Princess of Dol Amroth was a suitable match for the King of Rohan after all…

***

“Of course they probably wear special armour or they would be cooked, wouldn’t they.”

“Cooked?” Hallas squeaked, then repeated in a more normal tone, “They would be cooked?”

“Why yes,” Amrothos nodded, “it is said a dragon’s fire can burn a man to cinders before he even has the time to lift his sword.”

Hallas gulped and tried to imagine facing a dragon. He failed utterly. “And he has slain one?”

“I’ve been told so,” Amrothos replied, “It’s the kind of thing barbarians do, isn’t it?”

“You think so?” he asked.

“Why yes. They are impulsive and act before they think.”

“They do?” Hallas felt uneasy.

“Look at those poor Southrons who tried to attack Lothiriel,” Amrothos pointed out, “I have heard it reported that he slew the whole lot single-handedly.”

Hallas felt extremely uneasy now.

“I hope my sister gets a dragon’s tooth,” his friend went on blithely, “I’d like to see one.”

“Why should Princess Lothiriel get a dragon’s tooth?” he asked.

“Apparently it’s a traditional courting gift,” Amrothos explained, “although I don’t quite see what she’ll do with a tooth the size of a man, but maybe there are smaller ones as well.”

The size of a man? That did it. Hallas felt a pang, for the princess was beautiful and he was half in love with her, but he was really too young to marry.

And definitely too young to die.

***

Artamir watched the princess lead her horse into the stables. She was humming to herself, but stopped abruptly when she spotted them. Beside him Elphir stiffened.

“Lothiriel!” he exclaimed, “Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Now she looked decidedly guilty. “I’ve been sailing,” she explained.

Artamir frowned. He had seen the King of Rohan ride in only a moment ago and wondered where he had been. Apparently Elphir had the same thought.

“Did you take King Éomer with you?” he demanded to know.

She lifted her chin. “So what if I did?”

“It’s not behaviour suitable to a princess and I won’t have it,” Elphir exclaimed.

Artamir could only agree. He knew only too well that women were foolish creatures and easily led. Why, he had caught his own sister mooning over the King of Rohan! He had of course done the proper thing and sent her home at once.

Lothiriel gave them a furious look. “Don’t tell me what to do or not to do, brother. I’m perfectly safe with Éomer.”

Éomer? She calls him by his first name?

“I am your eldest brother,” Elphir said through clenched teeth, “I demand respect.”

“You will have to earn it then,” she replied coolly and moved past them to stable her horse.

The princess definitely needed a firm hand to instruct her as regarded her proper place in life, Artamir thought. That was after all a husband’s duty: to look after those in his care, but also to chastise them if necessary. Daughter of his liege lord or not, when she was finally his own he would quickly curb such unseemly behaviour.

“Is there a problem?” a threatening voice said behind them and he jumped.

Elphir took a step backwards. “I was just pointing out to my sister that it is not really a very good idea to go sailing all on your own.”

“Why not?” the King of Rohan asked. He had not moved at all, yet he looked decidedly menacing.

“It’s not really behaviour appropriate to a Princess of Dol Amroth,” Elphir stammered.

King Éomer gave him a hard look. “It might not be appropriate to a Princess of Dol Amroth, but it is appropriate to a Queen of the Riddermark.”

Artamir suddenly thought of a cousin of his, a nice biddable girl he had considered taking to wife before he had met Princess Lothiriel. Maybe it was time to pay her a visit?

***

Once again Lothiriel was standing on the castle wall looking out over the harbour of Dol Amroth. The sun had just set and the sky was still ablaze with colour. There would be no moon tonight, but already the first stars were twinkling in the east.

She felt elated and sad at the same time. This morning the last of her suitors had ridden off, but so would Éomer tomorrow. The feast tonight was in his honour, before he had to return home.

There were soft steps on the gravel path and she turned round. It was him! He looked serious as he ascended the steps to the walkway along the wall and she felt her heart sink. She knew he had been to see Prince Imrahil again and had hoped her father would relent and let them announce their betrothal early.

“What did my father say?” she asked anxiously.

He looked down at her gravely and then suddenly his face split into a huge grin. “He said yes!”

Lothiriel took a deep breath. “Éomer!” she growled, but then she could contain herself no longer and flew into his arms.

He lifted her up and whirled her round, laughing out loud in delight. “He did indeed, dear heart.”

Carefully he set her on her feet again, but did not release her. “Now that all your suitors are gone you will just have to settle for me.”

She grinned up at him. “I will have to bow to the inevitable. What made father change his mind?”

He shrugged. “I’m not quite sure, but I believe he was disappointed none of them stood up to me. How could they protect his daughter if they did not even manage to do that?”

“So we may announce our hand fasting tonight?”

Éomer nodded. “And we’ve settled the date for the wedding.”

Lothiriel frowned. “Shouldn’t I have a say in it as well?”

He gave her an intense look, which made her blush. “I assumed you would like it as soon as possible, the same as me?”

Lothiriel lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she admitted. What had happened to her maidenly modesty? She had the distinct impression he knew only too well what a bad influence he was on her.

He bent to kiss her softly and for a while that was all she could think of. Some things had not changed. She wondered if she would ever get over this breathless feeling and then wondered if she wanted to.

“So what date have you settled on?” she asked him.

“Midwinter.”

“So soon?” Lothiriel was very much surprised.

“Soon?” he cocked an eyebrow at her, “Five months would not be considered ‘soon’ in the Mark!”

She smiled. “Well for Gondor it’s not a very long betrothal period. What did you say to my father to make him agree to that?”

“Nothing improper...” he grinned at her.

“Improper?” She frowned at him in puzzlement and then coloured furiously when it dawned on her what he meant.

“Éomer!” she protested.

He laughed. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist that. You blush so adoringly.”

Lothiriel gave him her fiercest frown. “Just remember you told me I could slap you the next time you annoy me. So what did you say?”

“In the Mark it’s considered a good day to get married because the sun returns and the days get longer after,” he explained.

As it happened, this was the truth, but not all of it. What he should have done of course was to tell her what he had really said to her father and she would probably have laughed. Éomer had not yet learnt that these things always come out in the end.

“Your father loves you,” he said gently, “and he does not want to stand in your way to happiness. I think the way we disposed of those suitors convinced him we are serious.”

“Well I’m glad all that hard work paid off,” Lothiriel grinned, “I never would have thought we’d get rid of them that quickly, not after what I did.” She stopped abruptly and could not help lowering her eyes guiltily.

He gave her a mystified look. “What did you do?”

“Nothing…”

He put one hand under her chin and forced her to meet his eyes.

“Lothiriel, has nobody ever told you that you are a rotten liar? Come on, out with it, it can’t be all that bad!”

“I kissed them,” she confessed. What would he think of her?

She went on in a rush. “It was before you came to Dol Amroth! I just wanted to find out if it was the same as being kissed by you!”

There was sudden laughter in his eyes. “And - was it?”

Wordlessly she shook her head.

“Well, that’s nice to know,” he said gravely but his eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth, “however, I would appreciate it if you could from now on confine your experimenting to me.”

“I think I can manage to do that,” Lothiriel conceded graciously, “even if I will have to wait for a while.”

He looked at her as if to store her sight away in his memory for the days to come. “It’s going to be a long five months,” he said.

She nodded in silent misery. “You know, if this were a story I would disguise myself as one of your riders tomorrow.”

Éomer chuckled. “You couldn’t, not in broad daylight.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “I suppose I’d have to find a way to dye my hair blond.”

He laughed out loud. “Do you think that would make any difference?” He let his hands rest lightly on her waist. “Let me tell you, none of my riders have these delightful curves or these enticing lips.”

As if to prove it, he took her in his arms again. This time there was a hint of desperation in his kiss, as if he wanted to remember how she felt and tasted in the long months to come. Lothiriel clung to him and buried her hands in his hair, for this was probably her last opportunity to have him for her own. When he’d take his leave tomorrow she would have to be the Princess of Dol Amroth.

Time had gone so quickly. In her mind she knew it would only be for a few months and that it was not as if he was going off to war. She would see him again very soon and then they would be wedded. Her mind knew all that, her heart knew only one thing: he was leaving.

***

The Great Hall hushed expectantly when Prince Imrahil rose after the evening meal had been cleared away. He stepped up to the dais at one end and motioned for his family and Éomer to join him. Lothiriel nervously smoothed her hands over the silk of her dress and went to stand at her father’s side.

It was silly to be feeling so nervous. After all this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She stole a glance at Éomer who was standing at her father’s other side, facing the hall. He was looking very handsome in a simple dark blue tunic, edged with golden embroidery, but his face had a stern and slightly aloof expression.

I am binding myself to this man for the rest of my life, she thought, once I give my consent there is no honourable way out anymore. All her father’s objections chose that moment to crowd into her mind. What if she hated life in Rohan and longed for her family all the time? It was a big step into the unknown and she had met this man little more than a month ago.

As if feeling her eyes on him the King of Rohan looked over and then suddenly winked at her. The smile he gave her transformed his face and Lothiriel could feel her spirits lifting again. Relief swept through her. She was doing the right thing!

Tonight she had chosen to wear the midnight blue dress Prince Imrahil had given her for her last birthday and her father smiled at her warmly in appreciation.

“You look lovely tonight, daughter,” he said, “Are you absolutely sure of this?”

She nodded firmly and what he read in her face seemed to convince him, for after giving her a last searching look he turned to face the hall.

“Dear guests,” Prince Imrahil said in a carrying voice, “It is with great pleasure that I announce that Éomer, King of Rohan, has asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage and that she has granted his request.”

There was polite applause by the Gondorians and loud cheering from the table where the Rohirrim sat. She did not quite catch anything they shouted at Éomer, but maybe that was all for the best to judge by the grin he quickly had to hide. Behind her Amrothos and Erchirion clapped enthusiastically while Elphir just looked resigned.

Imrahil waited patiently for the cheering to die down again and then took their hands in his and joined them together. Her hands trembled slightly and Éomer gave them a gentle reassuring squeeze. It was now traditional for the betrothed couple to exchange a kiss and for a fleeting moment Lothiriel wondered if Éomer knew of this custom. Apparently he did, for he placed a light decorous kiss on her lips, as was proper. It was so faint as to be almost impersonal and not what she was used to by now. She could see the acknowledgment of that in the glint in his eyes as he did so. Lothiriel could feel herself starting to blush and cursed her fair skin. How dare he look at her in that fashion in front of all these people!

When the guest applauded again he said loudly. “And this is how we seal a betrothal in the Riddermark.”

There was that look in his eyes again.

“Éomer!” Lothiriel whispered threateningly and then her eyes widened as he bent down towards her. He isn’t going to…? He is!

The kiss he gave her wasn’t the chaste peck on the cheek permissible in public to a betrothed couple in Gondor. In fact it went far beyond that. She could feel her legs starting to turn to jelly and was glad he held her so tightly. Behind her Elphir made an outraged noise.

That decided her. It would be undignified to struggle and after all she did not want to flaunt the customs of her new people, did she? So she wound her arms around his neck and when he finally broke off he looked down at her with an approving twinkle in his eyes.

There was dead silence in the hall, then everybody started talking at once and avoided their eyes.

“If this was the Mark I would carry you off here and now,” Éomer whispered in her ears, still holding her tightly.

Her cheeks were aflame when she turned to face her father, but she met his eyes defiantly. Prince Imrahil had a bemused expression on his face, as if he’d just discovered something new and surprising about his daughter. Beside him Elphir was beet-red in the face and looked stunned while Erchirion and Amrothos both gave the King of Rohan a look of awe.

Shades of grey

Grey, silver grey, dark grey, dappled grey, slate grey, light grey, ash grey, dove grey, smoke grey, iron grey…

Lothiriel sighed. How could a language have over thirty words for the colour of a horse’s coat? Not even black was black! There was true black like Nightwind and then there was grey black, where the colour would fade to a dark grey as the horse grew older. And as for the word order! Learning all those genealogies by heart as a child now helped her to memorise the strange sounding words, but she could not get her mind around the completely illogical word order.

Glumly she looked at the list of words she had made. Rohirric was not a written language, so she had just noted them down how they sounded to her. She had probably gotten it all wrong anyway.

She leaned back in the window seat and pulled her cloak tighter around her. It was overcast and blustery today and the wind was coming in through the open window of her bedroom, tangling her hair. She smoothed a stray strand back behind her ear and stared out over the garden. The paths were covered in fallen leaves and more were joining them all the time. Lothiriel welcomed the cooler weather, for it meant winter was drawing nearer.

Lately time had been alternately racing and crawling along. Her days were so busy now. She usually spent her mornings going for long rides, for she was determined not to arrive in Rohan all stiff and saddle sore. Her new people should not think that their queen could not even ride properly.

Then there was the fitting of new clothes. Her ladies seemed to think that a princess, soon to be queen, needed an amazing amount of gowns. She’d had two large trunks full of dresses sent ahead to Rohan already. At least she’d had the foresight to write to Éowyn and ask for her advice on the subject. On her recommendation she had insisted on having some more simple clothing like riding attire included as well.

To top it all off Aunt Ivriniel had descended on them on one of her infrequent but much dreaded visits. Word had reached her that her only niece was going to marry a king and she had apparently decided Lothiriel was in urgent need of instruction in the behaviour appropriate to a queen.

It had turned out her favourite nephew Elphir had written to their aunt describing in detail the scandalous scene at the handfasting and begging her to lend him her aid in having his sister brought back to the path of virtue. While Ivriniel had been pleased if rather surprised at her niece marrying a king (even if only an upstart foreign one) she had quickly perceived that Lothiriel had no idea of the proper comportment now expected of her.

Lothiriel had borne it all patiently until her aunt had cast a disparaging remark on Éomer. In a not very maidenly display of temper she had told her aunt that the people of Gondor owed their lives to these so called barbarians, that she was proud to marry one of them and that he could kiss her whenever and however he wanted to.

Lothiriel cringed at the memory. Her father had been justifiably displeased with her and it had not helped that the whole scene had taken place during the evening meal in the Great Hall and she had spoken in a voice that easily carried to all its corners. It seemed the King of Rohan was able to exert his bad influence on her even from a considerable distance.

The only good thing was that Ivriniel had left the next day. Amrothos and Erchirion had taken Lothiriel sailing to celebrate and she smiled when she remembered that day. Her brothers had taken a big basket full of food and several bottles of her father’s best wine with them to drink to their aunt’s departure. As the afternoon drew on the toasts became ever more colourful and coming back she had been the only one sober enough to navigate the entry to the harbour.

Slowly her smile faded. I will miss them so much, she thought. They might tease her mercilessly at times, but all her life her brothers had good-naturedly let her take part in their pursuits and had looked after their little sister. Or at least they had when they hadn’t accidentally tried to drown her.

She could not imagine life without them, but soon she would have to say goodbye to them and might not see them again for years at a time. Lothiriel knew her father was watching her anxiously for signs of her regretting her decision, although she did not know what he could do if she showed any, after all there was no way to go back on a betrothal promise.

You are being silly again she chided herself. After all she did not want to go back on her word. It was just that sometimes those few days Éomer had been able to spend in Dol Amroth seemed like a distant dream. They had had so little time together and most of that had been spent dispatching her suitors. Did she really know him? Where had she found the courage to set all her trust in him? It had surprised her how much she missed him, it was almost like a bodily ache. She had lived happily all those years without him and had only known him a short time, so why was it so hard to spend some months apart?

Lothiriel absentmindedly stroked the green fabric of her cloak – Éomer’s cloak really, but he had told her to keep it. Having been washed several times since, it no longer held his scent, but she found it comforting to wrap around her anyway. If only he was here and would take her in his arms and drive away all her niggling doubts!

Her fingers came to rest on the circular brooch fastening the cloak at her shoulder. It was the work of a master craftsman, a beautiful piece of jewellery with an intricate pattern of interlaced designs. Éomer had sent it as a gift, writing that it used to belong to his mother and Lothiriel had worn it ever since.

As promised he had also sent a bard to teach her the customs and language of the Rohirrim. Forthred had been a bit of a surprise. She had expected an elderly man, serious and full of his own importance, instead one day a travel stained young rider had arrived and had introduced himself as the promised teacher.

She had thought him quite an average young man until he got out his harp and started to sing. He had the most beautiful voice and brought the songs to life, even though she didn’t understand a word at first. Also he had an astounding memory, knowing hundreds of songs and stories by heart. When they had started their lessons Lothiriel had been startled, though, to discover that he could not read or write. Apparently in Rohan bards were not allowed to do so for fear that written down the songs would loose their power.

Forthred had proven to be quite a hard taskmaster. He had taken to accompanying her on her morning rides, which were now dedicated to learning the history of Rohan, while in the afternoons he would teach her the language. Lothiriel looked down at her list of words. She was daydreaming again and neglecting her studies! Today’s assignment was to learn all the many different names for the colour of a horse, no doubt important knowledge, but not something that really held her attention.

There was a knock at the door and she looked up in guilty relief.

“Come in!” she called and Melian peered in, hesitating on the doorstep.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

“Not really,” Lothiriel sighed, “I’m not making much progress.”

Her sister-in-law came in and settled down in the window seat opposite her. She looked serene and was more beautiful than ever. No wonder Elphir could not stop fussing over her in a rather endearing manner. Lothiriel still felt vaguely guilty that Melian had taken over her duties of running the castle, albeit with some help still. On the other hand she would have had to do it eventually anyway when Lothiriel left for Rohan and it was easier for her to get used to her task while her sister-in-law was still here.

“So what do you have to learn today?” Melian asked her and Lothiriel showed her the list.

“Horses’ colours? How fascinating,” her sister-in-law said in a neutral tone and suddenly the two women had to share a smile.

“It’s typical of the Rohirrim, isn’t it,” Lothiriel grinned, “They probably have another fifty words for all the tack and another twenty for ‘grass’… and I’ll have to learn them all,” she added with a groan.

Melian gave her a sympathetic look. “I don’t know how you do it, I could never manage to remember all that.”

Lothiriel stared down at the parchment. “It’s a lot of hard work,” she admitted, “but I don’t want them to think me an ignorant foreign woman who can’t even be bothered to learn their language.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Melian said gently, “but you can’t expect to learn Rohirric in a few short months, you know.”

Lothiriel sighed. “I know, but I want to do my best.”

“It seems to me you are doing your best,” Melian said, “I’m sure King Éomer will be surprised at your progress.”

Lothiriel looked up. “Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully.

Melian frowned at her. “It’s not like you to be so despondent, Lothiriel. Is something wrong?”

Lothiriel hesitated. “It’s just that I sometimes worry if I’m really made out to become Queen of Rohan. What have I really got to offer him?”

“Why don’t you let King Éomer worry about that,” Melian suggested with a sudden smile.

“He might regret having offered for me by now,” Lothiriel pointed out contrarily.

Melian laughed out loud. “Then how come there arrives a letter from him every second week by fast courier?”

Lothiriel looked a bit shamefaced. “I suppose so…but they are so formal,” she suddenly burst out, “all he ever writes about are the improvements he plans for Meduseld!”

Melian shook her head. “Really Lothiriel, what do you expect, ardent love letters? He probably wants to avoid offending your father.”

“My father?” Lothiriel stared at Melian in complete bewilderment.

Her sister-in-law nodded, “Don’t you realize that most fathers would read the letters first before handing them over to their innocent daughters? My father certainly always did.”

“He did?” Lothiriel felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off her. So that explained it! Suddenly she jumped up and gave her sister-in-law an impulsive hug.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed.

Melian laughed. “My pleasure! And now I have to be off again.”

Lothiriel settled back down in her window seat. “And I have to get back to work.” She frowned down on her list and concentrated fiercely. Outside her window the sun had broken through the cloud cover, but Lothiriel never even noticed.

***

The clouds were scudding across the sky, chased by a bitter west wind. This morning he had noted with satisfaction that for the first time the fire had been lit in the great hearth of Meduseld. Winter was coming, only a few more months and then she would be here.

“Éomer King?”

Éomer started. Twelve pairs of eyes were looking at him, some of them amused, some of them trying to hide their irritation. Kings of the Mark did not blush, so he didn’t, but it was getting embarrassing. Of course the council meetings had never been his favourite activity, but at least he had in the past been able to keep up the semblance of paying close attention to what all his advisors were saying. Nowadays his thoughts just kept on drifting down much pleasanter paths.

He cleared his throat and sent a silent plea for help at Éothain sitting next to him. The newly appointed Captain of the Household did not disappoint him.

“We were just discussing the final resettling of the East Emnet…”

Fortunately this was a topic Éomer had already made his mind up on. “Of course. This is what we’ll do…”

As he outlined his plans and the counsellors nodded in agreement he let his eyes roam down the table. As well as the Marshals of the West-mark and the East-mark no less than nine other men were on the king’s council. Maybe now was a good time to diminish their number, especially as he wanted to add a new member soon. In his first days as a king he had felt unsure and much in need of advice, but lately all their endless talking had begun to irk him.

Just take their reaction when he had announced his decision to marry the Princess of Dol Amroth. Half of them had been offended because he had not consulted them beforehand, the other half because they had daughters of marriageable age themselves. Also some of them had questioned the wisdom of having their king marry a refined and sheltered Gondorian princess when their country was so much in need of a strong regent in case Éomer had to go to war again.

The discussion would have gone on all morning if he hadn’t simply declared that he had already asked for the hand of the lady in question and she had accepted him. It was time they learnt that their new king was perfectly capable of making up his own mind. And he rather thought they might be in for a shock as far as the sheltered Gondorian princess was concerned.

When the meeting was finally over and his advisors had taken their leave, he strolled over to the window and looked out. Edoras had prospered in the last year. Many roofs were newly thatched, the main road had been repaved and the long neglected fortifications had been restored. After a harvest that had been the most bountiful in human memory the storehouses were as full as they had ever been.

Even Meduseld was starting to look again like it had in the days before Théoden’s slow decline. When Éomer had returned from his journey to Dol Amroth he had seen the Golden Hall with new eyes and had decided to make it a place fit to welcome his young bride. It was only too evident that there had been no Queen of the Riddermark for over forty years, ever since Elfhild had died in childbirth.

The Queen’s Rooms had remained unchanged all this time, its furniture dusty and faded and the King’s Rooms weren’t in much better shape. After the war Éomer had been so busy at first just getting his people through the winter and rebuilding their homesteads that he had not spent much time in Meduseld and had left his uncle’s rooms pretty much as they were.

Now, though, he wanted Lothiriel to feel at home when she arrived from her southern homeland and so he had set out on a thorough program of improvement. Fortunately Dunstan, who had taken over after King Théoden’s seneschal retired after his master’s death, had supported him enthusiastically. Éomer had also written to Éowyn to ask for advice and she had sent him a long letter full of recommendations what to do. His sister had also promised to come and help with the organisation of the wedding. Apparently she did not trust anybody else to lead the whole undertaking to a successful end.

Éomer turned from the window and made his way to the door, picking up his cloak on the way. It was a thick, deep blue fabric with a row of embroidered animals along the hem. When he had received this gift from the Princess of Dol Amroth he had at first taken them for strangely shaped horses before he had looked closer and with considerable amusement had realized that they were mûmakil! Now he put it on and for a moment wished it were her arms wrapping themselves around him. Éomer shook his head. Better not think about that! It was no use tormenting himself with the memory of how she had yielded into his embrace that last evening. Five months! What was wrong with those Gondorians?

Outside the door to his study he hesitated for a moment, then he passed through the door opposite that led into the Great Hall. At this time of the day it was pretty much deserted, there were only a few servants left clearing up the dishes of the midday meal. He passed the long hearth in the middle of the hall and nodded at the guards who opened the door for him.

Outside on the paved terrace overlooking Edoras the wind was blowing strongly, but he welcomed the fresh air. Below him the many houses of the town were spread out, encircled by a broad wall and a dyke. Beyond that the River Snowbourn flowed past on its way to join the Entwash and along its bank lead the Great West Road. He could see a group of riders making their way eastwards, no doubt Marshall Elfhelm and his riders returning home to Aldburg. For a moment he was tempted to ride after them, only he would have carried right on to Minas Tirith. Six days on a fast horse to Mundburg, he thought, and another five to Dol Amroth…I should have abducted her when I had the chance.

Then he spotted Éothain coming up the broad stone steps that led up the final ascent to the Hall. Éomer nodded at his Captain of the Household as he joined him on the terrace.

“Did you see Elfhelm off?” he asked.

“Yes, and also Marshall Erkenbrand,” Éothain assented.

The two men stood silently for a while, looking out over the green plains of the Mark. Éothain shot his king and friend an amused glance.

“Only another two months now,” he said.

“Is it so obvious what I’m thinking of?” Éomer asked with a slightly sheepish smile.

Éothain shrugged. “I’m afraid so.”

Éomer gave a sigh. “Do you think she will like it here?” He did not have to specify who she was.

“Why shouldn’t she?” Éothain sounded surprised, but then he had never known any other life than here in the Riddermark.

Éomer remembered the castle of Dol Amroth with its elegantly appointed rooms, the beautiful formal gardens and the sweeping view of the ocean. Meduseld might rival the view, but life here was a lot rougher than what the princess was accustomed to.

“It’s so different from what Lothiriel is used to,” he explained, “What if she changes her mind?”

“It seems to me Princess Lothiriel made her mind pretty clear that last night in Dol Amroth.” Éothain pointed out. In fact Éomer’s men had been roasting him about it all the way home to Edoras.

“I’m just worried her father might convince her she’s not suited to life here or that her brother Elphir will try and put a spoke in our wheel.”

His captain gave a grin. “I wouldn’t worry about it, after all she has already sent those two trunks ahead. No woman is going to abandon that many clothes.”

Éomer had to smile at the memory of the sensation those dresses had created. As a result nearly every woman in Edoras had insisted that she needed a new gown for the wedding, or preferably several.

“Does Alfhild require a new dress too?” he asked slightly maliciously. After their return from Dol Amroth his friend had finally mustered the courage to ask for the hand of the woman he had admired for so long and she had accepted with alacrity. This being the Mark they had got married within a month, a fact that still considerably rankled their king.

Éothain shook his head. “Alfhild is the envy of all her friends. The silk the Princess of Dol Amroth sent as a wedding gift will stretch to several more dresses. You’re not the only one looking forward to the arrival of Princess Lothiriel, you know.”

“No?” Éomer hadn’t realized how much speculation there was about his bride-to-be.

“All the women are looking forward to meeting a real princess. They are expecting an exquisitely dressed and delicate young lady.”

Éomer stared wordlessly at his friend for a moment and then they both started to laugh. He had seen Lothiriel play the gracious princess and knew she could do it well, but he did not think she would want to do so here.

Éomer clapped his friend on the back. “What about a ride?” he asked in a considerably lightened mood and they passed down the stairs on their way to the stables. Behind them the sun peeked through a break in the cloud cover and bathed Edoras in its golden light.

It was a good day to have a look at the horses and sort out his Morning Gift to bestow on Lothiriel when they were wedded. His queen would have a large herd of horses to call her own, all in the traditional shades of grey.

If only she were here already, Éomer thought. In fact he would not feel safe until they had said their vows and he held her in his arms. Surely then nothing more could go wrong.

Meetings

Bliss! It was pure, utter, undiluted bliss!

Lothiriel sank deeper into the hot water, her hair floating all around her. She was aching in places she had not even known existed before she had spent five continuous days on horseback. Unlike her Rohirric escort that seemed to be able to do almost anything on a horse, including sleeping, she was not used to so much riding. Still, it could have been worse. At least she was still able to mount and dismount on her own! Her daily rides back in Dol Amroth had paid off after all and she faced the rest of their journey without too much dread.

This hot bath was very welcome, though. It had been a pleasant surprise to find a camp all ready and waiting for them when they had arrived earlier on today. While there was talk of building way stations all along the Great West Road, talk was all it was at the moment and they had slept in tents since leaving Minas Tirith.

Lothiriel leaned back in the tub and let her gaze travel over her surroundings. While this was a tent, too, it was much bigger than their own and made of thick canvas. All along the top a row of running horses was embroidered on it. The floor was covered with old carpets and a hanging divided the space into two compartments, one for bathing and one for sleeping. She did not know or care how they had got this big wooden tub here, but she was very, very grateful for it. In fact she did not ever want to get out again.

She closed her eyes and let the warm water soothe her aches and pains. At least they had not had to ride from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith, or she would be in much worse shape now. Instead the horses had been sent ahead and they had taken a boat along the coast and then up the Anduin, a much more civilized way of travel. Their honour guard from Rohan had been waiting for them already and after a couple of days’ pause they had set out again, their party augmented by the King and Queen of Gondor and their men.

A small smile played around Lothiriel’s lips when she remembered her time in Minas Tirith. The first night a feast had been held in her honour and she had been much puzzled by the many hostile glances cast her way by the ladies of the court. It was not until Queen Arwen had explained that many of them had hoped to marry the King of Rohan themselves that she had understood why. Well, Lothiriel could be haughty, too, and had taken her revenge by acting like the gracious and condescending Princess of Dol Amroth they all expected her to be.

She had the suspicion that King Elessar had been royally amused by it all. At all events, he had chosen to ride by her side the next day when they left his city. Lothiriel was rather in awe of their king, but much to her surprise had found that he was very easy talking to. In many ways he reminded her of Éomer, the easygoing way he had with his men but also the hidden power lurking just beneath the surface. She suspected he had the same startling ability of going from apparent relaxation into deadly action in a single instant.

Aragorn, as he had asked her to call him, had told her about his time serving with the Rohirrim and had sympathized with her difficulties in learning their language. Before she knew it, she had told him rather more than she had intended to about her first meeting with Éomer and he had laughed uproariously when she had confessed how she had sneaked into his garden. “I think you’ll be well matched,” had been his comment.

During the following days the beacons had passed by, their names sounding like promises: Amon Dîn, Eilenach, Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad and finally Halifirien. And so here they were on the borders of Rohan. Tomorrow she would enter her new country and be welcomed by her husband-to-be.

Lothiriel could feel her stomach turning into knots. It was silly to be feeling so nervous about meeting Éomer again, but she knew everybody’s eyes would be on them and wondered what he would do and say. The last few weeks had seemed to simply race by and it had been with a distinct pang that she had said goodbye to Dol Amroth and everything she knew.

Am I really ready to become Queen of Rohan?

Well, it was too late now to change her mind, had been the night she had accepted his suit, and if she was honest with herself, had really been the moment she had first allowed him to kiss her.

I want to marry him, she chided herself, so why am I feeling so apprehensive? It was probably just the proverbial pre-wedding nerves. At least she hoped so.

With a sigh she dipped her head back and started to wash her hair. At least she would not arrive in her new country looking like a scarecrow. Else what would her new people think of her? And actually more important to her, what would her new lord think?

It was quite warm in the tent, but even so the water was cooling noticeably and with some regret she finally decided to get out. Wrapping a towel around her and another one around her hair she stepped out of the tub and started to dry herself off. Her Gondorian maid could not ride to save her life and had had no wish to live amongst barbarians, so Lothiriel was without a maid at the moment. She planned to get a new one in Rohan, but until then she would just have to manage on her own. At least Arwen had offered to share hers during the journey, for which she was grateful.

Now, though, she just slipped on one of her linen shifts and wrapped her new cloak around herself. This gift had been waiting for her in Minas Tirith, a heavy winter cloak of a deep green colour, lined with fur. She had been grateful for it on their journey, for although Rohan was not much further north than Gondor, it was already December and the wind could blow quite strongly. The falcons embroidered all along the hem had not escaped her notice, either.

She traced their stylised forms with a small smile playing on her lips and wondered idly where he was at this moment. Was he perhaps thinking of her, even as she was thinking of him? Had he missed her the past few months or had he been simply too busy? What were his thoughts on meeting her again?

She was hoping they would get an opportunity tomorrow to talk privately with each other, but wasn’t sanguine about it. Elphir had made it very clear he had every intention of seeing to it that she behaved herself as befitted a Princess of Dol Amroth from now on. Much to her annoyance he had insisted on accompanying them on this journey, even though Melian had not been able to come, and in the end Erchirion had agreed to stay behind in Dol Amroth and look after things there. At least Amrothos was along as well and could perhaps be entreated upon to distract Elphir so she could slip off with Éomer for a few moments…

Lothiriel sighed again and moved the hanging dividing the tent aside. The furnishings were sparse, only a narrow cot, a low table standing next to it and a single chair. In the middle of the room was a three-legged brazier giving off welcome heat and she moved the chair closer to it and sat down in it so as to dry her hair.

There was a scratching sound at the entrance to the tent and she pulled her cloak closer around her and called “Enter”, expecting it to be a servant bringing her dinner.

The sentries had been alert and had challenged them at once, Éomer noted with approval. He had no intention of attempting to enter the camp unnoticed, that would have been utter folly with his best men sent to escort his future queen from Minas Tirith and Aragorn’s Royal Guard along as well. He did know the password, though, and what was more important knew the exact layout of the camp. Leaving Firefoot in the charge of the few riders he had brought with him, he moved unerringly among the tents towards a particular one.

Having reached it, he hesitated for a moment, wondering if its occupant had gone to bed already. There was no sound from within, but then he expected none, and there was just the faintest trace of light escaping from underneath the heavy canvas. Would she even be pleased to see him or had the many months of waiting cooled her feelings for him? Suddenly feeling nervous he gave a slight scratch at the entrance flap and waited with baited breath for an answer.

Her voice calling for him to enter sent a jolt of pure pleasure through him and it was with a slightly shaking hand that he pulled the tent flap aside and ducked inside. Lothiriel was sitting in a chair, half facing the entrance and looked up at him with complete surprise written all over her features. Their eyes met for a long moment and then the chair went flying and the next instant he held her in his arms with no recollection of how she had got there.

He had had every intention of kissing her eventually, of course, but had meant to start with a gentle and cautious kiss so as not to startle her. After all they had not seen each other for five months and she might feel shy with him at first. All these good intentions went out the window the moment he felt Lothiriel’s soft body pressing against him and when with a glad sob she whispered his name he could not restrain himself anymore.

Her lips parted willingly under his own and for a seeming eternity he just lost himself completely in the intoxicating feeling of running his hands over her slender form, exploring those half-forgotten but entirely delightful curves. Her skin was soft and warm under his calloused fingers, her hair was still slightly damp from her bath and she smelt deliciously of the soap she had used. He had forgotten the way she was just the right size to fit into his arms, neither too tall nor too small, and how simply touching her sent a fire racing through his entire body.

Lothiriel gave an involuntary moan when he slid her cloak off her shoulders and ran his hand down her back, tracing the graceful curve of her spine with a touch as light as a feather. Then Éomer bent to kiss the little hollow at base of her throat and she clutched at him convulsively and whispered his name.

That finally brought him to his senses, that and the sudden realization that she wore very little indeed under that heavy cloak of hers. He froze and drew back despite her inarticulate protests.

Taking Lothiriel by the shoulders he forced her to look at him and with some regret saw awareness of her surroundings return to her. With a start she noticed the dishevelled state of her shift and colour flooded her cheeks. His bride-to-be did not lack courage, though. Looking him straight in the eye she said challengingly. “If you say ‘oh no’, I will slap you!”

Éomer could feel his shoulders beginning to shake and saw his mirth mirrored in her eyes.

“I would not dare,” he said and bent to pick up her discarded cloak, “you had better put this back on, though, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

The dignified way she wrapped it round her was only spoilt by the mischievous look she shot him. “As you please,” she said meekly.

Éomer felt a sense of well-being flood through him and had the distinct impression he had a silly smile plastered all over his face. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered.

She leant her head against his chest. “I’ve missed you, too.”

He put his arms around her and just enjoyed the extraordinary feeling of holding her against him. It was so utterly right, he had been a fool to entertain any doubts. Of course this was the place where she belonged and they both knew it.

Lothiriel pushed her hands against him and looked up. “What exactly are you doing here anyway?” she asked, “and how did you get past those sentries? You have no business to take me unawares like that!” There was sudden wrath in her voice and he had to fight hard not to laugh outright.

“Do you greet all men who enter your tent like that then?” he teased her.

Lothiriel ground her teeth. “My lord King! I’m warning you. We are not in Rohan yet and I can still change my mind.”

This was as empty a threat as any he had ever heard. “I thought Princesses of Dol Amroth don’t run?”

When he saw her ball her hands into fists he took her in his arms again. “I could not stay away, dear heart, knowing you so close,” Éomer said simply and she relaxed into his embrace.

“So you haven’t changed your mind and found somebody better suited to being Queen of Rohan?” she asked him, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Certainly not,” he replied, “everything’s ready for you.“ Lothiriel gave a contented sigh and he tilted up her face and kissed her as he had first intended to, lightly and teasingly.

“And you, any regrets?” He wondered if she could hear the faint anxiety in his voice, for she gave him a long considering look.

“No,” was all she said, however, and he gripped her tighter.

Suddenly there was the sound of steps outside the tent and a voice called Lothiriel’s name, causing both of them to freeze where they stood.

Lothiriel licked her lips. “Is that you, Elphir?” she asked.

“Who else?” her brother answered in a disgruntled tone, “Father sent me to bring your dinner. Can you lift the flap to the tent please?”

She shot Éomer a panicked look. “What shall I say?” she whispered.

Éomer shrugged. The truth was, he did not really care if he was caught in her tent. There was nothing that officious brother of hers could do to stop him. It was his guards outside, they were on the borders of the Mark and he had no intention of letting his lady slip through his fingers now.

Elphir must have heard something. “Whom are you talking to?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nobody,” Lothiriel called out, “…I was just practising my Rohirric.”

Then inspiration struck her. “Leave my dinner outside the tent, you can’t come in,” she said firmly, “I’ve just had a bath, I’m not decent.”

Éomer could not help himself, he ran one finger slowly along the line of her jaw and down the side of her neck, causing her to shiver involuntarily.

“What a shame I did not come earlier,” he whispered in her ear.

The indignant look she shot him promised revenge.

“Oh, all right,” Elphir said grumpily, “you had better hurry up, though, or it will go cold.”

His steps receded and Lothiriel breathed a sigh of relief. “You…” she said threateningly, pointing one finger at his chest and words seemed to fail her.

Éomer grinned. “It’s not my fault that you’re simply irresistible.” She had the most delightful way of blushing at his compliments.

“Well, at least make yourself useful and get that food,” she ordered him and went to pick up the chair that had gone flying earlier on.

He sat on her bed while she ate her stew and bread, content to simply drink in the sight of her. She offered him some of her bread, but he wasn’t hungry, at least not for food. Something must have shown in his eyes, for she blushed again slowly, but he had the feeling she was not completely displeased.

Some things were worth waiting for.

The fog was so thick the next morning, all Lothiriel could see were a few yards of the road in front of her and the trees on either side with their bare branches covered in hoarfrost. The Rohirrim had sent out scouts and packed up camp with their usual efficiency and they were on the road early. From past experience she knew the fog would lift by midmorning, but until then she would be glad for her warm cloak, for the air was chill and clammy. Beneath her, Nightwind was fidgeting impatiently and she wondered if the mare could tell she was going home or if it was simply her own excitement transferring itself.

“Well, Lothiriel, how are you feeling?” It was her father who had ridden up next to her.

She considered her answer carefully, for he looked serious. “A little bit nervous, I suppose.”

“Are you sure you do not regret your decision, daughter? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Lothiriel stared at her father. “Not too late? I have given my word and we are on the very borders of Rohan!”

In fact they were in the middle of the Firien Forest and would reach Mering stream, which divided the realm of Gondor from Rohan in another few minutes.

“Even so,” her father insisted.

Lothiriel tried to picture the scene of her father informing the King of Rohan that she would not marry him after all. After last night she somehow did not think Éomer would back down meekly, on the contrary, she had the feeling she might find herself thrown over Firefoot’s back soon after on her way to Edoras. That was quite a pleasant picture, actually.

Belatedly she became aware of her father watching her closely, still waiting for an answer, and was glad for the hood of her cloak hiding her betraying blush. That man once more showed his bad influence.

“I’m perfectly happy to marry Éomer,” she assured her father. In fact his visit the night before had dispelled her doubts like the sun would soon disperse the mist.

When Prince Imrahil was still looking doubtful, she added, “Please don’t worry, father. A bath and a good night’s sleep really worked wonders. I’m now looking forward to seeing Rohan.”

…and Rohan’s king.

“It was very thoughtful of him to have that camp ready and waiting for us,” her father conceded.

“Actually, that was Éowyn’s idea,” Lothiriel answered and then bit her lip. That piece of information she owed to last night’s visitor.

“You think so?”

“I’m pretty sure,” she improvised, “after all it’s not something a man would think of, is it?”

“No, I suppose not,” her father agreed.

Ahead of them the trees were slowly thinning out and she could hear the first faint sounds of running water, muffled though this was by the fog.

Aragorn had come up on her other side. “Mering stream,” he said and she could feel her pulse speeding up.

It was not a very deep river this time of the year, in fact the water hardly even covered their horses’ fetlocks, but it was quite wide. By the time they had reached the middle of the ford the trees on either side were lost in the mist and they seemed to be entirely alone in a world quiet except for the low murmur of the stream and the sound of their horses’ hooves striking the pebbles.

Suddenly the riders of Rohan loomed out of the mist, their grey horses moving as silently as ghosts. Lothiriel’s heart gave a funny little jump when she spotted Éomer on his big bay stallion at their front. He was tall and regal, his golden hair streaming down his back and when his blue eyes sought hers Lothiriel suddenly felt shy. Once she crossed this river she would be in his kingdom, where he held absolute sway.

Having reached them, he graciously inclined his head to the King and Queen of Gondor and welcomed them into his realm. Then he greeted Imrahil and her brothers with fair words, as was proper.

By the time he directed Firefoot over towards her, Lothiriel had regained her composure and was able to graciously extend her hand for a kiss. Éomer took her gloved hand in his own and with his other hand pushed back the hood of her cloak, trailing across her hair as if by chance. The slow smile he gave her was more intimate than a kiss, meant only for her.

“Well met, Princess Lothiriel, and welcome to the Mark…”

His eyes were dancing with devilment as he added, “…It’s been a long time since last we spoke.”

For a moment she was simply speechless. How dare he tease her like that! And then Lothiriel suddenly became aware that her whole Rohirric escort wore a knowing smile. She once again cursed her fair complexion as she could feel a slow blush spreading across her face. When she spotted Éothain amongst Éomer’s riders he gave her a wink and even Aragorn was starting to look suspicious.

“Thank you for your kind welcome, my lord King,” she answered with quiet dignity.

Her training as a princess stood her in good stead, for she did not even blink. She did wonder, though, if there was anybody left who did not know where the King of Rohan had been last night, apart from her father and brothers.

I will make you pay for this! She thought at him and saw the smile in his eyes deepen.

Prince Imrahil and his eldest son were watching approvingly as Éomer turned his horse and decorously accompanied her to the other side. After the unseemly scene at the announcement of their betrothal Elphir had probably feared the worst, but then what could even the King of Rohan do in the middle of a river? What indeed…

As if he could read her mind Éomer leant over.

“I’m sorry, but I could not resist that,” he grinned, entirely too sure of her forgiveness.

The mist was starting to lift now and the sun could be seen as a pale disc over the trees. Above them blue sky peeked through the cloud cover and the wind picked up, tangling her hair that she had chosen to wear loose today.

Éomer ran a hand over her dark tresses. “I love it when you wear it like this.”

“I know,” she acknowledged and lowered her eyes before the sudden heat in his gaze.

They had reached the other side of the stream now and as Nightwind scrambled up the bank of the river it came to Lothiriel that she had finally entered Rohan.

It’s called the Riddermark, she reminded herself.

Of course the grass looked no different from the Gondorian side, yet when she stole a quick glance at her companion he seemed subtly changed to her. This was his home and would be hers from now on.

Éomer put his hands on her reins to stop her, letting his fingers rest lightly atop her own. When he looked down at her Lothiriel forgot about his riders and her father’s Swan Knights, it was just the two of them, completely alone, and nobody else existed in the whole world.

“Dear heart,” he said, looking serious, “You will be happy here, I promise,”

One summer many years ago Lothiriel and her brothers had practiced jumping off the cliffs of Dol Amroth into the sea. Their father had eventually stopped this when being told about it by Elphir, but she had never forgotten the breathless sensation of standing on the edge looking down and then the sudden wild exhilaration of the dive.

With sudden and utter certainty she knew that here was where she belonged and that she was more than ready to take the plunge. The King of Rohan was well known for always keeping his promises. Lothiriel smiled radiantly and saw her smile mirrored in his eyes.

Homecoming

Lothiriel reached out a hand hesitantly and touched the snow, her face full of childlike wonder. Éomer had to hide a smile.

“It won’t disappear if you touch it,” he said and she jumped, so engrossed had she been.

“Éomer, it’s snow!” she said as if unable to believe it.

“So I see,” he replied, amused at the awe in her voice.

When they had reached his old home Aldburg the night before the sky had still been clear, but he had thought they might be in for a change in the weather. Well, he had been proven right, for it had snowed all night and now there was over a foot of it on the ground.

“Have you never seen any before?” he asked Lothiriel when she was still poking it cautiously with one finger.

“Only twice in my life, and never so much,” she replied, “the last time was eight years ago and it was all gone by midday.”

“Well, you’ll see it more often from now on,” Éomer said, “down here in the plains we might get snow a couple of times each winter, but it usually melts after a few days. Up in the mountains it stays all winter and is quite deep.”

She looked at him with big eyes. “Deeper than this?”

Éomer had to laugh. “As deep as a man in some places or even more. Towards spring one has to look out for avalanches.”

“As deep as a man…” She shook her head in amazement.

During the past days the weather had turned unusually cold and it had occurred to Éomer more than once that it might not be the best idea to introduce Lothiriel to his country in the middle of the winter. Whenever he had seen her wrap herself up tighter in her cloak he had felt guilty for forcing her to travel at this time of the year. She had never uttered a word of complaint, though, and now it seemed that the winter even had its compensations.

He had the impression that on waking Lothiriel had thrown on any clothes that had come to hand and had rushed right out once she had spotted the snow. Her hair was still loose and not yet braided up for the journey and as usual he had to squash the desire to run his fingers through it.

Tomorrow is midwinter - the shortest day of the year…and the longest night.

She picked up a tiny handful now and pressed it together experimentally. “Is this how you make snowballs?” she asked.

He took her by the hand and led her out further into the yard in front of the house.

“This is how you make a proper snowball,” he explained, sweeping together a big pile of snow and forming it into a ball.

“Now all we need is someone to throw it at,” Éomer winked at her and then shouted loudly, “Amrothos!”

After a few more shouts her brother came onto the porch to look for the disturbance and stopped in his tracks when he saw all the snow. He made a perfect target.

Lothiriel doubled over with laughter when she saw his face after getting the snowball straight on his chest. Amrothos was quick to react, however, and with a loud shout jumped down to take revenge. This attracted the attention of the other men inside and soon everybody was in the yard scooping up snow and taking sides. At first Lothiriel had ducked behind Éomer, but afterwards he lost sight of her among the throng.

After a quick glance outside Prince Imrahil had retired to the safety of the house again, but Elphir remained on the stairs, looking on in apparent disapproval. Before long, a massive snowball came sailing over the heads of the other men, aimed straight at him, and Lothiriel’s eldest brother indignantly sought shelter inside the house. Éomer rather suspected Amrothos and applauded him silently, but it might equally well have been his sister Éowyn, who had come to Aldburg to meet them and had already managed to clash with Lothiriel’s brother.

A wild free-for-all developed with riders of the Mark, Swan Knights and the Gondorian guards all taking part equally. After a while Éomer had to stop and lean on his knees, he was laughing so hard. It was then he got a snowball right on the back of his head and when he turned round, saw a dark green cloak disappear round the corner of one of the houses.

Grinning widely he quickly gave chase, but when he turned round the corner he stopped in confusion. The snow stretched before him unmarked by any footprints.

Where has she gone?

There was the sound of stifled laughter and when he whirled round he spotted Lothiriel up on a stack of logs piled against the side of the house. The roof nearly came down to the ground here and she reached out a hand to gather snow from the side of it.

Taking a step forward he had nearly reached her when a sudden sound alerted him and he looked up. He had forgotten that the thatched roofs of the Rohirrim were built at the exact angle to let snow slide off them effortlessly. The little bit she had cleared at the edge sufficed to trigger a small avalanche and before he knew it, the whole lot came down on him until he was completely buried in it.

“Éomer? Are you all right?” Lothiriel was peering at him anxiously as he wiped snow off his face and shook it from his hair and clothes.

The look he gave her must have threatened retaliation for she hastily scrambled a few steps backwards.

“Éomer?”

Wordlessly he started to pile up snow into a huge ball, hefted it and advanced towards her.

“Éomer? You wouldn’t do that to your bride, would you…” She took another step backward and bumped against the wall of the house.

She looked up at him pleadingly, not alarmed at all really, her green eyes dancing with familiar mischief, and he could feel his resolve weakening.

“Do you yield?” he demanded.

Lothiriel shot him a glance through her long lashes and a tiny smile quivered at the corner of her mouth. “I yield,” she nodded and leant back against the wooden wall.

He let the snow fall to the ground and put his hands on either side of her, effectively cornering her.

“You owe me a forfeit now, my Lady,” he pointed out. This was the first time since sneaking into her tent that he had the chance to talk to her on her own. Although talking was not exactly what was upmost in his mind at the moment.

“I do,” she agreed and pulled him down towards her, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her cheeks were red from the cold and her eyes were shining with delight as she tilted up her face invitingly.

She is quite irresistible. Tomorrow…

It took him a moment to realize she was beckoning to someone behind his back. Her eyes flickered behind him; that was all the warning he got.

It was not enough.

A hand lifted the collar of his shirt and a large amount of ice-cold snow went down his back. Éomer let go of Lothiriel with a curse and whirled round. He should have known! His sister jumped back quickly and then doubled over with laughter while Lothiriel behind him was laughing so hard she nearly collapsed to the ground.

So his womenfolk were ganging up on him already. When was the last time somebody had been able to creep up on him unnoticed? The woman would be his undoing yet…

Sighing with resignation he started to shake the snow out of his tunic, at least what had not melted already. He would need a completely new change of clothes before they set out for Edoras.

“Shall we go back to the house now?” he asked when the two women had recovered from their hilarity.

Then he turned to whisper to Lothiriel. “Remember, you still owe me a forfeit. I will claim it tonight.”

Éomer rather enjoyed the sudden uncertainty in his bride’s eyes.

Their departure delayed by nearly everybody having to change into dry clothes, they did not set off until midmorning. Fortunately it was an easy day’s ride from Aldburg to Edoras and they made good time. Their party had grown into a considerable cavalcade by now and had been increased by Marshall Elfhelm and his family joining them as well.

Ever since they had entered the Mark the road had been lined with people coming to have a look at their new queen. The Rohirrim had welcomed the news of their king getting married with enthusiasm. To them it was a sign of life going back to normal after the terrible ravages of the war and it meant the continuation of the House of Eorl. Being hardy, they weren’t put off by the cold weather and brought small gifts, even if it was only branches of holly or evergreen or small presents of food.

Éomer watched Lothiriel riding ahead of him, accompanied by his sister who acted as a translator whenever the princess reached the limits of her vocabulary. He had to admit he was impressed by how much of their language she had learnt already. She seemed to have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, enquiring about the names of everything in sight and all the mountains lining their path. Only this morning she had asked him the word for snow and had been relieved to hear there was only one for it. And why should there be more than that?

“Your future queen shows great enthusiasm for her new country.”

Éomer looked over at his friend Aragorn, who was riding beside him this morning.

“She does, doesn’t she,” he replied, “I just hope she won’t grow tired of it, after all it’s rather different from what she’s used to.”

Aragorn watched the princess thoughtfully.

“I don’t think so,” he said after a moment, “in fact Lothiriel reminds me of a falcon who can feel the wind under her wings for the first time.”

When Éomer shot him a surprised look he added, “I don’t think the life as the pampered wife of one of my coastal lords would have suited her.”

The King of Rohan had to grin at this picture. “She would have been bored to death within a month of getting married.”

“Exactly,” Aragorn nodded, “whereas she will have her hands full here for many years to come, but I believe she will thrive on it.”

The first was certainly true. While the worst damages done by the armies of Saruman had been repaired there was still a lot of work to be done. What troubled Éomer most were the many orphans and widows left behind by the riders killed in the war. He had made a few tentative plans how to better their lot, but he’d need help to realize them, preferably her help.

Éomer watched two young girls ride up on a grey warhorse, probably the steed of their dead father. They exchanged a few words with Lothiriel and their faces glowed with pleasure when she accepted a handful of nuts from them with the same grave courtesy she would have accorded an elven prince bringing gifts of mithril and gold.

Aragorn had been watching, too. “In looks she reminds me of your grandmother, yet she’s very different in character.”

Éomer had never met the redoubtable Morwen of Lossarnach, having been born after she returned to Gondor following her husband’s death, but he suddenly perceived that his friend would have done so while serving under King Thengel.

“How is that?” he asked, intrigued.

“They have the same dark haired beauty, but Morwen always seemed proud and cold to me. She stayed in Rohan out of duty to her lord, but she didn’t even bother to learn the language, at least not more than to give orders to the servants.”

“That’s entirely unlike Lothiriel,” Éomer replied, “my bard Forthred has told me if it only took willpower to learn a language she would speak it completely fluently by now.”

Aragorn laughed. “That tallies with my own observations. I think your people will open up to her, whereas Morwen was respected, but not loved. They called her Steelsheen.”

“Well, Lothiriel certainly isn’t cold,” Éomer remarked absentmindedly and then coloured slightly.

His friend cast him an amused glance. “No? It seems to me she has the same quick temper as you.”

“It’s what makes life interesting.” Éomer winked.

“I have the feeling your life will be very interesting from now on, my friend,” Aragorn laughed, “from what I’ve heard, the challenge will probably be how to keep her out of mischief.”

“I know,” Éomer acknowledged with a grin, “Meduseld will never be the same again!”

When the sun sank towards the west, they stopped for a short break to rest the horses before pressing on for Edoras. There was a small hamlet with a few farmhouses and Éomer stepped up to Lothiriel just as she gratefully accepted a mug of hot tea from one of the farmers’ wives. He had noticed with some concern that she looked cold and was shivering slightly.

“Nearly there now,” he tried to cheer her up.

“That sounds nice.” she gave him a gallant smile and his heart went out to her. Once again he cursed himself a brute for making her travel in this inclement weather.

Éomer stared down at her for a moment. “You will ride the rest of the way with me,” he decided and called his squire over to hand him Nightwind’s reins.

Before she had a chance to say anything he had lifted her onto Firefoot’s back and swung up behind her, wrapping his cloak around both of them. After a moment she leant back against him with a grateful sigh.

“What do you think you are doing with my sister?” an angry voice exclaimed.

Éomer frowned. I might have known. That interfering fool of a brother had been dodging his steps ever since entering the Riddermark. He turned his horse to face Elphir, firmly resisting the temptation to simply ride his future brother-in-law down.

“Your sister will ride with me for the rest of the journey. It’s traditional for the queen-to-be to enter Edoras riding with her husband.”

Before Elphir had the chance to raise any further objections he gave the signal to mount again and ignoring him rode out of the village.

Lothiriel chuckled. “That’s a nice tradition.”

“It isn’t, actually.”

“What?” she asked, offended.

“I meant it’s not a tradition,” Éomer smiled, “I invented it for Elphir’s sake.”

“You know,” Lothiriel remarked with a yawn, “I’m getting rather tired of my eldest brother.”

Not as much as I am, he thought to himself and wrapped her up more tightly in his cloak. Elphir had been watching them all the time and had insisted on posting two Swan Knights in front of her tent at night as if suspecting him of the basest motives.

Not much longer now…

Tomorrow was midwinter, their wedding day. He had waited more or less patiently for five months now and a few more days should really have been easy. Instead the last four days had seemed to drag on interminably with the tantalizing awareness of having her so near, yet not being able to touch her. One of her graceful gestures, a glimpse of her black hair or the simple sound of her laughter was enough to send a jolt of desire right through him.

He put an arm around her waist under the cover of the cloak and felt her relax against him. When he looked down a little later she had closed her eyes and seemed to have slipped into a light doze. This was the second time she had fallen asleep in his arms, the first being on the ride back from the ambush by the Southrons. The third time would be tomorrow, Éomer thought tenderly. Even wrapped up in all her warm winter clothing he still found her incredibly desirable and the open enthusiasm with which she had thrown herself into her new life warmed his heart. Lothiriel just did not know how to do things by halves. This was a rare gift.

They were close to the foot of the mountains and ahead of them he could see the line of willows bordering the River Snowbourn. The road turned to the south now and after a while the lonely outcropping of rock on which Edoras was built came into sight. The last rays of the setting sun chose this moment to pierce the thick cloud cover that had stayed unbroken all day and cast a golden light over the whole snow covered landscape.

“Lothiriel?” he said softly and she woke from her doze.

“Are we there yet?” she yawned and sat up straighter.

“Nearly.”

As he watched her observe her new home he wondered what she made of it. He had returned this way so many times before, often half dead with exhaustion or even wounded, and the sight of Edoras had always been so welcome.

Next time she will be waiting for me and it will be even more welcome.

Most of the houses were built at the bottom of the hill just inside the shelter of the thick stone wall or along the winding road that led up to the top of the hill. Their thatched roofs were covered in snow and thin trails of smoke escaped from the chimneys. He noted that between the wall and the river the colourful tents of the traditional Yule Fair had already been set up, a lot of them this year due to the good harvest.

High above all this stood the Great Hall of Meduseld, its roof glowing in the sunshine as if it were indeed made of pure gold. As they watched, a sudden gust of wind unfurled the great banner hanging above the doors showing the white horse on a green field. His home – and soon hers.

He tried to look at it as if seeing it for the first time, as a stranger would. While Meduseld was not as grand as Aragorn’s palace in Minas Tirith or as elegantly appointed as the castle of Dol Amroth, it was beautiful to his eyes and very dear.

“Do you like it?” he asked and could not quite keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“It’s beautiful,” she replied with a sudden smile, “to be honest, as long as there is a tub of hot water to be found somewhere in Edoras I have no complaints.”

He laughed. “I think we can manage to do that. Are you still cold?”

She settled herself more comfortably against him and looked up teasingly.

“No, you’ve warmed me up nicely.”

“My pleasure, my Lady” he replied gravely. She must be feeling better if she was exchanging banter with him again.

They had reached the Barrowfield now, the mounds today being white not from simbelmynë, but rather covered in snow. Here lay his forebears from Eorl to Théoden and she nodded as he named them to her.

“Where is Théodred buried?” she asked when he had pointed them all out.

“Théodred’s grave guards the Fords of the Isen,” Éomer was silent for a moment, “I will take you there one day.”

“I would like that.” She put her hand on his and gave it a quick squeeze.

Éomer realized with some surprise that his piercing grief at his cousin’s untimely death had faded over time to a dull ache. While he would always miss Théodred, he could now look to the future again. They would take whatever time and happiness the Valar granted them, he thought, and not squander it.

Word of their arrival had spread and now the inhabitants of Edoras were coming to have a look at their new queen. First to pour out the gates were the children who were shrieking in delight as they were running their way. Their elders were more dignified, but equally sincere in their greetings.

Éomer nodded to them and every now and again exchanged a few words with those he knew well, while Lothiriel just smiled shyly, slightly overwhelmed by their welcome.

As they rode through the great gates held open by his guards he gave a relieved sigh.

“Home at last,” he whispered in her ear.

Temptation

Lothiriel sat down on the bed and started brushing out her hair with long even strokes. She felt considerably better now; a hot bath and a proper meal had done wonders for her. After days of living out of her saddlebags it was also nice to have clean clothes again. The trunks with her possessions had been sent ahead a couple of weeks before she left Dol Amroth and had arrived here before them. In fact most of her things were already awaiting her up in the Queen’s Rooms in Meduseld. Not everything though, she thought and her gaze involuntarily went to her wedding gown hanging on a stand in one corner. The rich green silk shimmered in the muted light and the pearls embroidered on the wide bell sleeves seemed like tiny stars.

She looked round the room, her home for one night. Like most of the houses of the Rohirrim its walls were made of wood and stone and the ceiling was low and crisscrossed with beams. To somebody used to the high windows of Dol Amroth, that were meant to catch every breeze in summer, the windows here seemed small and few, but in Rohan’s cooler climate this made sense. The only illumination came from the fire burning in the grate, making the room seem remarkably cosy.

This was in fact the best room in the house and she felt vaguely guilty for crowding out the rightful inhabitants. In Rohan it was traditional for the bride and groom not to share the same roof until they were married, so Éothain and his new wife Alfhild had put her up in their house. They had insisted she use their own bedroom and there had been no polite way to refuse.

Well, after all it is only for the one night, Lothiriel thought, tomorrow…

She felt a shiver of mixed anticipation and nervousness run down her spine. The snow this morning and the many impressions on their journey had to some extent made her forget exactly what was going to follow, but now it suddenly came home to her. Tonight was the last time she slept alone. It was her wedding day tomorrow and she would spend the night in his – their – bed. Lothiriel had noticed him watching her the last few days with that peculiar hunger in his eyes that was flattering and alarming at the same time. In a way she had rather enjoyed fanning the flames by teasing him, although lately she had started to ask herself if this was entirely safe or if it was rather like taunting a sleeping lion.

Well, tomorrow his hunger would be satisfied at last.

Lothiriel drew her soft robe closer around herself. There was really no reason for her to be feeling apprehensive, after all she trusted him. And she liked the way he kissed her, didn’t she? The joy she had felt on seeing him again for the first time after their long separation had rather startled her in its intensity. Something had flared up between them for a moment, something fierce and reckless. It was an unsettling thought to wonder whether they would be able to control that barely contained passion.

If only she had been able to spend some more time with him on her own, but ever since they had entered Rohan her brother Elphir had watched her like a hawk for any behaviour he considered unsuitable. This very moment there were two guards outside her door, probably being bored to death. It had been nice to ride with Éomer in the afternoon, but she had simply been too tired to do any talking and had just enjoyed feeling his arms around her.

Her thoughts wandered back to what he had said when he had helped her down from Firefoot’s back on arriving at Éothain’s house.

“Remember, my Lady Princess, you still owe me something,” Éomer had murmured in her ear, “retire early tonight.”

She was uncertain what to make of that, but as it happened she had retired early, but purely because she was tired. Surely he must know about the two Swan Knights guarding her room and there was nothing he could do about them. Suddenly feeling uncertain she went to open her door and peeked into the hallway. Sure enough, there they were and being her father’s finest guards they were instantly alert.

“My Lady?” one of them turned round.

“I am going to bed now,” she said, “and I don’t want anybody to disturb me, not even my brothers.”

After a short considering pause she added, “actually, especially not my brothers.”

The guard was too well trained to show any emotion, but she thought she detected just the faintest hint of an understanding smile in his expression.

“Very well, my Lady, I will see to it,” he nodded.

For good measure she shot the bolt as well. Then she sat on the bed again and chided herself for feeling slightly disappointed. Even the King of Rohan had no way to somehow do away with two of his ally’s men, just so he could come to her chamber. And did she even want him to?

All of a sudden there was a low thudding sound that made her jump. Where had that come from? It seemed to originate from the direction of the windows and as she listened attentively it came again. Her room was situated on the first floor and looked out over the backyard, which should be quiet at this time of night. Lothiriel quickly made her way over to the row of small windows and opened one, her heart starting to beat faster. A blast of cold air came in, making her shiver, and when she looked out she could not make anything out at all, it was so dark.

“Lothiriel!” somebody whispered and then she recognised his form below her, no more than a shadow. Éomer seemed to balance on some kind of crate, for he could nearly reach the windowsill. Surely the window was too narrow for him to climb through, though.

“Lothiriel,” he whispered again, “Climb out and I’ll catch you. I want to show you something.”

She hesitated. While she had played truant many times with her brothers, this was an altogether different proposition. To be out with a man completely on her own at this time of night could not be considered anything but very improper behaviour.

He seemed to be able to read the misgivings in her mind. “Remember, you still owe me a forfeit,” he said with laughter in his voice, “or are you afraid?”

That did it! She would not let it be said that a Princess of Dol Amroth did not keep her word.

“Wait there, I’m just getting dressed,” she replied curtly.

While she put on her warmest clothes and grabbed her cloak from where it was drying in front of the fire, Lothiriel reminded herself that he was after all the man she was going to marry the next day. She would be perfectly safe with him. Wouldn’t she?

The window was narrow, but with some wriggling she managed to squeeze through and felt herself caught round the waist and lifted down. It was too dark to see Éomer’s expression, but his voice was warm as he praised her, “That’s my fearless little princess. Come along!”

She hung back. “Éomer, won’t we be seen? What if we meet my brothers?”

He reached out and put up the hood of her cloak. “Don’t worry. I’ve sent them down to the Yule Fair with Elfhelm.”

So where are we going? she thought.

Éomer took her by the hand and quickly led her out of the courtyard. He seemed to know the way perfectly well and several times took a shortcut through a kitchen garden or a backyard. There were only few people still about on these small back streets and most of those they simply avoided by ducking into darkened alleyways.

Despite her initial doubts Lothiriel was starting to enjoy herself; this reminded her so much of the adventures with her brothers when they used to stay in Minas Tirith. They had just reached a slightly wider thoroughfare when Éomer stopped abruptly and with a low curse pulled her back into the narrow passage they had just traversed. Lothiriel opened her mouth to enquire what was the matter, but he hushed her before she had the chance to utter a single word.

“Éomer? Is that you?” somebody called and he cursed again softly in Rohirric.

“Just my luck,” he muttered.

“Who is it?” Lothiriel whispered.

He threw her a chagrined look. “My beloved sister…and Prince Imrahil.”

Her father? Lothiriel felt panic sweep through her and cast about frantically for a place to hide. However, the alley was completely bare of anything bigger than what would conceal a mouse.

“Éomer?” Éowyn called again, sounding very close.

“Hide under my cloak,” he hissed at her and planted himself so as to cut off his sister’s view.

Lothiriel quickly did as she was told and slipped under his cloak, pressing herself against his back. It was a good thing he was to tall, she thought.

Muffled in the thick fabric at first all she could hear was the wild beating of her heart, but then she made out the crunch of footsteps on the snow.

“I thought it was you!” Éowyn exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

“Sister,” Éomer greeted her, not sounding very pleased, “I was just answering a call of nature. What are you doing up so late?”

“I’m taking Prince Imrahil to see the Yule Fair.”

“A good idea,” Éomer replied, “Don’t let me keep you.”

Lothiriel suddenly felt laughter bubbling up inside her at the annoyance in his voice. It was such an absurd situation to be hiding behind her husband-to-be on the eve of her wedding day. His woollen tunic was rough under her fingers and she felt the heat radiating from his body even through the thick cloth. Without thinking she slid one hand slowly and teasingly up his back.

“Éomer, are you all right?” Lothiriel wondered what expression was on his face, for his sister sounded downright worried. Éomer’s muscles had gone hard as stone under her touch.

“I’m fine,” he said in a strangled voice, “why don’t you go on.”

“You look strange, what’s the matter?”

Lothiriel recklessly slid her other hand up his back as well. He took a deep breath. “Éowyn, for the sake of the love you bear me, stop asking questions and just take Imrahil and go!”

More softly he added, “I’ll explain later…”

There was a pregnant pause and then Éowyn said, “I’ll keep you to that, brother.”

Her footsteps retreated. When they could no longer be heard he whirled round and grabbed her wrists.

“And what do you think you are doing, my Lady Princess?”

She was shaking with laughter. “Just getting even for that night in my tent, my Lord King.”

He was staring down at her, his expression unreadable. “Do you know you are playing with fire here? Come along!” he ordered her and seized her by the hand.

The sky was cloudless now and the stars were so many and shining so brightly in the clear air that there was enough ambient light to find their way by. The snow made the footing treacherous, however, and they had to be careful. Lothiriel began to wonder where they were heading for when it suddenly dawned on her that they were climbing steadily. The next time they stopped at the top of a steep flight of stairs to let her catch her breath she looked up to see the Golden Hall much closer.

“Where are we going, Éomer?” she asked rather uncertainly. Maybe it had been unwise of her to provoke him like she had?

“You’ll see, hurry up,” was all he replied, before leading the way again.

Lothiriel knew from his letters and Éowyn’s accounts that the private rooms of the king were at the southern side of the hall. Was that where he was taking her? She hesitated, unsure what to do.

“Éomer?” she asked again.

He turned round to face her. “Hurry up or we’ll be late,” he said and there was just the slightest trace of amusement in his voice.

Be late? Is he so impatient? Surely not! Or…is he? Lothiriel thought nervously. Well, she was completely lost by now and there was no way she could have retraced her steps. It looked like she would just have to go on. The hill got even steeper now and they had to scramble across a garden wall and up a steep bank before reaching another flight of stone steps that led up to the terrace encircling Meduseld. She hadn’t known snow could be so slippery!

Éomer pointed to some low buildings to their left. “Nearly there now. That’s the kitchen.”

Lothiriel was slightly out of breath and panting. “Where do you know all the back ways and shortcuts from, anyway?”

His eyes were glittering and he gave her one of those grins she found so difficult to resist. “You don’t want to know…”

There was a wide cobbled path leading from the kitchen the remainder of the way up to the crown of the hill. There were actually a couple of guards stationed here, but they recognized Éomer and exchanged a few soft words of greeting. Drawing her hood up closer, she was aware of their curious stares and wondered what they made of the presence of a woman with their king on the eve of his wedding. She rather doubted that in her present dishevelled state they would recognize her as the Princess of Dol Amroth.

They had now reached the paved terrace that she knew encircled the entire Golden Hall and he took her by the hand again and led her around to the other side of the hall.

“This way,” he said and she could feel her pulse speeding up. Would he ask her to come to his rooms? Lothiriel wondered what she would answer. She knew of course what she should answer.

However, they did not take any of the side doors leading into the inside of the building but instead went round to the eastern side. Lothiriel got a jumbled impression of richly carved beams and sinuous decorations of gold glinting in the darkness.

“Here we are, “ Éomer said, “and only just in time as well.”

He turned her to face the view and she was confused at first. Below her spread the many houses of Edoras, encircled by the massive stone wall. Then she lifted her gaze and saw it. To the east the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, spread for league upon league, their slopes covered in snow. And behind them rose the moon, tonight waning and no longer quite full, but riding high at this time of the year and very bright. Lothiriel caught her breath as the landscape was transformed into a glittering fairyland, all the harsh edges of the land smoothed away by the snow.

Éomer put his arms around her from behind and for a long time they just stood there, looking outwards while the wind tugged at their cloaks.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighed and could feel him nod.

“It’s a rare sight and I wanted you to see the Riddermark at its best,” he explained.

Some of her earlier playful mood came back. “Actually I have already seen the best of the Riddermark…”

“Have you indeed, my Lady?” his grip tightened.

“Surely the people of Rohan are what makes your country so special. Their welcome was heart-warming.”

“And is there any particular inhabitant of the Mark that has caught your fancy?” his breath was warm on the side of her neck.

“That’s difficult to say,” she answered teasingly, “everybody has been so kind to me.”

“Careful,” he warned her, “remember that forfeit you still owe me.”

“I thought I have just redeemed it?” To her own surprise she found she was no longer nervous of what he might do.

“Not quite…” he replied and turned her round for a slow, leisurely kiss. In a smooth, familiar motion his hands slid around her waist and up her back, leaving a trail of delightful sensations even through all her thick layers of clothing. With a contended sigh Lothiriel slid her arms around his neck and pressed closer. All the tension accumulated over the past days seemed to simply drain away and she felt herself relax.

“This is just so nice,” she said without thinking and felt laughter rumbling in his chest.

“I’m glad you approve,” he whispered, “for I’m not finished yet with claiming my due.”

She suddenly became aware of how exposed they were up on this lofty terrace and in the bright light of the moon.

“What if someone comes along?” she asked.

He considered this for a moment.

“You are right, my lady,” he said and before she realized what he was up to simply bent to pick her up.

“Éomer,” she exclaimed in surprise and tightened her hold around his neck, “what are you doing?” Her throat had suddenly gone dry.

His eyes were dancing with mischief. “I’m looking for a more sheltered place, just like you said. Don’t you trust me?”

Éomer’s face was inches away from her own and Lothiriel let her gaze travel over the now so familiar features. The firm chin, those lips that could somehow work havoc on her, his unruly hair that she liked to lace her fingers in, and finally his eyes, so often cool and distant, but not with her, never with her. She was safe with him and always would be.

“I would trust you with my life, my body, my soul,” she said.

His grip tightened convulsively and he wasn’t laughing anymore. Very gently he set her on her feet again and cupped her face between his hands. His fingers were hot on her cheeks as he gazed down at her. Lothiriel met his look unwaveringly.

Éomer had got more than he had bargained for. What had started out as a dare had turned into something much more serious. On the way up he had enjoyed the slight apprehension in her voice, had thought it a fitting way to get even with her for getting him all wet and cold this morning, let alone her provocative ways earlier on tonight. That was all he had intended.

He had not reckoned with the burning fire the mere touch of her soft lips could kindle within him. The temptation to pick her up and take her to his rooms was almost overwhelming. Éomer wondered what her father would say on not finding his daughter in her bed the next morning. She was still looking up at him with that melting expression on her face. What did you answer when the lady you loved handed you her heart like that?

“Thank you,” he breathed, feeling unexpectedly humbled.

There was a sudden gust of wind and he became aware of the fact that she was shivering.

“You are cold,” he stated, and when she nodded shyly he hesitated for the barest moment. “Come with me.”

Her hand trembled slightly in his own as he led her back the way they had come, but she came willingly with an almost childlike trust in her eyes. Did she even know how much she tempted him? It looked as if she had unintentionally turned the tables on him, blindsiding him neatly with her innocent faith in him. He had the distinct feeling the joke was on him this time.

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to lead her past the door to his quarters and down the stairs instead. At the bottom of the first flight he hesitated and then turned right. There was more than one way to warm her up again and he was not quite ready yet to relinquish her company.

The kitchen was dark and quiet when they entered, but there was a low fire burning in the grate. This was by no means the first time he had sneaked in here at night and he knew exactly where everything was kept. He was just reaching for a couple of mugs and handing them down to Lothiriel when the door to the pantry opened and somebody exclaimed sharply.

“Who is that? What are you doing here?”

Éomer jumped and looked up guiltily. It was Hergyth, the old cook, who had been in Meduseld since from before he could remember. Feeling like a little boy caught out stealing cakes (as he had in the past) he met the old woman’s glare.

“It’s only me. I was just getting something hot to drink.”

“Éomer?” she peered at him with the shortsightedness of the aged, “is that you lad? What are you doing up at this time?”

“Just getting a drink,” he repeated soothingly, half expecting her to tell him to go back to his bed like a good little boy. Apparently she did remember, though, that he was a grown man now and her king as well.

“Let me do that,” she commanded him and took the mugs off him, “you sit down at the table.”

Meekly doing as he was bid he sat down on one of the long benches framing the kitchen table and pulled Lothiriel down beside him. The old woman had given her a sharp scrutiny, but had not asked her name. He had a shrewd idea she knew the answer to that already. However, for the time being she was simply busy bustling about importantly, making tea.

Éomer raised an eyebrow in surprise when Hergyth came back not only with their mugs filled with tea, but also a small pot of honey to stir into it and some of her famous nut cakes.

“So this is your Lothiriel, then?” the old woman asked.

For a moment Éomer wondered if the princess would be insulted at this unceremonious form of address and got ready to jump into the fray, but Lothiriel gave the other woman a slow smile.

“Yes, I am his Lothiriel,” she answered in her lilting Rohirric.

Hergyth nodded sagely, apparently pleased with the answer. “I thought as much. Welcome to Meduseld.”

An unspoken message seemed to pass between the two women and Lothiriel inclined her head. “Thank you.”

“Well, Éomer,” Hergyth turned to him, “and what have you done to deserve such a beautiful wife?”

Under the table he took one of Lothiriel’s hands in his own. “I really don’t know.”

Hergyth nodded as if satisfied at something. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she said, “but make sure you get your lady off to her bed soon.”

“Yes Hergyth,” he replied obediently, but with a smile in his voice and she gave him another sharp look before she turned to go out the door.

“And make sure you clear up the dishes before you leave!”

Silence reigned when she had left. He slipped an arm around Lothiriel’s waist and with a grateful sigh she leaned her head on his shoulders.

“So now you’ve met the true ruler of Meduseld,” he joked.

“Have I? She reminds me of our cook in Minas Tirith,” Lothiriel said and wrapped her fingers around her mug of hot tea, “She always used to have treats for us when we were children.”

“I thought Hergyth was quite unique actually,” Éomer replied dryly, making her chuckle.

“She bakes delicious nut cakes, anyway,” Lothiriel remarked, nibbling at one of them experimentally.

“That she does.”

Éomer was watching her attentively and noticed how tired Lothiriel looked all of a sudden. What had he been thinking off to drag her up the hill after she had just spent a whole day on horseback, and this after two weeks’ hard travelling? She had every right to complain, but instead she just sat there, quite content in his company.

“Hergyth is right, we’ll have to get you back,” he said with some reluctance when they had finished their tea, “it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“I know,” she nodded and rose from the bench, “I just hope I still fit through my window after eating all those nut cakes.”

As he put the hood of her cloak back up he gently caressed her cheek. “I will come and get you tomorrow. Make sure you are ready.”

Her eyes were dark with fatigue but she looked serene.

“I will be waiting for you.”

Will you ride with me?

When Éowyn entered the room of her brother, he was standing by the window. It was facing south and the morning sun, made even brighter by all the snow outside, dazzled her eyes. Éomer turned round and greeted her with a smile.

“Have you come to get me, sister? Is it time already?”

“Very nearly,” she replied, “I just wanted to make sure you are ready.”

“Believe me, I am.”

Éowyn looked him over critically and had to admit he did her proud today. His tunic was of a deep green colour, adorned with intricate embroideries, just as was fitting for the King of the Riddermark and his blond hair gleamed like spun gold against it. No wonder the ladies of Minas Tirith were heartbroken at having this good-looking and valiant king getting married.

He had watched her observe him with a small smile.

“Do I pass your inspection?” he asked her.

“With flying colours,” she nodded, “after all we don’t want the bride to change her mind, do we?”

“No we don’t.” He did not sound in the least anxious.

Éowyn knew that in the last five months he had worried about something going wrong at the last moment, although he had hidden it well, even from her. She could sympathize with this sentiment, for she had felt the same on marrying Faramir. After all their past grief and misfortune it had not seemed possible that they would both finally gain some happiness. This morning though, Éomer appeared perfectly at ease.

She fleetingly wondered if now was a good moment to ask him what exactly he had been doing when she had encountered him last night on her way to the Yule Fair, but decided against it in the end. She had suddenly remembered where that particular alleyway led to - the street where Éothain’s house stood. The way her brother had watched his bride yesterday had not escaped her notice and she had thought it high time they were married. She had the distinct impression the bride’s father was starting to share this opinion, too.

“I took Prince Imrahil down to the Fair last night,” she remarked, observing her brother closely.

A guarded expression crossed his face. “I know. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes, it was nice.” She stepped up to the window and slanted a sideways look at him, “And did you have a pleasant evening as well?”

His face betrayed nothing, but that was in itself an admission. “Thank you, I did.”

“I wonder if Lothiriel enjoyed her evening, too?”

“I wouldn’t know,“ he replied with the blandest of smiles, “You will have to ask her that yourself.”

Éowyn traced the window frame with her fingers. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

His glance sharpened. “You’ve been to see her?”

She nodded. “Earlier on this morning. I went to make sure everything would go smoothly.”

Actually she had gone to assuage any last minute wedding nerves, but that errand had been completely in vain. Lothiriel had looked calm and confident as she ate a hearty breakfast and had assured her friend that she was ready. Éowyn had left with the impression that she herself was more worried than the bride that everything would go according to plan.

Éomer had been watching her. “And what did she say?”

“She said she’d gone to bed early and slept like a babe.”

“Well there you go.”

There was a distinct smile in his eyes, a smile Éowyn knew of old. Her curiosity satisfied, she changed the subject.

“Did you know that Gimli and Legolas arrived late last night?”

“Did I know?” He rolled his eyes, “They got me out of bed just when I’d fallen asleep and insisted I share a tankard of beer with them!”

“They did?” She knew there was not much those two would stop at.

“Still, it could have been worse.”

“How?” she asked.

He seemed inordinately amused about something. “They could have arrived a day late.”

Éowyn stared at him and then started laughing.

“It might be a good idea to bolt your door tonight,” she joked, “Shall we go then?”

Éomer hesitated a moment. “One more thing, sister,” he took her hands in his, “I wanted to thank you. Not just for coming all the way from Ithilien to help organize the wedding, but also for your good advice in the past.”

She waved his thanks aside. “That’s what sisters and brothers are here for, to help each other. You would have done the same for me.”

“I would have,” he grinned, “but you didn’t need my help to make up your mind about Faramir.”

She suddenly grinned back. “You might not thank me in a month’s time.”

Éomer looked puzzled. “Why a month’s time?”

“Didn’t you tell me in Emyn Arnen Lothiriel would drive you crazy inside a month and that you would go down in the annals of the Mark as Éomer wife-slayer?”

He looked very much taken aback.

“I did, didn’t I?” he said with a chagrined smile, “you had better not tell her about that! At the moment I’d be more likely to go crazy if I had to wait any longer until I get to marry her.”

“Poor brother,” Éowyn said with false sympathy, “having to wait five months for your bride. I had to wait eight months and that was considered scandalously short by some!”

“That wasn’t my fault,” he pointed out, “I can’t help it if these Gondorian wedding customs are so complicated.”

“Well I’m mystified how you got Imrahil to agree to such a brief engagement period, but I don’t begrudge you your good luck.”

He gave her a hug. “I know.”

Éowyn hugged him back. “Well, let’s go then.”

Surely Éomer deserves some happiness and a family of his own, she thought.

Aragorn was waiting outside the Golden Hall for them. It was traditional for the bridegroom to be accompanied by his two witnesses when he went to fetch the bride and since Éomer had no living male relative left he had asked the King of Gondor to stand in a brother’s place. The two men embraced briefly and Aragorn clapped him on the back before they started down the stairs.

“Ready, my friend?”

Éomer just nodded.

Also waiting for them, but much more impatiently, was Firefoot. His coat had been groomed until it was literally gleaming in the morning sun and he seemed to know he had an important role to play today, for he was dancing in place nervously outside the royal stables.

As Éowyn watched Beda trying to calm the stallion down she was thinking to herself that if Éomer’s squire was any indication, Lothiriel would be creating considerable havoc amongst the young men of Edoras. Quite without intending to either, for she seemed completely oblivious to the admiration her exotic looks excited. As for Éomer, he was well aware of it, but just looked on with amusement, his mere presence making sure nobody would dare to overstep the line.

He had taken Firefoot’s reins in his hands and his touch and soft words calmed the fractious horse down.

“Come on, my friend, we don’t want to be late,” he said and the stallion’s ears pricked forward as if he did indeed understand his words. Well, Éowyn had always considered him an eminently sensible animal, often more sensible than his master.

They started down the paved road, a road she had trodden so often that she knew every step of the way. All along the route the houses had been garlanded with fir branches wrapped in colourful ribbons and the inhabitants of Edoras lined the way wishing their king good fortune on this day.

Éowyn remembered the watchful and discouraged faces during the last years of her uncle’s reign and the quiet grief and desperation immediately after the war when only Gondor’s generous aid had saved them from a winter of starvation. The difference was marked and she felt proud of these hardy and resilient people who once again looked forward to the future with determined confidence.

Leading his horse behind him, her brother set a fast pace, although he refrained from taking any shortcuts through back alleys. Very soon they approached Éothain’s house where a considerable crowd had gathered already. As tradition demanded, on Éomer’s third knock the heavy doors swung open and they were allowed into the small courtyard fronting the main house.

On the steps Prince Imrahil and his sons waited for them, their faces impassive, along with Queen Arwen, Éothain and his wife. The crowd went quiet when Éomer came to a halt in front of them.

The Princess of Dol Amroth wasn’t there.

In the sudden silence Éowyn could hear a dog barking in a backyard somewhere and a child grizzling that was hushed quickly. Éomer scanned the faces of the people waiting for him and then he raised his voice. The Lord of the Mark had come to claim his bride.

“I seek Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” he called.

The princess was nowhere to be seen.

Firefoot shifted fretfully and gave an impatient snort and Éomer absentmindedly stretched out a hand to calm him down. Éowyn regarded her brother closely, but he seemed completely unperturbed. Twice more he repeated his words. She could see Elphir fidgeting in the background; no doubt he was thinking it a very poor idea to leave this kind of decision to a woman, when her father had already given his consent. The silence stretched to breaking point and still the princess did not appear.

This was of course completely according to tradition, for it would not be suitable for the bride to appear too eager. Indeed in the Mark it was considered an insult to tell a woman that she would come running at the first call. Maybe the Princess of Dol Amroth was overdoing it a little, though? Just as Éowyn thought her nerves were about to fray, the door opened and Lothiriel emerged. Her emerald green dress tightly hugged her figure before flaring out at the waist and falling in soft folds to the feet. She looked absolutely calm and every inch the Gondorian princess as she descended the steps, her silken gown rustling softly.

Éomer gave a deep bow, for he came as a supplicant today. It seemed to Éowyn that a subtle message passed between the two, but neither one gave anything away.

“Princess Lothiriel,” Éomer said, “Will you ride with me?”

During the journey the day before Éowyn had talked to Lothiriel about wedding customs in Rohan, and the princess had joked how typical it was that the question should be framed in this way. Nothing of that amusement was found in her composed face now as she searched the eyes of the man standing in front of her. He met her look openly and all of a sudden she bestowed a devastatingly lovely smile on him.

“I will ride with you,” she replied in perfect Rohirric, her voice filled with certainty.

Éowyn released the breath she hadn’t know she’d been holding. As Éomer lifted Lothiriel onto Firefoot’s back and then swung up behind her, putting one arm possessively around her waist, he whispered something to her, but Éowyn only heard the princess’s answer.

“I was ready, my Lord King,” Lothiriel said, “but I did not want to thwart your country’s customs. Did you have to wait long?”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows at the mocking challenge in Lothiriel’s tone. Should she warn her friend that it was extremely difficult to get the better of her brother? Although on second thoughts Lothiriel might actually be the one person in the Riddermark to have the means to do so.

She became aware of Aragorn watching her with some amusement. He seemed to be able to read her mind, for he said in a low tone, “Don’t worry about these two, Éowyn, they are perfectly matched.” She was forced to agree.

The procession now turned round with Éomer and Lothiriel riding ahead and everybody else following on foot. The sun was shining brightly and although it was midwinter the air was quite balmy. Already some of the snow was starting to melt, sliding off roofs onto the unwary and filling the stone channel that followed the main road with ice-cold water.

The streets were thick with people as the whole of Edoras came to have a look at their new queen. Éomer was very popular and the Rohirrim were well aware of the great personal risks he had taken for their sake and the sacrifices he had had to pay. They would welcome any wife he had chosen and Éowyn thought that Lothiriel’s unpretentious ways would soon win their hearts. She was so eager to please and be pleased and so very much in love with their king that she would be welcomed with open arms.

By the time they reached the stairs leading up to the Golden Hall the press of people was so thick that it was difficult to get through and the square in front of the stables was completely filled. When they had dismounted Éowyn saw Lothiriel surreptitiously feed an apple to Firefoot. She had the ability to make them appear as if by magic, a trait she shared with her bridegroom. Éomer had noticed, too, and watched his bride with a fond smile. Éowyn suddenly grinned to herself.

If I were unkind I could even call his expression besotted!

His riders had been very much amused to see their king at the mercy of a young and impulsive girl that he could easily have snapped in two, and he’d had to endure a fair share of teasing. She had the impression that he was getting tired of being reminded that tonight was the longest night of the year. As if he didn’t know already.

Éomer offered his arm to Lothiriel and led her up the stairs onto the paved terrace surrounding Meduseld. The procession was briefly thrown into disarray when the bride stopped abruptly to have a look at the fountain - “Éomer! Are those real icicles?” – but after a moment it got underway again.

In the Riddermark weddings were simple affairs, and even a king getting married followed much the same pattern. Being one of his witnesses, Éowyn lined up beside Aragorn on Éomer’s side, while Imrahil and Arwen stood behind Lothiriel and the other guests looked on from the stairs or pressed against the doors of Meduseld.

Éomer took Lothiriel’s hands in his own and once again Éowyn was struck by their ability to shut out everything around them, as if only the two of them existed in the whole of Arda and no one else mattered. They made a striking couple, so different to look at with Lothiriel’s dark hair and slender figure and Éomer’s strong warrior’s frame and blond mane. At the same time they had a lot in common, not least a strong will and an inborn stubbornness. Éowyn wondered if Éomer knew that his bride had asked her to teach her how to handle a knife and what he’d say to it. She did not think he would object, but if he did she very much suspected that he would come up against that well hidden core of steel Lothiriel possessed and that she did not even seem to know about herself.

Slowly the buzz of the crowd stilled until only the sighing of the ever-present wind and the quiet dripping of melt water off the eves of Meduseld could be heard.

Éomer now lifted his voice to speak his vows. “Lothiriel, Imrahil’s daughter,” he began, his tone firm and sure, “Before these witnesses, and of my own free will, I bind myself to you from this day forward. I receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and the mother of my children.”

His eyes never once left the woman standing before him.

“My love for you will be deep and enduring like the bones of the mountains beneath us, wide as the sky stretching above us and gentle as the spring rain that nourishes our fields. While there is a drop of blood left running through my veins I will shelter and protect you, while there is a breath of life left in me I will treasure and cherish you.”

Éomer took a deep breath.

“You will be mine and I will be yours and my people will be your people. Throughout the seasons of our life, whether our days together are long or short, I pledge you my life and my love.”

He paused. “I give my hearth and my heart into your keeping.”

Lothiriel looked back at him solemnly, the wind playing gently with her loose hair.

“Éomer, Éomund’s son,” she replied, enunciating each word clearly and carefully, “Before these witnesses, and of my own free will, I bind myself to you from this day forward. I receive you as my lord and husband and the father of my children.”

Her voice rose, ringing out loud and clear.

“My love for you will be constant and firm like the stars in the heavens, warm as the sun looking down on us and soft as the grass beneath our horses’ hooves. While there is a drop of blood left running through my veins I will be loyal and true to you, while there is a breath of life left in me I will be your joy and your strength.”

Her whole face seemed to shine with her conviction.

“You will be mine and I will be yours and your people will be my people. Throughout the seasons of our life, whether our days together are long or short, I pledge you my life and my love.”

“I will keep your hearth and your heart warm,” she finished softly and Éomer gave her a look such as his sister had never seen on his face before.

Hergyth, the old cook had been waiting with a small loaf of bread and a cup of mead and now stepped forward. Éowyn knew that Hergyth had been rather dubious about Éomer marrying a foreign princess, but she seemed to have resigned herself to it and even greeted Lothiriel with a small smile. Of course Éomer had been able to wrap the old woman round his little finger ever since he had come to Edoras as a small boy.

He took the loaf of bread, broke off a small piece and offered it to his bride who chewed and swallowed it with fierce concentration. Obviously Lothiriel was aware of everybody’s eyes on her and knew it would be considered a very bad omen if she choked on it. Traditionally it was the groom’s mother who would bake this bread and if she did not like her son’s choice she could take her revenge by making it hard and inedible. In her turn Lothiriel then broke off another small piece and offered it to Éomer.

Next he took the wedding cup and handed it to Lothiriel. It was made of solid gold, filled with strong mead and so heavy she had to hold it with both hands. Lothiriel was careful not to spill any, but only took a small sip before handing it back. Éomer looked at her quizzically and belatedly she must have remembered that the cup had to be emptied in one go to avoid casting misfortune on their marriage. The look of dismay, verging on panic, that crossed her face was almost comical. Fortunately Éomer was up to the challenge, although everybody waited with baited breath while he emptied the cup.

When he was finished he upended the cup to show there was no drop left in it and a mighty roar went up from his riders.

“Eorlingas!” he shouted in the clear voice that was easily heard over the din of battle, “Behold your queen!”

Strictly speaking this was not entirely true, of course. Lothiriel would not have the right to wear the queen’s crown until she was presented with her Morning Gift after the consummation of the marriage by sharing a bed and a roof. Éowyn wondered if Lothiriel knew she was now the owner of a large herd of horses, for by all accounts Éomer had been more than generous.

The people in the square were cheering wildly and calling the names of their king and queen. Imrahil had stepped up to Éowyn and asked her curiously what they were shouting. For a moment she was at a loss how to translate some of the ribald suggestions jokingly shouted at her brother, but then she just replied tactfully, “They are saying what a lucky man Éomer is.”

Imrahil nodded in satisfaction, but when she met Aragorn’s eyes a moment later he was fighting hard to suppress his laughter. Of course, she thought, he understands our language. She was considerably relieved that Lothiriel wasn’t all that fluent in Rohirric yet.

At last Éomer decided to put some of the advice their people were calling out to him into practice and with an impish grin pulled his new wife into his arms and kissed her. Éowyn had heard rumours of his outrageous behaviour at the betrothal ceremony in Dol Amroth and now decided that perhaps they had not been exaggerated after all.

Lothiriel emerged from his embrace looking slightly stunned and Éowyn could not blame her. She soon recovered, though, and gave her husband a luminous smile, completely oblivious to all the people around her.

Seeing this, Éowyn congratulated herself, for surely now she could leave them to their own devices. By the looks they had given each other they would manage fine from now on and nothing more could go wrong.

Many thanks to my beta Cuthalion, you were right - as usual!

Promises

The bow had been created by a master craftsman. It was a thing of deadly beauty. When Lothiriel slowly ran her hand along the curve of it, the yew wood was smooth and warm and almost seemed to come alive under her touch.

“For me?” she asked in wonder.

Legolas nodded. “For the Queen of Rohan from the Woodland Elves.”

The Queen of Rohan – she wasn’t used yet to being called that. The elf and his friend Gimli watched her with amusement when Lothiriel experimentally drew the bow. She was astonished how easy it was. With it came a quiver full of beautifully balanced arrows, fletched in green and white. They had received a fair share of wedding presents today, but this was by far the finest in her estimation. She could not help herself, she had to notch one of the arrows to try it out and as she did so the string seemed to whisper softly in her ear. Lothiriel quickly lowered the bow again. They were inside the Golden Hall and already some people were looking at her curiously.

“It’s absolutely beautiful, thank you so much,” she said, trying to convey her gratitude.

The elf smiled. “I thought I owed you something for winning that bet for me and getting you into such difficulties with Éomer.”

By his side the dwarf gave a snort.

Lothiriel shook her head. “Indeed you didn’t, that was all my own doing. I should not have said the things I did.”

“Yet it all turned out for the best in the end.”

“So it did.” She cocked her head to one side. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

Legolas regarded her questioningly. “And what is that?”

“That bet you made with Éomer,” she hesitated, “what was the stake?” Ever since seeing the elf had reminded her of that disastrous day in Minas Tirith, she had been worrying what Éomer had lost because of her. Had it been a lot of gold or even worse, one of his precious horses?

Legolas laughed. “Oh that!” he exclaimed, “It was the usual stakes.”

“What are the usual stakes?”

“Why, a tankard of ale of course.”

Lothiriel stared at him. She’d been worried about a tankard of ale? Men! She would never understand them.

Legolas nodded at the bow in her hand and she became aware that she’d been stroking it absentmindedly.

“Aren’t you going to try it out?”

Lothiriel motioned at the crowded hall. “I’d dearly like to, but I can hardly leave my own wedding celebration.”

He gave a wicked smile. “You don’t have to. What about that crossbeam up there?”

He directed her gaze to a point high up in the rafters about halfway down the hall where two of the mighty wooden beams holding up the roof were connected by another beam. In the middle of it, the semblance of a sun was carved, decorated with gold that glinted softly in the light from the many lamps. Lothiriel hesitated. From where they stood on the dais it wasn’t a long shot, well within her range, yet she would use an untried bow and the light wasn’t very good, the sun having set a while ago.

The elf raised an eyebrow. “For the usual stakes?”

They locked eyes for a moment. “Done,” she said and reached for the quiver.

The bow fit into her hands as if she’d used it all her life and when she notched an arrow she knew with complete certainty it would hit the target. She loosed her arrow and the bow sang, there was no other word for it. As she listened to the last echoes of that eerie and haunting sound fading away she belatedly became aware that everybody had stopped talking and was staring at her.

“Well done,” Legolas said into the silence, completely unconcerned, “I don’t think you will be able to retrieve that arrow, though.”

Her eyes met Éomer’s who was at the other end of the hall, talking to Forthred, and she wondered if she looked very guilty. She gave a helpless little shrug, as if to say, Sorry, but I had to try it out, and saw him break into a grin in response. He turned back to the bard to continue his interrupted conversation and after a moment everybody else took their cue from him and started talking again. About her, no doubt.

“Sister, what do you think you are doing!”

Lothiriel winced and turned round to face Elphir who was bearing down on her with an expression of righteous outrage on his face. Amrothos was trailing behind him, wearing a wide grin.

“I am trying out my new bow,” she replied evenly, “not that it’s any business of yours.”

“Not my business?” Elphir went red in the face, “you shame your upbringing with this disgraceful behaviour!”

“Don’t be a fool,” she shot back, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“I doubt that very much, sister. What the Rohirrim must think of their new queen I shudder to even consider.”

Lothiriel took a deep breath while beside her Legolas seemed amused at their quarrel.

“If I were you, I’d be careful,” he remarked to Elphir, “she’s armed now.”

“…and she has a dragon slayer at her disposal,” Amrothos chimed in.

This was of course pouring oil into the flames. While Elphir could not reprimand an elf prince and member of the Fellowship and had long since given up on his youngest brother, he had no scruples to reprove his sister.

“I will not countenance such unseemly conduct and that’s my last word on it,” he declared.

“You won’t have to,” she replied hotly, “as it’s none of your concern any more!”

Amrothos applauded her words loudly and she shot him an irritated look. He really wasn’t helping. Meanwhile Elphir was frowning at her with his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“Lothiriel, hand me that bow” he ordered her, “and I’ll take care of it. You’ve obviously had too much to drink.”

“Too much to drink?” Her voice rose despite her best efforts to keep hold of her temper.

At that moment a hand gently descended on her shoulder and Éomer’s firm voice cut in. “Is there a problem?”

“A problem?” Elphir looked at him in disbelief and motioned at the arrow still stuck up in the rafters, “Lothiriel shoots around wildly and you ask if there is a problem?”

The look he received from Éomer seemed to remind her brother whom he was speaking to and he added in a more civil tone, “surely you do not consider this conduct appropriate to a princess, King Éomer.”

Before she had a chance to tell Elphir exactly what she thought of his ideas of propriety, Éomer lifted a hand. His other hand had slipped down around her waist, pulling her against him, and she was suddenly very much aware of his warm presence at her side. Her husband’s presence…

“Prince Elphir,” he now said, “I think we’ve had this discussion before as to what is appropriate to a Queen of the Riddermark as opposed to a Princess of Dol Amroth, haven’t we.”

He looked down at Lothiriel. “Is that what you were aiming for?” he said and motioned at the carved sun.

Lothiriel gathered her scattered wits. It was ridiculous to be so conscious of his proximity. “Yes,” she replied.

“And why did you do it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I am to blame once again,” Legolas cut in smoothly, “it was my idea to have a bet.”

“The lass has won herself a tankard of ale,” his friend added.

Of course Éomer knew only too well that she only drank wine. “So my wife is not only beautiful, but also resourceful,” he said with a completely straight face.

Her brother had been listening to this exchange with growing irritation.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” he asked, obviously still decidedly outraged.

Éomer lifted one of his eyebrows. “I fail to see your problem,” he said to Elphir, “after all Lothiriel hit what she was aiming for.”

And while her brother was standing there with his mouth hanging open, Éomer turned to her to offer her his arm, his eyes alight with laughter.

“But I did not come here to argue with your brother, my lady wife, but to ask you to dance.”

Indeed the lower half of the hall had been cleared of tables and the musicians now struck up a lively tune. Already several couples were whirling enthusiastically across the impromptu dance floor. Lothiriel handed the bow back to Legolas and with a smile put her hand on Éomer’s arm.

Elphir chose that moment to recover his voice. “You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed, “to want to indulge in such a completely unsuitable activity.”

The laughter abruptly vanished from Éomer’s eyes and he slowly turned to face her brother again. For a moment she was forcibly reminded of the fact that he was not only the King of Rohan, but also a deadly warrior.

“Prince Elphir, I will begin as I mean to go on,” he said in a low voice that was nevertheless full of menace, “It is now up to me and of course to my queen what we want to do, and to nobody else. Is that clear?”

Her brother had turned white, but Éomer did not wait for an answer, instead offering her his arm again. “Lothiriel, would you like to dance?”

The Queen of Rohan cast down her eyes demurely. “As my lord pleases,” she replied, the faint tremor of laughter in her voice the only thing that spoilt the picture of wifely submissiveness.

Behind her Legolas hastily converted his laugh into a coughing fit and Amrothos gave a loud guffaw.

As Éomer led her onto the dance floor, he whispered appreciatively in her ear, “Aren’t I lucky to have married a properly brought up Gondorian princess?”

“You’re not annoyed with me then?” she could not help sounding slightly apologetic.

“Of course not, dear heart,” he smiled, “What’s a little thing like an arrow in the roof? This is your home now, you may do as you please. That is, as long as you leave your bow outside our bedroom door tonight…”

Her home. And she was dancing with her husband. It would take some getting used to, to think of Meduseld and Éomer in those terms. Lothiriel cast down her eyes to concentrate on her steps, suddenly flustered by his closeness and the way he whirled her round in his arms. Tonight he would teach her another dance.

Éomer regarded the lowered face of his wife and felt her fingers trembling slightly in his own. It had not escaped his notice how little she had eaten at the evening meal and how she had pushed the food around her plate. He could sense the sudden tension in her body and felt guilty for making her uncomfortable with him, but the words had just slipped out. Not surprising really, considering how absolutely bewitching she looked tonight.

There was an awkward pause and he cast about for something to say to ease the atmosphere.

“I see you haven’t forgotten our Rohirric dances,” was the best he could think of.

“Well, it’s not that difficult.” She still did not look up.

“Do you remember the last time we danced together?”

She gave a small nod and finally met his eyes. “I do indeed. How could I forget the way you got rid of that horrible man who pestered me!”

He grinned at the memory. “A thoroughly enjoyable business, I have to admit. Except for having a bucket of cold water emptied over myself.”

She was surprised into a laugh. “That was your own fault!”

“I beg to disagree, my lady.” He said with mock severity.

Éomer caught sight of Imrahil amongst the onlookers. The prince was quite obviously wondering where his daughter had learnt to dance like the Rohirrim. Since his own liege was dancing, too, he could not very well disapprove, though.

“Does your father know you attacked the king of an allied country?” he teased her.

“I did nothing of the sort,” she protested, completely at ease with him again, “and no, I didn’t tell my father.”

“Why do I get the feeling Imrahil doesn’t know half of what you’re getting up to?”

Her eyes were brimming over with mischief and she looked very alluring. “I really wouldn’t know. It must be the bad influence you exert over me.”

“I do, do I?” he breathed. With a sudden jolt of desire he wondered how soon it would be considered acceptable to retire, “so tell me, is there anything you keep from me?”

“Well…” Lothiriel hesitated just the barest instant and he lifted his eyebrows. What has she been up to?

“Well, my lady?” She was so endearingly transparent when she felt guilty.

“There is one thing,” she admitted, “I’ve asked Éowyn to teach me to fight.”

He stared at her in surprise. “What?” he asked in disbelief.

“Only with a knife,” she hastened to reassure him. It did nothing of the sort.

“Is this your idea of a joke, Lothiriel?” he asked with a frown and drew her to one side, where they could talk without being observed.

A stubborn expression crossed her face. “No, it’s not, “ she said, “Éomer, I’m serious. Next time I’m captured I want to be able to fight back.”

“There will be no next time,” he pointed out, “I promised to protect you, remember?”

Her face softened. “Of course I remember. Yet it might come in useful one day.”

Éomer tried to imagine those slender white hands wielding a knife. There would be accidents while training, even with the most care taken there always were, weapons just being inherently dangerous.

“This is important to me, please understand,” she pleaded, “Éomer?”

How could he deny her the very first request she made of him? It seemed not all that long ago that he had listened to the very same argument raging between his uncle and his sister.

Lothiriel was looking up at him full of determination. “I will never be that helpless again,” she declared and her hands clenched on his.

He found he could sympathize with that. After all, he remembered well how powerless he had felt when faced with his uncle’s slow decline and Gríma’s machinations. The worst thing was that he had been unable to protect his own sister.

“Very well,” he conceded reluctantly, “but I swear, you will never need it, not while there is a breath of life left in me.”

The smile she gave him lit up her face. “I know. The King of the Mark always keeps his promises.”

He drew her slowly into his arms. “Do you realize what you do to me when you smile at me like that, my lady wife?”

“Show me…” She yielded into his embrace with practised ease and lifted her face for a kiss. It was an invitation he could not resist. My queen, my wife, my heart’s desire…

“Shall we retire now?” he whispered to her.

Her body that had been soft and responsive an instant ago went as taut as a bowstring. He frowned in concern. “Lothiriel, what’s the matter? You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She leaned her head against his chest and wordlessly shook her head.

He stroked her soft dark hair. It smelt wonderful. “Don’t you trust me, dear heart?”

“Of course I do,” she replied and looked up at last, “Didn’t I tell you so? I just wish we could get it all over and done with.”

He stared at her and could not help laughing. “I’m glad you are so much looking forward to our wedding night.”

Lothiriel blushed crimson. “That’s not what I meant!”

“What did you mean? Lothiriel, what worries you?”

“It’s the bedding of the newly married couple…” she said in a rush, “Amrothos and his friends have been drinking all afternoon and they will be rowdy.”

He frowned and looked to the head table where her brother sat with his friends, strategically blocking the exit to their chambers. They had been joined by Legolas and Gimli and were laughing and talking loudly. In the Mark the bride and bridegroom were traditionally put in their bed by their men and women friends and it was true that things did sometimes get slightly out of hand. In fact Éothain might have some reason to get even with him tonight.

“If Amrothos jokes one more time I forced you to marry me at sword point I’ll probably do something I’ll end up regretting,” Lothiriel said fiercely.

“Well we don’t have to adhere to all the traditions, do we?” he said. Anyway, a lot of couples stole off on their wedding night, or at least tried to.

She relaxed slightly. “We don’t?”

“Don’t worry,” he said firmly, “I’ll think of something.” He seemed to be making a lot of promises today.

Éomer’s first thought was to simply sneak out the front doors and round the side of the hall to the servants’ entrance to their chambers. This plan was nipped in the bud when he noticed Éothain and some of his riders loitering around purposefully near that end of the hall. Apparently they suspected the newly wedded couple might try to give their friends the slip. Well, it looked like he was badly outnumbered, but then he was used to that from his battles in the Ring War. It had not stopped him then, it would not stop him now. What he needed was an ally…

A little later Éowyn and Lothiriel went out the doors arm in arm. “Let’s get some fresh air,” the White Lady of Rohan said to her new sister-in-law, “we can always do some more dancing later.”

Lothiriel could hear the steps of her friend crossing the anteroom and then a muffled thump as the door to the corridor closed behind Éowyn. Alone at last! She leant back against the thick oaken door with a sigh. So far so good. Just as planned they had been able to reach the bedchamber unobserved by taking the back entrance. Now it just remained to wait for Éomer. Her husband.

It was silly, but she felt like a trespasser sneaking into his rooms. Their rooms, she corrected herself and took a hesitant step away from the door. There was a fire burning in the hearth, providing enough light to have a look around. Éowyn had earlier on put out some of her things to make her more welcome, but the effect was rather contrary to what had been intended, making her possessions seem unfamiliar in this strange setting. The room was also uncannily neat and tidy, not betraying any of its owner’s personality. Only over in one corner Éomer’s armour hung on a stand, polished to perfection as usual, his helmet with its white horsetail seeming to observe her watchfully.

She shivered slightly. The stone floor was covered in furs but was still cold under her bare feet. Before leaving Éowyn had helped her undress and now she wore nothing but her bridal robe made of the thinnest of silks. Its rich crimson lengths lightly caressed her legs and whispered softly with every step she took, but did not provide much warmth.

With a loud crack one of the branches burning in the hearth broke and fell in a shower of sparks, making Lothiriel jump. She crossed to the big four-poster bed dominating the room and sat down on it gingerly. The covers were already turned back, waiting for her, and after a short hesitation she slipped under them. The sheets were crisp and smelt freshly laundered and the bed was simply enormous, easily big enough to sleep a family of six. Lothiriel felt slightly lost in its white expanse. Somehow she had expected to have the room decorated in green and white, but although there was a wall hanging depicting the white horse on a green ground, the curtains of the bed were of a warm red colour and so was the coverlet.

For a moment she considered getting up again and having a look at the other rooms reached by a connecting door, but then she decided against it, suddenly feeling rather tired. With a small yawn she slipped deeper under the bedcovers. At least they were slowly warming up. Lothiriel involuntarily wondered how many Kings of Rohan had been born here. More to the point maybe was the question how many kings had been begotten in this bed?

A frisson of nervousness swept through her, although she had meant it when she had told Éomer that she trusted him absolutely. Even so she could not help feeling a bit like a deer waiting for the lion to make his appearance. Then she chided herself for these silly thoughts. Surely it was just having to wait here for him that made her feel so anxious. Lothiriel’s mind went back to what her irrepressible sister-in-law had whispered to her just before leaving.

“Lie back and enjoy it. Let him do all the work…” Éowyn had said with a wink.

This was rather different advice from what she had received before. There had been furtive whisperings amongst the other girls, of course, but most memorable had been Aunt Ivriniel’s words when she had come on that abortive visit to Dol Amroth last autumn. She had drawn her niece aside one afternoon to give her a talk on the subject and Lothiriel still cringed at the memory.

“It is a woman’s duty to surrender her body to her husband,” her aunt had lectured her, “distasteful though this might be at times. Just treat it as if you had a toothache, for there is nothing to be done but to submit and endure.”

Lothiriel had found this excellent advice when applied to her aunt’s lectures, but she wondered if Éomer would appreciate being compared to a toothache?

She yawned again and snuggled a bit deeper into the sheets. The truth was she had been up since dawn, being bathed and perfumed, and it had been a long exciting day following on a wearying journey of over two weeks. All of a sudden she was simply too tired to worry overmuch.

I might as well be comfortable while I wait for my husband to join me, she thought.

Éomer saw his sister come back and briefly met her eyes. It was the signal he had been waiting for. Surreptitiously throwing the cloak he had swiped from Éothain’s chair around himself he quickly made his way along the dimly lit edge of the hall towards the great double doors. Now he was just another rider on his way home and nobody paid him any heed. When he cast a last look back, he saw Prince Imrahil searching the crowd with a slightly anxious expression, much like a parent bird whose fledgling has just flown the nest. Éomer made his escape quickly, before his father-in-law could ask him the whereabouts of his only daughter.

Once outside, he left the cloak with the guards and made his way along the western side of the hall. Too late did he realize he should have kept it, for now he was recognized for the king and everybody wanted to stop and congratulate him. Delayed by his well-wishers it took him a considerable span of time to reach the servants’ entry and when he cautiously peered in the door he had to suppress a curse. It was as he had feared, their absence had been noted and now Amrothos and his friends stood outside his door, questioning the guard stationed there.

He quickly ducked back outside before he was spotted and considered his options. The easiest would be to just march in there and face his brother-in-law down, but of course this would create exactly the kind of scene Lothiriel dreaded. The second option would have been to simply wait them out, but he discarded that one without any further thought. Time was definitely not on his side tonight.

No, there only remained to regroup, to bring his superior knowledge of the terrain to bear and recruit another ally.

Soon afterwards an elderly woman carrying a pile of sheets made her way along the corridor and entered the room next to the royal apartments. Not surprisingly, Amrothos and his friends did not pay her any heed, being too busy practising their bawdy songs.

Éomer waited for Hergyth to come out again and when she gave him a quick nod he dropped a light kiss on one of her withered cheeks.

“Thank you,” he winked, “you’re the queen of all cooks.”

“Never mind about me, lad,” she snorted, but was obviously not displeased, “get you gone now, don’t keep your lady waiting.”

“I don’t intend to,” he replied and made his way round the back of the hall. There was one of his guards stationed there, which was quite useful, as the windows of the bathing room, now thrown open, were quite high up.

He knew his guards had drawn straws as to who would have to stand duty tonight, but it looked like this one at least would have a juicy bit of gossip to share in the barracks later on. He was well trained, however, and refrained from asking why his king had to climb in the back window. Maybe there even was a twinkle of envy in his eyes as he gave Éomer a leg up.

I hope she appreciates what trouble I go to for her sake!

“Lothiriel?”

Éomer closed and bolted the door to the bathing room behind him and turned to face his wife. She was lying in their bed, her black hair spread across the pillow, her robe a pool of crimson silk, and one slim arm was thrown across the sheets.

Smiling tenderly, he sat down on the edge of the bed and gently pushed a lock of hair from her face. His newly wedded wife looked utterly desirable.

She was also fast asleep.

For Maddy. Thank you for your early advice on archery and other matters concerning Meduseld and the Rohirrim.

Of falcons and mûmakil

“Wake up, dear heart.”

The words trickled slowly through the layers of her mind. Something was wrong with them, but Lothiriel just ignored them and snuggled deeper into her sheets. These were warm and smooth and she did not want to wake up, although the soft kisses planted on her eyelids were rather nice.

“Wake up, my sweet.”

The voice was deep and had a trace of laughter in it and there was definitely something wrong with it. Now somebody was nibbling gently at her ear and when she rolled over onto her stomach to get away from this irritation there was a soft chuckle. The bed creaked and she could feel somebody leaning over her.

“Come on, ladylove, wake up.”

More kisses, this time on that sensitive spot at the back of her neck. The voice was distinctly familiar, filled with warmth and also something else, but Lothiriel just wanted to sink back into her dreams. They had been nice.

“Go away,” she mumbled into the sheets and tried to draw them over her head.

“You don’t mean that, heart’s lady,” the voice purred, “You don’t want to miss your wedding night, do you?”

Her wedding night…

It suddenly dawned on Lothiriel what was wrong with the voice: it was a man’s voice… it was Éomer’s voice! She sat up with a start and only his quick warrior’s reflexes saved them from a painful collision. With a convulsive motion she scrambled back against the headboard of the bed and clutched the sheets to herself. The room was dark, only dimly lit by the fire in the hearth and it took her a moment to realize where she was. This was his bedroom, their bedroom.

Now completely awake, but with her heart still hammering wildly she slowly lifted her eyes to look at her husband. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping absolutely still as if afraid to startle her further.

“Remember me?” he said with a lopsided grin and she gave a shaky nod in reply.

Then it hit her. She had fallen asleep while waiting for him on their wedding night! What a start to their married life! With an involuntary groan she buried her head in her hands, feeling thoroughly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she tried to explain, “I was just so tired…”

Her voice petered off and she risked another quick glance at her husband. Was he angry? After all he had rights now and surely one of them was not being made a fool of by his wife on their very first night.

He stretched out a hand. “It is me who is sorry, Lothiriel. I didn’t want to startle you like that.”

“Well, I’m not used to having a man in my bed,” she blurted out without thinking.

He laughed out loud. “I should hope not!”

Then he lowered his voice, “I’m afraid you will have to get used to it, though, for I intend to wake up in the same bed as my wife as often as possible from now on.”

Her throat had suddenly gone dry. “Is that so, my lord?” she said, trying to match his tone. The bed that had been so big at first now seemed remarkably crowded and he hadn’t even moved from his place at the edge of it.

Lothiriel wondered what he read in her face, for he immediately gave her a reassuring smile. “Would you care for some wine?” he asked in a completely different voice.

She considered this for a moment and decided that she would indeed. “Yes please,” she replied and he got up slowly, moving with deliberate care as if she were some deer likely to be startled into flight at the slightest movement.

Lothiriel leant back against the headboard and drew in a deep breath, grateful to him for giving her some time and space to recover her composure. She wondered how late it was. There was a small table by the window and she watched him cross the room and fill two goblets from a bottle standing there. At some point while she had been asleep he must have changed his clothes, for he was wearing a short blue night robe now, and all of a sudden the unfamiliar attire made him seem a stranger. Then he looked up and smiled at her and was Éomer again.

“It’s a good vintage, from Southern Gondor,” he remarked conversationally and handed her one of the goblets. She accepted with a word of thanks and he seemed quite content to sit on the edge of the bed again and simply watch her sip her wine.

Lothiriel found that her heartbeat had returned to normal again, although there was still a flutter of nervousness whenever he glanced her way, for there was that unmistakable hunger in his eyes, tightly controlled though it was. She was relieved he did not seem to be in a hurry, though, and risked giving him a small smile.

He smiled back warmly. “This is to apologize for waking you up,” he said, lifting his goblet.

“I suppose the King of Rohan shows his true colours now that we are married,” she teased him shyly.

“I could not help waking you up,” he replied, “I haven’t got that much self-restraint…”

She put her head on one side and considered this for a moment. “I suppose it would be insulting if you hadn’t woken me up.”

He leant over and gave her a light and gentle kiss. Lothiriel could taste the sweet red wine on his lips and her heart speeded up again.

“I would not want to insult you, my lady…” he said, lightly caressing a finger across her cheek.

“… and anyway, I have it on good authority that I may kiss you whenever and however I please,” he added with a grin.

Lothiriel frowned, momentarily distracted. Where had she heard those words before?

“What do you mean? Whose authority?” she asked.

“Your own.”

There was a short pause while she worked this out. “Amrothos!” Lothiriel exclaimed full of wrath.

“Your brother did indeed have a most interesting tale to tell,” Éomer nodded, “Did you really say that to your aunt?”

She nodded shamefacedly. “In front of the whole court of Dol Amroth. She dared to call you a barbarian!”

He laughed. “Actually I have been called that before. And didn’t you know that the reason why I married you is to bring civilization to the House of Eorl?”

Lothiriel took another sip of the wine, starting to feel more relaxed. “Indeed?” she replied playfully, “I only married you for your horses.”

Éomer put a hand to his chest. “You wound me, my lady wife. Not for my good looks?”

“For that too,” she conceded, “your hair is like a lion’s mane…”

Shyly she reached out a hand and softly touched a strand of it, not yet used to making free with his person. He gave her an encouraging smile.

“… and of course I also married you for your pretty words,” she added wickedly, “nothing dazzles a girl like being compared to a drowned rat.”

For a moment he looked completely disconcerted, then he groaned aloud. “My sister warned me that would come back to haunt me.”

“It’s still better than being likened to a swan,” she consoled him.

“Is it?” he sounded amused, “A swan does not suit you anyway, my proud falcon.”

Éomer leant over and kissed her again, more thoroughly this time. He could feel a current of heat run through him when her lips parted willingly and she started to kiss him back. I have waited so long, he thought.

After a moment he drew back again, wary of startling her with demanding too much too soon. The apprehension had been so plain in her eyes, but also her innocent trust, and he had been touched. She gave him a shaky smile.

“You are going to spill my wine if you’re not careful.”

“In that case let me relieve you of it, my lady,” he replied gravely and took her glass away to put it on the floor, next to his own. She surrendered it willingly and slid down a bit further on her pillows. Seeing her lying there, her eyes enormous but steady and trustful, his desire for her nearly overwhelmed him, but he swore to himself that he would be patient and would not rush her, however much it cost him in self-control. That this might prove to be a challenge, their very first kiss back in Ithilien had shown him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered and bent over her again. This time their kiss lasted longer and after a moment she put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, making his blond hair fall around them like a curtain, mingling with hers on the pillow. When she hesitantly slipped one hand inside his robe he could not help drawing in his breath sharply and felt her tremble in response.

He disengaged gently to look down on her again, but although she was breathing rapidly she did not seem apprehensive and even gave him a little smile. Very gently he cradled her head between his arms and brushed a few wayward strands of hair away from her forehead. She seemed so delicate, as if he could have crushed her without half trying, even though he knew this was far from true. My wife, Éomer thought, mentally savouring the words, and wondered if he should be worried at how much he wanted her.

In the flickering light from the fire her eyes were dark like a moonless night, drawing him in. Slowly he traced the elegant curve of her eyebrows. “I want you to enjoy our first night together, dear heart. You know I would never hurt you. Trust me.”

Lothiriel gave him one of the smiles she kept only for him. “I do, you know that.” She hesitated for a moment. “I just feel so ignorant,” she finally confessed.

He suddenly wondered if any of her female relatives had ever bothered to have a talk with her about what awaited her in the marriage-bed. That aunt of hers sounded absolutely useless, but surely Melian would have talked to her, or was that custom unknown in Gondor?

“I will be more than happy to teach you,” he replied.

“I want to please you.” She sounded almost stubborn.

“Oh, Lothiriel,” he breathed, “You do. Just be yourself.”

She frowned. “It can’t be as easy as that.”

He had to laugh and suddenly rolled over and pulled her atop of him in a wild tangle of white sheets and crimson robe. “It is!”

For a moment she had been startled and had clutched at him, but now she smiled back in response. “If you say so…”

He lightly stroked one hand along her spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. At the same time he wondered in the back of his mind how to get off this bridal robe, for there did not seem to be any laces along the back. Trust those Gondorians to complicate everything.

“I’ve waited a long time, my lady,” he said while running another hand down her back, “and I don’t mean this morning.” His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.

She gave a wicked smile. “Not by Gondorian standards, you haven’t.”

“No?” he asked, “I tell you, I was worried for a while when I suggested the same day for a wedding date and your father replied by suggesting next summer.”

Lothiriel laughed. “Poor you! What did you say in the end to persuade him?”

“That was one of my better moments.” Éomer grinned at the memory, “I argued that I need to marry as soon as possible because Rohan urgently needs an heir. It worked like a charm!”

She went rigid under his touch. “What?” she exclaimed and stared down at him, “What did you say?”

Later Éomer reflected that his warrior’s instincts should have warned him of impending danger, but by then it was too late. Much too late.

She rolled off him abruptly, taking the sheets with her. “Éomer, please tell me this is one of your jokes.”

“Lothiriel, what’s the matter?” he asked in confusion, his brain still fogged with desire.

Belatedly he realized that this had definitely not been the right thing to say.

“You are serious…” Lothiriel whispered as if still not quite believing it. She stared at him, her eyes blazing with fury. “How dare you treat me like a brood mare!”

He sat up and gingerly reached out a hand for her. “What are you talking about! You know that’s not what I meant.”

She looked at his outstretched hand as if it was something particularly repulsive. “Don’t you touch me!” she snapped, “How could you decide my fate in this cold-blooded and mercenary way, as if I were a horse to be bought and sold.”

He was speechless for a moment. “It was only a pretext,” he tried to explain, “a reason your father could give to his council for the short engagement period.”

“His council?” Her voice rose, “Father discussed this with his advisors?”

“I’m sure he only wanted to see you happy,” he said, but somehow this only seemed to make her angrier.

As if unable to contain her rage any longer she jumped up and started to pace the room. “See me happy? By treating me like the mere means to an end, a thing?”

Her crimson robe billowed out behind her, the thin silk not hiding much at all and he caught himself staring at his wife’s soft curves.

“Éomer, are you listening to what I’m saying?” she snarled.

“You’re making it difficult,” he replied without thinking. Again this was not the right thing to say. For a woman of her size she could look amazingly dangerous. He was suddenly glad he had not started to teach her how to wield a knife yet.

He decided to try to reason with her. “Didn’t you want to be married as soon as possible, too?”

“That’s completely beside the point,” she hissed, “The fact is, you and my father went about this business as if you were buying a horse. I’m surprised you didn’t ask to look at my teeth!”

“That’s not true,” he exclaimed, “Can’t you see it’s just that I would have used whatever means available to make you mine and agreed to whatever conditions.”

“Conditions?”

Éomer bit his lip. He had not wanted to say that last thing.

“Éomer, what conditions?” Her voice was low, low and dangerous.

He decided to make a clean breast of it. “Your father agreed to the midwinter wedding. My side of the bargain was to let you go if you changed your mind in the meantime.”

She stared at him. “A few things are becoming clear to me now… You never told me!”

Well, what did she expect? He had not told her about his words, exactly because he had feared such a reaction by her.

“No, I didn’t,” he conceded, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Neither you nor my father thought to inform me of this convenient little bargain you made between you?”

Éomer felt the first stirrings of irritation at her sarcastic tone. “Please Lothiriel,” he said, “don’t you think you are overreacting slightly?

Once more definitely not the right thing to say, he reflected later.

“Overreacting?” Her voice rose again, “You consider it unreasonable of me to object to being treated like a prize being handed over by one man to another because the latter needs an heir for his country?”

Éomer took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve just explained that was only a pretext. What does it matter what excuse I gave your father?”

“It matters to me.” She turned away from him to stand at the fireplace, her hands curled into fists, and he did not at all like the way she eyed the iron poker hanging on the wall there.

Éomer ran his hands through his hair, trying to think of the right thing to say. What had happened to turn the willing and pliant lady in his arms into this furious wildcat? “Lothiriel, it’s only words,” he finally replied, “Do we really want to start our married life with a quarrel?”

Her next words left him speechless. “Well, we haven’t shared a bed and a roof,” she pointed out, “So we’re not legally married yet, anyway, are we? At least that’s what your bard told me when he instructed me on wedding customs.” She stopped abruptly.

He stared at her. If Forthred had been present at that moment, he would have found out he wasn’t untouchable after all.

“Do you regret your vows then, my lady?” Éomer asked in his coldest voice.

Lothiriel turned away from him and stared into the fire. Silence descended, broken only by the far off sounds of revelry from the hall, where people were still busy celebrating their union.

Éomer could feel his anger fading as quickly as it had arisen. She somehow managed to look angry and forlorn at the same time and it did not help that the fire behind her outlined every line of her body through the thin silk.

He got up to join her at the fireplace, standing behind her, but not quite daring to touch her.

“You are right, I should have told you. Will you forgive me?” he asked gently, “…I love you.”

Lothiriel threw him a glare over her shoulder. Did he have to tell her that now of all times?

Conflicting emotions were running riot through her. Just now she had felt appalled at her own words, yet at the same time she could still feel the heat of anger cursing through her body. Why had their wedding night gone so horribly wrong? Only a few moments ago she had begun to enjoy herself – more than that, to be honest – and now she felt as if there was an abyss looming at her feet. She closed her eyes and leant her head against the cool stone of the wall, battling desperately to regain control of her temper. Why had he kept this from her?

Éomer stood so close behind her, she could feel the heat spilling from him. Now he hesitantly touched her shoulder. “Lothiriel?”

She took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The silence stretched between them. “I think I was afraid,” he finally said in a low voice.

“Afraid?” She could not imagine him fearing anything. This was the man who had ridden down those Southrons threatening her, who had come to Dol Amroth to find her and claim her for his wife. The Lord of the Mark, always completely self-assured and used to instant obedience.

“Afraid of loosing you, afraid you might change your mind.”

Change her mind? Didn’t he trust her? All of a sudden Lothiriel remembered how many of the people that he loved he had lost in his life already. His parents had died when he was only eleven years old and she knew he was still grieving for his uncle and his cousin. Lothiriel had seen some of the scars on his body and they were healed, but there were scars on his heart as well. Unexpectedly, her anger was flushed away by an overpowering surge of understanding.

She turned around and stepped into the waiting circle of his arms. “You have me, don’t you see? I’m here to stay. Didn’t I promise to be your joy and your strength?”

He nearly crushed her in his embrace, but she did not mind. “You are.”

She looked up at him seriously. “Éomer, I want no more secrets between us. Next time you tell me.”

He nodded. “I promise, dear heart.”

For a long time they merely stood there, their arms wrapped around each other, his chin resting lightly on her head, until they had both regained their composure. Lothiriel still felt shaky at the thought how close she had come to saying something unforgivable. She savoured the feeling of his warm strong body against her own, his male scent not as yet familiar. Slowly his hand started to draw lazy circles on her back and her pulse quickened in response.

“You look so desirable when you’re angry,” he whispered in her ear, his warm breath caressing her neck.

“Now you are trying to distract me.” Not that she minded.

“Yes,” Éomer conceded, “it’s the first tactic a warrior learns when faced with a stronger opponent.” He planted a kiss in the hollow of her throat, causing a delightful shiver to run through her.

“I thought you are like a mûmak,” she said slightly breathless, “brave, strong, unstoppable…”

He gave her a rueful smile. “Not quite.” His hands were roaming across her body, gentle but insistent.

“Lothiriel…” he said huskily.

“Mmmh?” It was difficult to concentrate on his words when all she wanted to do was melt into his arms. They had wasted enough time.

“This robe…” he said with a trace of laughter in his voice, “it’s very pretty, but how do you undo it? Are there no laces?”

“It’s a Gondorian bridal robe…” Were there some things her husband did not know after all?

“So? I have it on reliable sources even Gondorians take off their clothes on their wedding night.”

After a last lingering kiss Lothiriel gently disengaged herself. “You might find they do.”

With a wry smile she showed him how to pull the skilfully embroidered ribbons on the sleeves and by some clever fashioning of the seams the whole robe came undone at the shoulders and pooled at her feet. He wore such a stunned look that she had to bite back laughter. Then he exclaimed something in Rohirric, grabbed her by the shoulders and claimed her mouth in a kiss. It was like a banked fire suddenly flaring up.

At that moment it dawned on Lothiriel that all they had ever done so far had been mere practicing and only now was he kissing her in earnest for the first time. In fact he had no right to kiss her like that on her first night, for it was neither gentle nor considerate. She was a gently bred princess with no experience with men and the depth and urgency of his passion should simply have terrified her, but instead she found that she welcomed it, for it woke something deep within her, a matching hunger and need of her own. Without a moment’s hesitation she yielded into his arms and returned his kiss for all she was worth. It looks like I have woken the sleeping lion, was her last coherent thought before she simply let herself be swept into a maelstrom of desire.

Éomer stopped as abruptly as he had started, his breathing ragged. “Lothiriel, forgive me! I didn’t just want to pounce on you like that!”

She was breathless herself and would have buckled at the knees if he hadn’t held her so tightly. “I don’t mind,” she said after a moment, her heart still hammering wildly, “just don’t worry so much.”

He stared at her. “Worry? My wife tells me not to worry on our wedding night?”

All of a sudden she could feel mirth welling up within him until he was shaking with it. “Isn’t that what I am supposed to say?” he gasped between bouts of helpless laughter. It was a carefree and joyous sound such as she had never heard from him before.

“Oh Lothiriel,” he said and picked her up to whirl around in his arms, “I love you more than life itself.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered and wound her arms around his neck.

His eyes were burning with fierce joy at her words. “My beautiful, proud falcon.”

“Do you fancy yourself a falconer then my lord?” There was just the faintest note of warning in her tone. How often had she seen the poor creatures with their hoods and jesses and had felt sorry for them.

Her husband was a fast learner and this time he knew dangerous ground. “I was hoping my falcon would stay of her own free will or better still, would let me fly with her.“

“Can mûmakil fly then?” she asked with a little smile.

“They’re excellent fliers, didn’t you know?” he laughed, “I will show you.”

“And now my lady,” he added, “much as I would enjoy watching your brother’s face when you tell him we’re not in fact married, would you perhaps do me the honour of sharing that bed with me after all?”

Lothiriel had a hard time keeping a straight face when she tried to picture Elphir’s expression on being informed that she had decided not to marry the King of Rohan and that she wished to return to Dol Amroth. She cocked her head to one side as if carefully considering Éomer’s words.

“Yes.”

Almost before she knew it she was swept up into his arms again and laughingly deposited on the bed. The sheets were a mess and he solved the problem by simply sweeping them all aside. Then he hesitated.

“Wait there,” he ordered her with a grin, “I’ve just remembered something.”

She turned over onto her stomach and watched in puzzlement as he crossed the room and bolted the door to the anteroom. Where did he think she would go anyway?

“Just a precaution,” he remarked, “I do not intend to be interrupted again. Not by my sister, not by your brothers or anybody else. We have all night. In fact it’s bad luck for a newly wedded couple to get up before noon.”

Was he serious? Lothiriel got the feeling he might well be. “I didn’t know that.”

“Maybe Forthred did not tell you all of our customs.” Éomer was indecently amused again.

He watched her lying on the bed and his gaze was like a warm caress against her skin. Boldly she looked back, making no attempt to cover her nakedness. Where had she found this self-assurance? All her previous nervousness had gone and instead she was filled with delicious anticipation.

Still holding her eyes with his own Éomer crossed back to the bed and slowly shed his robe. Her eyes widened slightly, but she moved over to make space for him and when he lay down next to her, she moved into the embrace of his arms with the unselfconscious grace of a bird taking flight. Éomer closed his eyes and simply breathed in the scent of her, that heady mixture of perfume, the wine they had shared earlier on and something else that he could not have named, but that was uniquely hers and that he would have recognized anywhere and anytime. She sighed contentedly as she nestled closer, her bare skin warm and incredibly soft against his own. At that moment Éomer could finally accept that he had indeed been given his heart’s desire.

Lothiriel tentatively ran a hand across the smooth muscles of his chest, crisscrossed with old scars. She could feel the rapid beating of his heart under her fingers and the way he tensed in reaction to her caress. His skin was burning hot to her touch and she could not quite believe her own reckless audacity when she reached up and buried her hands in his long golden hair, pulling him down to meet his lips with her own. I want to be closer, she thought and arched her whole body against him, making him draw in his breath sharply. When she looked up and met his eyes they weren’t blue in the flickering firelight, they were midnight black and seemed to devour her.

“I need you so much,” he whispered.

“I need you too,” she replied, “I want to be yours…completely.”

Tonight in this space they weren’t king and queen or husband and wife, they were just Éomer and Lothiriel, claiming and being claimed in equal measure. Lothiriel did not take her aunt’s advice or Éowyn’s either, instead she met passion with passion and gave herself without any reservation. Before the night was over the world outside their chamber ceased to exist and they found laughter, joy and breathless fulfilment in each other’s arms.

And comparing the experience to a toothache definitely did not do it justice.

Epilogue

Éomer had always had the ability of being instantly alert on waking up, a skill that had saved his life more than once. This morning, the first thing he noticed was that he was cold, then he became aware of the fact that there was actually one pleasantly warm spot along his left side. Hardly daring to breathe he slowly turned his head and there she was, his beautiful wife, still fast asleep and curled up tightly against him. It also became clear to him why he was so cold, for she had somehow managed to wrap all the blankets snugly around herself, leaving him with none. Her head was resting on his shoulder and when he instinctively tightened his hold on her she muttered something in her sleep and nestled closer. Éomer trailed a hand across her temple in wonder, marvelling at the silken feeling of her skin. The events of the last night came back to him in a rush and it took considerable willpower on his part not to start kissing her then and there, but he thought she might not appreciate being woken up by him twice in a row. Although she hadn’t complained, had she.

Éomer closed his eyes and just enjoyed the extraordinary feeling of well-being sweeping through him. She was so incredibly warm and soft against him and her intoxicating smell enveloped him like it had done last night. It still was difficult to believe that Lothiriel was here to stay and that he would actually wake up next to her many times in the future.

He did not really want to get up, but finally he firmly squashed temptation and eased himself out of the bed. With a last regretful look at his wife he picked up his discarded robe, wrapped it around himself and had a quick look out the window. The sun had already risen in a cloudless sky, so the morning was getting on. When he turned round again he found her watching him sleepily as if his mere absence from her side had woken her.

“Good morning, ladylove.”

Lothiriel gave a slow smile and brushed her tousled hair from her face. “Good morning.”

Then she gave a huge yawn and stretched lazily like a cat, causing Éomer to wonder if his innocent little wife even knew what she was doing to him. A moment later he noticed a glint in those green eyes and realized that maybe she wasn’t quite so innocent anymore.

He crossed back over to the bed and sat down on the edge, reminding himself firmly that only barbarians pounced on their wives before they even had a chance to wake up properly. He could not stop from claiming a slow kiss, though, savouring the touch of her soft lips. My wife, he thought, well and truly now.

“Any regrets?” he asked teasingly.

“Yes…” She cast him an impish smile. “…I should have talked you into abducting me five months ago, when we had the chance back in Dol Amroth.”

He laughed out loud. “Maybe it’s better you didn’t. I would not have taken much persuading at all.”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly and they both started laughing.

“I know it’s bad luck to get up before noon,” she said slightly sheepishly, “but what about breakfast?”

“I will get it soon,” he promised, “but you realize you will have to earn it, now that you are married to a barbarian from the Northlands?”

“I will? How?” She lowered her eyes demurely. No, definitely not so innocent anymore.

He grinned. “With a kiss…for now.”

And after claiming his reward he got up to speak to the guard in the corridor who sent a page running to the kitchen. In a surprisingly short time there was a soft knock on the door and Hergyth came in, carrying a tray heavily laden with all kinds of food, which she set on the table. Lothiriel had already disappeared into the bathing room, trailing the sheets behind her, but Éomer did not miss the quick satisfied look the old woman cast around the room before he was able to shoo her out again.

He shook his head at the amount of food Hergyth had brought for them. She must think they were starving! There was a basket full of small rolls of bread with butter, two bowls of porridge, boiled eggs, slices of ham, a large chunk of cheese and two mugs of steaming tea. To top it all off, there was a plate full of nut and honey cakes as well. It definitely looked like his wife had made friends in the kitchen and Éomer was glad, for the rest of the servants would follow the old cook’s lead. He had no doubt that Lothiriel would manage to take the reins of the household into her capable hands and he was ready to back her up, but if that wasn’t necessary, so much the better.

When his wife rejoined him he noted with some interest that while she had brushed out her hair and braided it, she had not yet dressed, but had only donned her crimson robe again. Quickly he caught her in an embrace, giving her another kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” he said and his hands involuntarily wandered up her sleeves towards those very tempting ribbons.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she laughed, slipping away from him, “I’m hungry!”

So am I…

Lothiriel lifted her eyebrows when she saw the table. “All this food just for us? And there’s only one chair.”

Éomer had in fact spotted this earlier on and had briefly considered getting another one from his study, but only briefly. Now he gave a little shrug and held out his hand to her.

“I’m afraid, we’ll just have to make do.”

She accepted his hand and let herself be led over to the table.

“Don’t tell me the King of Rohan has only got one chair,” she teased him, but settled onto his lap quite willingly when he pulled her down.

He handed her a mug of tea. “Didn’t you know you’ve married a pauper?”

“And here I was looking forward to my Morning Gift,” she sighed.

Éomer grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it later on today.”

“What is it anyway?” Lothiriel asked curiously, “or aren’t I supposed to know?”

He wasn’t about to spoil the surprise. “Oh, just a few horses,” he said with

a shrug.

She nodded in apparent satisfaction. “Anyway, I’ve had my gift already.”

“And what was that?” he asked, puzzled.

Lothiriel gave him a shy smile. “Your heart.”

At her words his arms tightened around her waist and when she glanced up at him, Lothiriel could feel her insides melt deliciously in anticipation. The lion was back again.

“You’ve had it for a long time now, my lady,” he said huskily and she quickly turned away and picked up a roll of bread. It was still slightly disconcerting what he could do to her with a mere look or a soft word, and when he trailed a finger down her spine she had difficulties concentrating on her food. It was an alarming feeling and her only consolation was the fact that she suspected she had a similar effect on him.

Involuntarily her mind went back to their first meeting in Minas Tirith and the terrible row they had had after the archery contest. Had somebody told her then that she would be married to the King of Rohan in less than a year, she would never have believed it. Suddenly she grinned.

“So tell me,” she challenged him mischievously, “are you still feeling sorry for the man who would marry me?”

Ready laughter sprang into his eyes as he remembered the words he had uttered so many months ago. “I pity him,” Éomer replied seriously, “he won’t have another quiet moment in his life.”

“I’ll make you pay for that!” Lothiriel exclaimed in mock anger.

“Please do…” he replied and bent to kiss the nape of her neck, sending a tingling feeling all through her. She gave a contented sigh and leant back into his embrace.

After a moment Lothiriel picked up her bread again. She had been so nervous last night that she had eaten hardly anything at all at the evening meal and as a result was rather hungry. He was making it difficult though, although it was a mystery to her why simply undoing her long braid should feel so sensuous. It was probably the awareness of what those hands could do to her that chased a pleasurable shiver down her back at his lightest touch.

“Would you like something to eat, too?” she asked, trying to distract him.

“Yes…” he replied, his hands still busy.

“Éomer!” she exclaimed, trying hard to suppress her laughter, “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he replied, but he desisted and suffered her to feed him a piece of bread.

“Do you always have such a lavish breakfast?” she asked motioning at the spread before them.

“Not usually,” he admitted, “Hergyth must think we’re in need of sustenance. Generally I just get a large portion of porridge, the same as my men.”

Lothiriel nodded. “It’s the same back home in Dol Amroth.” Then she stopped abruptly, realizing what she’d just said.

“That is not to say…” her voice petered off and she made a helpless gesture with one hand.

His eyes had grown serious. “Don’t worry, dear heart. I know it will take a while for you to think of Meduseld as your home, but I know you’ll be happy here.”

“Oh, I will!” She was as certain of that as she had ever been of anything in her life.

Éomer put his hands on her shoulders and she could feel the warmth of them through the thin silk. “It’s not like you won’t ever see your family again. We could go to Minas Tirith for the midsummer fair. It should be a lot more enjoyable, now that I have you along to protect me from the fair ladies of Gondor.”

She laughed. “That sounds nice. There are some members of my family I won’t miss all that much anyway.”

He turned her towards him and cupped her face between his fingers. “Even so, you know you can go back to Dol Amroth to visit them anytime you want to.”

Lothiriel sighed theatrically. “I knew it! You are tired of me already and are trying to get rid of me.”

His arms tightened around her. “Never!” he exclaimed and pulled her closer. Lothiriel found that she had lost all appetite for her breakfast.

“I’m not that easy to get rid of anyway,” she said with a smile and buried her fingers in his long thick hair, “I’ll stick to you like a limpet.”

Éomer had no idea what a limpet was, but he wasn’t about to enquire when his wife was so deliciously eager to be one.

“I just want you to be happy,” he whispered, “You will tell me if you ever want to go home?”

Lothiriel smiled up at him. “I am home already,” she said.

Éowyn watched with hidden amusement how Imrahil was drumming his fingers on the table while making polite conversation with Aragorn. She suspected it was all he could do to keep from pacing the hall. The prince looked like he had not slept particularly well as he sat at one of the big wooden tables, long since cleared of the breakfast dishes. He was flanked on either side by his sons, Elphir looking his usual grumpy self and Amrothos just sitting there cradling his head with both hands. The youngest of Lothiriel’s brothers had not said a word so far this morning, only refusing breakfast with a nauseated look. Éowyn could not find it in herself to feel sorry for him, though. He should have known better than to indulge in a drinking contest with an elf and a dwarf.

Once more Prince Imrahil’s glance wandered to the door leading to the private quarters of the King and Queen of Rohan. He was clearly thinking what was taking them so long, although he must surely have a pretty good idea. Éowyn’s eyes met Aragorn’s for an instant and they exchanged an amused smile.

At that moment the door opened and in came Éomer and Lothiriel. The new Queen of the Mark was dressed for riding in a simple yet elegant green tunic complemented by buckskin breeches and her face seemed to glow from within as she entered the hall on her husband’s arm.

As for Éomer, he looked so carefree and relaxed that it almost came as a shock to Éowyn to realize how long it had been since she had last seen him like that. Privately she congratulated herself. She had rightfully thought that nothing more could go wrong and now found that belief confirmed.

Prince Imrahil had jumped up at the entrance of his daughter and was given a light kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning, father,” Lothiriel said cheerfully before dispensing kisses to her brothers as well.

Éomer clapped Amrothos on the back, causing him to wince. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long?” he enquired solicitously.

“Not at all, my friend,” Aragorn drawled, “come and join us for the midday meal.”

Indeed the servants had just started to bring in the dishes for a light lunch and with a nod Éomer sat down at their table, pulling Lothiriel down to sit beside him. A ripple ran through the Dol Amroth party when he put his arm around her waist and she snuggled up to him. Elphir even opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it after a single mild look from Éomer. Of course no self respecting Gondorian noble would ever be seen in public with his arm around his wife – with the notable exception of Éowyn’s own husband – but she suspected they had better get used to the sight. Why, Éomer seemed hardly able to keep his hands off his wife and had that look on his face like the cat that got the cream.

The Queen of Rohan rubbed her hands together. “I’m starving,” she announced. “I didn’t have much breakfast,” she added with a sideways glance at her husband who grinned back at her unabashed.

Elphir stared at his sister as if unsure how to interpret her words and she gave him that deceptively sweet smile of hers. “Dear brother,” she said, “aren’t you eating? We don’t want our guests to go hungry.”

Not waiting for an answer she turned to her other brother and passed him a glass of wine to drink, an offer that was received with a soft groan. Then she started on her food with a hearty appetite, fondly watched by her husband.

Imrahil looked taken aback at this self-assured young woman. Éowyn had always suspected that while the Prince of Dol Amroth dearly loved his only daughter, he did not know her very well. Clearly he was in for some more surprises, but then he would probably not be the only one. Life in Meduseld might well prove to be eventful and unpredictable from now on, she thought - not that her brother seemed to mind.

The rest of the meal was spent with inconsequential chatter about the continuation of the festivities. Éowyn, Arwen and Aragorn did most of the talking, while Imrahil sat deep in thought and the newly wedded couple was mostly wrapped up in each other.

Afterwards the whole party got up to go outside to witness the presentation of Éomer’s Morning Gift to his queen, which would take place on the fields outside the walls of Edoras. When Éowyn saw her brother lovingly wrap a cloak around his wife’s shoulders she thought of her own husband with a distinct pang. Due to the uncertain situation on their southern border Faramir had not been able to leave Ithilien to come to the wedding and she missed him fiercely. Surely it would soon be time to return home. She was not needed here anymore, after all.

Outside the snow had nearly all melted away, giving way to green grass again and while the sun was still weak, it was shining in a clear sky and the days would grow longer from now on. Lothiriel paused at the top of the steps for a moment, a gust of wind streaming out her black hair like a banner behind her. She looked down to where Beda was waiting for them holding Firefoot’s and Nightwind’s reins, across the thatched roofs of Edoras and beyond that, where the grassy plains of the Mark stretched into the distance until they merged with the sky. Her home now.

Then her eyes were suddenly drawn upwards. She grabbed her husband’s arm.

“Look, Éomer!” she exclaimed and he followed her glance.

High above them, two falcons were circling lazily, riding the updrafts generated by the sun warming the rocky slopes of the White Mountains. Soon they were no more than a couple of tiny black specks in the immense vastness of the blue sky.

“That’s a rare sight,” he remarked, “mûmakil in the Riddermark.”

The King and Queen of the Mark shared a conspiratorial grin before going to meet their people.

FINI

First and foremost I would like to thank my wonderful beta Cúthalion. Also many thanks to all my readers and reviewers! Thank you very much for coming with me on this journey! By now there are also a couple of oneshots leading on from this: Revenge is a dish best served cold and Not the usual stakes.

And if you want to read more of my writing, there are other Éomer & Lothíriel stories of mine on this site, or you can find my original stories on Amazon, iBooks, Kobo, Scribd, etc. by searching for ‘Lia Patterson’:

Wind Weaver (out in June 2022)

Daughter of Wolves (free on iBooks, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords)

Elephant Thief

Bride to the Sun