Éomer King?

No, not yet! First he had to escort Théoden King’s cortege home to Edoras and to see to it that the Lord of the Mark was laid to rest in honour, to enter the halls of his forefathers in dignity.

Éomer stood alone on top of one of the fortified towers which were integrated into the great wall protecting the seventh level of the White City. It faced Mount Mindolluin and from here he could see the domes of Rath Dínen. His uncle had been lying in state inside the Tombs of Kings ever since the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Éomer had only returned last night, with the Royal Guard of Edoras, to claim the body of their Lord and escort him home.

Théoden King.

He had not known another liege. His loyalty, his devotion and his love had always belonged to this King, even when Théoden had been reduced to being the Ghost of Meduseld. Often he asked himself if he and Théodred should have broken free earlier. Broken free from their love for their father and uncle, broken free from their oath to their Lord. The Lord who had not been any longer in control of his own free will. Too long had they neglected the oath they had taken to the Land and their responsibility towards their people. When they had realized that they had to stay true to Rohan and Rohan alone; it had been almost too late. The Wizard of Isengard had already unleashed his forces. His creatures were already hard on the hunt. To slay Théodred and Éomer, that was what Saruman had most desired. To destroy the House of Eorl; and then the people of Rohan would perish.

And now here he was; the last of the male descendants of Eorl. The first of a new line of kings. Now the responsibility for the Rohirrim was his. It was his fate, his destiny, to rebuild his tortured land and to lead his suffering people. It wasn’t something he had expected or wanted. It was not a matter of choice. It was his duty and he couldn’t ever imagine shying away from duty. If he had learnt one thing from his uncle, then it was that being king was not a privilege. Being king meant to be first a servant to the land and to the people.

Being a marshal, a captain of an éored meant that an error of judgment, a wrong decision, could endanger the life of many riders. An error of judgment by a king, a king’s wrong decision, meant the suffering and possible death of many thousands. He did not fear, he did not loath what fate had bestowed upon him. It was his belief that certain things in life simply had to be accepted as facts. Whatever task, whatever responsibility would be imposed upon him, he had to do his best to take it on. He had been born with the blood of warriors in his veins. He had been brought up to be a warrior. He would lead his people as he had led his riders: focused on what lay before them.

Éomer turned his gaze from the resting places of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, leaning his back against the pillar which supported the roof of the tower. He crossed his arms over his chest and let his eyes wander over the lush gardens of the Citadel towards Merethrond where a feast was about to begin, a feast in honour of the departed and of the future King of Rohan. An honour he could do without.

Dusk had barely begun to fall, but the great feast hall had already been lit by hundreds of candles and torches. It had been a hot day, and it was going to be a warm night. This bright lighting would turn the great hall into an oven. Being used all year around to the changeable weather and cooling winds on the plains, Éomer was not particularly fond of the heat. What made it worse was the Gondorians’ habit of dousing themselves with all kind of scents. If it were just one fragrance used by all. But no, everybody seemed to pride themselves of having their very own perfume. It would make an awful mixture, and in the overheated hall, it would give him a splitting headache. Bema, these nobles hardly worked up any sweat. Could they not just bathe in clear water?

Suddenly he heard footsteps coming closer. He saw a tall, lean man walking through the gardens. Dark, formal clothing; dark, well-groomed hair; a confident, easy stride: his soon-to-be brother, Faramir, Steward of Gondor.

Éomer crossed his legs at his ankles and kept his stance. Putting his trademark frown on his face, he watched motionless as the other man climbed up the narrow steps to the platform. Coming face to face with the Gondorian, he saw Faramir hesitate. It had worked again! For some reason he could not for his life understand, he seemed to have the ability to intimidate the Steward without any effort. Did Faramir fear he would reverse his consent to the bond with Éowyn? He could do so easily as long as the betrothal had not been made official. As if he would! As if he could! Éowyn would have his head, or at least make his life no longer worth living. And there was no reason why this noble man should not wed his sister. If he had any doubt about this union, then he only had to look at the difference in Éowyn. He loved his sister more than any other being alive, or anything else including his own life, but he was not blind to her shortcomings. Steadiness had never been one of Éowyn’s stronger traits.

Approaching him, Faramir bowed his head in greeting.

“Éomer King.”

Not yet! The two words nearly escaped his mouth, but he recovered and answered with a slight bow of his own head. “Steward.”

Saying nothing else, he retained his rigid posture, directing an inscrutable gaze towards the other man. He saw uncertainty creep into those honest grey eyes. Good! He was forced to spend an unpleasant evening in the company of all those nobles of Gondor. It was only justified to have his retaliation by torturing this one, at least a little bit.

Éomer raised his eyebrows, indicating that he was waiting for the Steward to state his business. Lord Faramir cleared his throat.

“King Elessar asked me to inform you, my Lord, that soon he and his Queen will make their way to Merethrond, where they wish to greet you as their guest of honour.”

“In other words, Aragorn sent you as my chaperon. To escort me, because he fears that otherwise I may not turn up.”

“Ahhh . . .” The Steward of Gondor was not somebody to contradict truth when it was spoken.

With one of his abrupt movements that tended to startle people, Éomer pushed himself from the pillar and headed towards the stairs.

“Well, in that case, what are you waiting for?” he barked back over his shoulder, still happily venting his grumpy mood on his victim.

The Rohír descended from the tower, the Steward following him as he led the way through the gardens. The two men moved very differently. The rider displayed the same direct aggressiveness and powerful grace that could be found in one of Rohan’s great stallions: a creature of the wide plains. Nobody would want to get into his way. The stealthy strides of the ranger were light-footed and fluid, showing the elegance of a born dancer.

Complying with Gondorian customs, Faramir strode a couple of steps behind the King. They hadn’t made it fifty yards when Éomer beckoned him to walk up.

“Walk beside me,” he ordered gruffly. “I do not like others than my own riders moving behind my back.”

“Are you afraid I may stab you in the back or hit you over the head?”

At last! There was more than a hint of annoyance in the Steward’s usually even tone.

Éomer stopped so abruptly that it took Faramir another three steps before he came to a halt. Éomer turned around to face his companion.

“I would not recommend either.” The King’s voice was suspiciously friendly. “No matter how much my sister may love you, I have considerable doubt that she would forgive you for bringing any harm upon her dear brother.”

He continued his pace and this time Faramir caught up with him. From the corner of his eyes Éomer could see a smile tugging at his chaperon’s mouth. Well, he didn’t want him to become too comfortable yet. He had to keep him on his toes for a while. Again he halted his steps, forcing the Steward to another stop and turn. Éomer cherished the fact that his habit of moving unexpectedly and abruptly seemed to irritate the people around here. Just as his direct speech seemed to irritate them.

“Do you love my sister?”

Faramir didn’t have the chance to get out more than a baffled “Ehhh” before the King carried on.

“Well, you had better. My sister is someone very special. You should always remember that, and if you value your skin, you will treat her as the treasure she is.”

Faramir looked thoroughly stunned for the moment and blinked twice. Where had he seen that habit before? Éomer shoved that thought back where it came from and continued his speech with some force.

“But while Éowyn may be a treasure, she is not easy. I will be the first one to admit this. There are not many men who can match with her, and if she is trapped into a bond with someone who does not appreciate her  . . . unique personality, she will be miserable.” His tone became low and threatening. “If you do not make my sister happy and content, then you will not be happy. I will see to it myself.”

Finally Faramir gathered his wits.

“If the Lady Éowyn were not happy at my side then I would never be able to forgive myself. I do love her. Unconditionally.”

“Good!” Éomer replied, all friendliness and good cheer. “I have never had any doubts about it.”

It was easy to read the older man’s face. At the moment he harboured not just a few doubts of his own regarding the King’s sanity. Éomer laughed out loud. It was something he very rarely did, but when he did, the sound carried far and made people jump.

“Faramir, believe me, I am very glad my sister found you. It is a great relief to know that you will take care of her. She would dispute that she needs somebody to take care of her, but she does so, very badly. And I am satisfied that it will be you.” He laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I have given you my consent and I am not going to take it back. So stop looking at me as if I might explode. I do occasionally, but so far you have not given me any reason to. – And now let us join this fair assembly.”

He turned once more towards the great hall.

“Éomer!” Faramir stopped him. He grinned the grin of a very happy man. “Thank you for letting me have her.”

“Thank you, brother!” the King replied. “For loving her.” And then he added in a wry tone: “And relieving Rohan of at least one problem.”

The two men chuckled comradely together and headed across the wide terrace surrounding Merethrond towards one of the wide open doors along the side of the building. They stopped just outside and threw a glance at the spectacle in front of them. Uncountable people, men and women, most of them dressed up in ridiculously lavish garments, moved without any goal or purpose up and down the hall between the tables already set for the feast.

The Great Feast Hall of Minas Tirith was a huge and impressive construction of white stone and marble. It had an almost skeletal structure, vertically emphasizing its extreme height. On the inside, along each of both long sides of the hall, cluster pillars supported a high, ribbed vault. Between the pillars three steps led up from the main floor to a walkway, and from there high and wide doors gave access to the terraces and gardens. Even decorated with the banners of Gondor and Rohan, lit by hundreds of candles and torches and filled with a chattering crowd, the hall was not welcoming but off-putting. At least that was what Rohan’s King felt.

“Fair assembly, indeed,” Éomer muttered. “How many are there?”

“About five hundred. Just the nearest and dearest,” Faramir answered highly amused by the open disdain written all over his companion’s face.

“Bema,” the young king groaned and took a step back. “Give me Orcs.”

Over Faramir’s laughter they didn’t hear another man approaching.

“Greetings to the King. Are you two trying to creep in or out?”

Éomer turned his head towards the lazy voice. Out of the blue a young man had appeared at their side: Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth. Or at least he thought that it was him. Imrahil’s sons all looked vexingly alike, and he couldn’t be sure. From a distance they were practically indistinguishable. All three were the same height, the same build and had the same bone structure. They had the same olive skin, the same dark brown hair and the same dark brown eyes, but their individual expressions were different. It was easier to tell them apart when they were lined up. Elphir, the eldest, whom he had met only once, looked deadly serious, even a bit pompous. Erchirion always looked as if he were amused by everything and everyone, and the youngest, Amrothos, had this deliberate look of innocence plastered all over his handsome features. Yes, this one must be Amrothos.

“Prince Amrothos,” he greeted with a slight delay.

“Ah!” The prince grinned winningly. “You did figure it out!” He tilted his head to the side.

“Cousin.”

Faramir answered with a friendly smile: “Cousin.”

“As much as I regret having to sever this pleasant togetherness, when I arrived I met Mablung looking for you, cousin dearest.”

Faramir seemed to be used to the speech pattern of the youngest of the Princes of Dol Amroth.

“Did he mention what he needs me for?”

“He only said he wishes to speak to you before he sets out for Ithilien before next dawn.”

“Where will I find him?”

“He is lurking around the fountain, eyeing the sapling suspiciously.”

At this Faramir actually rolled his eyes, but his face sported a grin when he turned towards Éomer.

“I hope you do not mind, if I leave you on your own.”

“Not at all.” Éomer waved a hand at him and added generously: “Go and make your escape.”

“Oh, he is not going to be on his own,” Amrothos assured his cousin. “I will stay with Éomer King.”

“Now, that is a threat if I have ever heard one,” was Faramir’s wry comment before he left to find the Captain of his Rangers.

“Would you like to get some wine?” the Prince asked conversationally, leaning against the door panel.

“Not if it means I have to go inside.”

“Well, you cannot skulk around the threshold all the time.”

“At least as long as possible.”

Amrothos let his eye fall on the heaving crowd in front of them.

“Good notion, probably,” he said jovially. “It is rather hot and smelly in there.”

Éomer didn’t see any reason for an additional confirmation, but he turned his head slightly towards the Dol Amroth Prince and took a deep breath through his nose. No abominable scent here.

“I do not use any fragrances myself.” The young prince bestowed one of his cocky smiles upon him. “I do not wish to compromise certain ladies by leaving anything which might make spouses suspicious.”

“How considerate,” Éomer murmured.

“And while we are talking about certain ladies,” the Prince went on, ignoring the King’s gaze, which should have told him that the Rohír had no intention in expanding on this subject, “I would like to take the opportunity to mention the Lady Cuillwen.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Anybody who knew the King of Rohan well would have balked at his tone and certainly ceased to pursue that particular subject. Éomer was certainly not willing to discuss a past liaison in the middle of a feast hall. The Prince, however, went on, blissfully unaware that his health was in acute danger.

“Are you still interested?”

“What makes you ask?” Éomer’s voice had dropped to a low growl, which didn’t seem to impress the Prince at all.

“Well, I am quite partial to that lady myself, but I would not dream of getting into the way of a king.”

That earned him no answer but a dark frown. But Amrothos of Dol Amroth was not somebody who gave up easily.

“So, is she still of any concern to you?”

“No!”

“No?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No.”

How Imrahil had managed to beget this son was beyond him. On the other hand, Éomer had seen him fight at Morannon. He was skilled, he was ruthless, he was a fierce warrior. Why he chose to camouflage it behind this annoying and ever-jovial facade was hard to comprehend. Fortunately, he had very few dealings with this Prince.

“I will inform her,” Amrothos said with a pleased tone in his voice.

“Do that,” Éomer encouraged. “And do it without delay.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes!”

“You are not exactly subtle.”

“No,” Éomer admitted, “but then I rarely am. It is a skill one must be born with, and I am afraid the Rohirrim are not.”

“That is what I do, too.”

“Do what?”

“Blame any of my shortcomings on my heritage.”

“Do they have dungeons at Minas Tirith?”

“Yes, very extensive ones. Not very comfortable. Why do you ask?”

“I am thinking about begging Aragorn to throw you into one until after I have left.”

“How very unkind of you.”

“Right now I am not inclined to be kind.”

And he was contemplating becoming even more unkind. How far could he go without seriously damaging his friendship with Prince Imrahil? If he were the Prince he wouldn’t mind somebody smothering this particular offspring and burying the remains someplace remote. He had expected the feast to become rather displeasing; he hadn’t expected additional torture in form of this pain in the neck.

Before Amrothos could go on prattling inanities, Éomer’s saviour came in sight, in the form of Lord Elfhelm. The Marshal, as tall and broad-shouldered as his King, made his way through the overcrowded feast hall without any delays. Before his focused, direct stride everybody just moved out of his path. Since he had been placed into his care at the age of sixteen, Éomer had admired this humble man with his quiet humour and held him in high esteem. Ten years his senior, the young captain of an éored had never hesitated to grab the King’s nephew by his neck and shake some sense into him, whenever he had felt it was necessary. Whatever skill Éomer had on horseback or with his sword and spear, in his opinion he owed it to Elfhelm. There was hardly a man in Rohan he trusted or respected more.

And though the Marshal knew quite well how his King felt towards him, he would have been more than surprised had Éomer, at his approach, given in to the urge to throw his arms around him in relief. But it must have shown quite clearly on his face, because Amrothos shot him a lopsided grin.

“The Marshal to the rescue.”

“That is what marshals do: rescue their kings.”

Hearing this last comment of his liege, Elfhelm looked slightly confused. The Prince just giggled – were grown men suppose to giggle? – bowed his greetings and left. The Marshal looked after him.

“Did I drive him away?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“He is a bit nerve-racking,” the Marshal offered.

“A bit nerve-racking?” Éomer snorted in a very un-kingly way. “Your arrival saved him. My fist was just about to lose its battle with my brain, with his Highness’ face emerging as the conflict’s primary casualty.”

“You know, Éomer . . . King.” Éomer grinned at his friend’s late addition of his title. “There was a time when you spoke in plain sentences.”

“Well, if you wish so, I can do that now. What do you want?”

The eyes of the two men met amicably. Had somebody listened to their gruff tones, they would have assumed they were at odds. But then again, the Gondorians regarded the gutturally-pronounced Rohirric as a rough tongue anyway.

“I went to a meeting with the Warden of the Houses of Healing earlier today,” Elfhelm began, throwing a glance at the assembled nobility of Gondor. “How can they bear wearing all those velvets and brocades in a temperature like this?” he murmured absently-mindedly.

“Perhaps they are used to the heat,” Éomer suggested, “and do not feel it as badly as we do.”

“And why do they use scented candles?” the Marshal went on, taking a sniff with obvious disdain.

His King saw no reason to explain exactly what or rather who was scented. His friend would find out soon enough.

“Elfhelm, you were going to tell me about your meeting with the Healers’ Warden. Is there a problem? Can we not take the last of our wounded home with us?”

“No, all sixty one are going to come with us, but about two dozen will not be able to go on horseback.”

“Then we shall provide other means of transport,” Éomer decided. “That should easily be achieved. I will talk to . . .”

Something on his friend’s face made the King pause in mid-sentence.

“Elfhelm, what is it?”

There was no doubt that the Marshal didn’t like what he was going to say.

“These men . . . these twenty three men . . . They will never be able to ride again. They are cripples.”

Éomer flinched at this word. That was what a rider feared most. Not death, but being crippled. He turned on his heel and stepped out onto the terrace, looking towards the darkened gardens. In the back of his mind he could hear a clear voice: “. . . permanently disabled in battle.” His beautiful, big-eyed healer had used a much more elegant description. But the fact remained. These twenty three men would never ride again. Only the Rohirrim were able to comprehend what that meant.

Elfhelm had followed his King, watching him with some concern. Éomer turned his head towards the older man.

“Have you seen them?”

“Yes, I have. Considering the situation and the future they may face, they are in amazingly good spirits. I say it is thanks to the healer in whose care they have been placed. She is a lady of strong convictions, who feels every life is worth living.”

“As long as there is something in it worth living for,” Éomer put in a tight voice. “Who are these men?”

“All of them are herdsmen. They belong to the éoreds from the East-Emnet, which attacked the right flank of the mûmakil. They were virtually trampled into the ground. From 240 men, only eleven came back more or less unharmed. Twenty three are crippled, the rest are dead. None of their horses survived.”

“Many of them must have had families.”

“Yes, indeed, they must. But I haven’t had the time to go and see them. I know it is my duty as the Marshal of the Eastmark.” Elfhelm eyed his King warily. He had seen this unreadable expression more than once over the past months, and it still made him uneasy.

“Do not apologize, Elfhelm, because there is nothing to apologize for. I know you do more than your best. Nobody can be in the saddle all day and night.  - I should not be here.”

“My Lord Éomer?”

“I should be in Rohan doing my duty to my kinsmen.”

“Soon we will be back at Edoras, my Lord. After we have laid Théoden King to rest, we will do . . . whatever is necessary.”

When his King didn’t give him any reply, Elfhelm tried again, concern in his tone.

“My Lord?”

Éomer just shook his head defensively and kept staring towards the gardens. How could he explain it to Elfhelm? That straightforward warrior wouldn’t understand. He could hardly understand his own feelings; felt ashamed of them, but couldn’t help them nevertheless. He felt he was wasting time in getting a dead man home, instead of being at home and caring and providing for the living. Théoden had died an honourable death and deserved to be laid to rest in honour. Hail the victorious dead! But what about the survivors, the living? What did they deserve? Shouldn’t they come first?

Four more months before winter would claim the plains and valleys of the Mark. Villages in the Westfold and between Isen and Adorn were burnt down, livestock slaughtered, harvest and provisions destroyed. Last autumn he had ordered the herds to be moved out of the East-Emnet, across the Entwash, trying to bring them to safety from the raids of Mordor. Now grass and forage cereal were in short supply in the Eastfold and they had to be moved back. But who was going to do that? The herdsmen had suffered great losses. Who would be caring for their herds in the future, the cherished horses without which the Rohirrim couldn’t exist?

He had to find a way to rebuild the villages, but Rohan was short of woods and therefore short of timber. And no harvest meant no straw for thatching. No harvest and no livestock meant no food. He had to find a solution; he had to find a way to secure the survival of his people over the coming winter. But he wouldn’t find this solution at a feast in Minas Tirith or beside a caisson with a coffin on the road to Edoras.

He blamed Théoden! He blamed his uncle for, even in death, keeping him once again from doing what he felt was the right and urgent deed. And yet, what he did was what was expected of him: taking Théoden King home. It was important for his people, an act of great symbolism. The end of an era and the beginning of a new one. Right now they might need this, but, when the winter came, they would need food and shelter even more. And then their new King would have wasted time, even though he had known better. A king had to serve first and foremost his land and his people; if necessary against their inclinations. And here he had already failed: he was not doing what he knew was right, but what was expected of him. Therefore, it was not Théoden who was to blame, but him. If he failed, he alone was to blame.

For someone who knew Éomer as a man always in motion, it was a rather worrying sight, watching him standing for such a long time on one spot, immobile, staring out into the gardens, seeing obviously nothing.

Elfhelm cleared his throat several times. Finally his King turned around, his eyes only slowly recovering from their empty vacant look.

“Is there anything else, Elfhelm?” There was an echo of resignation in his voice, as if he expected another axe to fall.

The Marshal began to wish somebody else had been sent to the Houses of Healing. This could become a bit embarrassing, and he was not sure how the King was going to take it.

“As you may know, the Warden is not only in charge of the healers but also of the midwives of Minas Tirith.”

“I did not know, but how does it concern us anyway?” Éomer looked a bit puzzled.

Elfhelm decided to try the direct approach.

“I do not know how to tell you this, but the healer present at our meeting had found a rather simple way to put it: early next year there will be quite a few blond children born.” When he had no immediate response, he added: “Here in Minas Tirith.”

When it finally hit him, Éomer groaned. This was not his day.

“How many are quite a few?”

“So far, less than a hundred. The healer feels that, considering that there were around three thousand Rohirrim in Anorien and Minas Tirith, the number is not that outrageous. And that, with all the lives lost, one should feel blessed for every new life born.”

“That Lady seems to have a very cheerful approach towards life.”

“Well, that is something not to be disputed. And she took very good care of our kinsmen.”

“She took care of our kinsmen?” Éomer stepped closer towards his Marshal. A special memory, always in the fore of his mind, surfaced.

“This healer, is she a young woman? About this size?” He held up his hand to the tip of his nose. “Big grey eyes, looks like a breeze could blow her over?”

“The description fits,” Elfhelm answered. “But I have doubts about the breeze. I had my dealings with her when you left me in charge of securing the City. If she sets her mind on something and digs in her heels, not even a mountain troll could move her.”

“I noticed.” Éomer couldn’t suppress a smile.

“You have met her, too?”

“Yes. She makes quite an impression, does she not?”

That was an understatement. Since that peculiar night at the Houses of Healing, hardly a day had gone by without him thinking of that aggravating and enchanting young healer. Now and then his thoughts about her weren’t exactly chaste; the reason why he hadn’t and wouldn’t seek her out again. And anyway, another obstacle to overcome had just dropped into his path.

“About these children; I will talk to Aragorn. I want to know how the Gondorians will think about Rohirric . . . bastards running around in their city. I do not want them growing up stigmatized. We have to look after them.” He ran both hands over his face. “And I want you, Elfhelm, to try to find out who the fathers are.”

Suddenly a thought hit him.

“Bema, I hope none of these children were conceived without consent!”

“The Warden didn’t mention any violations.”

“Nowadays I am grateful for small favours.”

The Marshal wasn’t given the chance of a reply because a booming voice bellowed across the terrace. Anybody who had already gone to sleep in the White City should be awake again. A short, square figure with enough facial hair to provide for at least two Mearas shot towards the men and threw both arms around the King’s mid-section, pressing the air out of his lungs with a loud gasp.

“There you are, lad. Feared you might have beaten it.”

With some effort Éomer was able to free one of his arms and patted the Dwarf on his shoulder.

“Gimli, it is good to see you again.”

“And you! And you!”

Gimli set Éomer free and grabbed the hand of the Marshal, pumping his arm.

“Marshal Elfhelm! Good to see you, too.”

“The pleasure is on my side, Master Gimli,” the Rohír replied with a deep, honest smile on his face. “And when can we expect you at Glaemscrafu?”

“Soon, soon!” the Dwarf droned, turning back to Éomer. “But first you have to come with me, lad.” With these words he grabbed the King’s wrist and dragged the man behind him. That was certainly a sight to behold. The short Dwarf pulling the tall Rohír along, having him stumbling over his feet, his entire body pulled into a diagonal line with his shoulders decidedly in front of the rest of him.

“Gimli, what is it?” he called out, annoyed, over his Marshal’s loud laughter. With some difficulty he regained his footing and thanks to his much longer legs caught up with his friend’s pace.

“Should we not at least try to enter the hall with some dignity?”

“Aragorn is on his way with his Queen, who you have yet to meet. Also in their company is the Lady of the Light, the incomparable Lady of the Golden Wood.”

“Ah, that explains the enthusiasm,” Éomer muttered.

Fighting beside the Elves had eased his suspicions towards these enigmatic beings. But, even though they were the First Born, he saw absolutely no reason to regard them any differently than the other inhabitants of Middle-earth. Truth be told, this down-to-earth Dwarf or the boisterous Hobbits were more to his liking.

They stopped their lively antics at the top of the three steps down to the hall. At that very moment the Grand Gate on the opposite side of the hall opened and the sound of silver trumpets announced the entrance of King Elessar and his entourage into Merethrond. Five hundred guests bowed reverently. Éomer and Gimli were the only ones remaining standing.

“Do I have to do that, too?” the Dwarf mumbled inside his beard.

“Bow your head when he catches your eye,” Éomer advised. “And you can let go of my hand!”

His wrist was set free. In its place he received an elbow in his ribs.

“What do you think?” Gimli urged. “What do you say?”

“Let me have a moment to observe.”

King Elessar and his dark-haired Queen made their way down the aisle, nodding and smiling their greetings to the nobles curtseying to their liege. They were followed by three elves, a tall ageless female flanked by two males.

In the face of these two woman, one as dark as the other was light, everything else around Éomer went out of focus. Their beauty was too celestial to comprehend, captivating and detached at the same time. It was a beauty one would allow oneself to admire only; to admire as one had to admire a sunset, or a rainbow, or the high and endless starry sky at night. A beauty far removed from one’s reach, inconceivable to touch.

The King of Rohan preferred women to be touchable.

Suddenly he realized that Aragorn had spotted him and Gimli standing on top of the walkway. The High King gave him a smile that was more in his eyes than it was on his features and bowed his head slightly. Éomer answered with a smile and a bow of his own. When Aragorn left his entourage and came towards him, he walked down the three steps to the hall to meet his friends. Not caring about all the eyes watching, they embraced.

“Éomer, brother. It is good to have you back in Minas Tirith, even though this visit is a brief one and caused by a sad event.”

“To see you indeed lessens the ill-feeling I carry for leaving Rohan in this time of its greatest need.”

The former Ranger leaned back and his sharp grey eyes pierced into the multicoloured ones of the younger man. He nodded his grim understanding.

“We will talk tomorrow. Tonight let us enjoy each others company and that of our friends.”

Éomer smiled in agreement.

“Come,” Aragorn said. “Meet my Lady Arwen. Meet my wife.”

With an arm around the Rohír’s shoulders, he guided him to where the other members of his company were waiting. He shoved him, more or less, in front of this heavenly beautiful creature, with a cascade of dark hair down to her waist, eyes the bottomless blue of a mountain lake and the warmest and kindest smile ever bestowed upon him.

“Arwen, I do not have to tell you who this is, for I have spoken of him every day. Meet my brother-in-arms, the Lord of the Mark.”

The Elven Queen of Gondor held out one hand, soft and cool, and Éomer took it and bowed over it.

“Éomer King, at last we meet.”

“My Lady Queen, it fills my heart with a deep joy that my friend’s greatest desire has been fulfilled.”

“That joy we share, Lord of the Mark. And now allow me the honour of introducing you to my kin. Meet my grandparents and my father.”

It was a rather strange concept for Éomer to have three generations of one family looking all the same age. After having bowed over the hand of the Lady of the Golden Wood, he looked up to study her face with the same scrutiny he gave all new faces. Her features were youthful, but her eyes were old and wise and knowledgeable . . . and mischievous?

After having exchanged respectful and wordless greetings with the Lords Celeborn and Elrond, he was about to turn back towards the King and Queen of Gondor when someone spoke to him.

“Do not fear. You will take good care of your people, Éomer King.”

The voice was in his head. And even though he had never before heard it, he just knew it was the Lady of the Golden Wood speaking to him. He looked at her sharply. Did this work the other way around?

“Indeed, it does.” The voice answered, the amusement not hidden. “I can hear your thoughts as clearly as you can hear me.”

Éomer couldn’t avoid the next thought shooting through his head. “A very adept form of communication.”

Galadriel gave a laugh. It was a sound Éomer had never experienced before. He had the feeling that he didn’t hear this laugh with his ears, but it was taken in by his entire body. It was at the same time light and dark, cheerful and grave, airy and heavy, enchanting and sad. It let him feel warm and made him freeze. And then, once more, those age-old, sparkling eyes were on him. This time she spoke out aloud.

“Your future will be wise and blessed, young King.”

He had never felt comfortable with riddles, and he simply couldn’t help his reply.

“That is some prediction to live up to, my Lady. But many years ago I was told that a man will behave wisely once he has exhausted all other alternatives. Does this mean I have already reached that point?”

Galadriel just gave him a friendly and enigmatic smile

“You are still far from all those things you will achieve.”

With that she left, the two Elven Lords following her, taking their leave with a polite nod.

Éomer looked thoroughly puzzled. “Was that some kind of prophecy?”

Arwen just gave him an enigmatic smile of her own. “I think my grandmother was just stating facts.”

“Now I know for sure I am getting a headache,” he groaned.

Both King and Queen laughed. The next moment Éomer received a shove that nearly send him knocking into Aragorn.

“So, now! What do you think?”

“What do I think about what, Gimli?”

Éomer rubbed the small of his back. The Dwarf must have hit him with his fist! Now he had not only a good prospect of a headache, but of a backache, too.

“Well, what do you think about my Lady of Light?” Gimli clarified impatiently. “Is she not incomparable? Is she not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”

Éomer gazed at the Elf, who was pressing her lips together to conceal her . . . smile. – Did elves grin? – And then he looked at Aragorn, who was definitely grinning, raising his eyebrows, obviously looking forward to seeing how the Rohír was going to get out of this.

The King of Rohan eyed his shorter friend with fake surprise.

“Gimli, are you expecting me in all seriousness to praise the beauty of one woman, while another beautiful woman is standing within earshot?”

The Dwarf looked dumbfounded at the Queen, as if he had just become aware of her presence. He made a strangled sort of sound that might have metamorphosed into an actual word, but Éomer went on:

“Nevertheless, I must admit, having been surrounded all my life by lighter-haired females, I feel more touched by dark beauty and therefore must declare that Queen Arwen is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon and her beauty is beyond compare.” He looked down to his, for a change, speechless friend with a mocking challenge in his eyes. “Does this mean, Master Dwarf, that you will send for your axe now and I have to send for my sword?”

Gimli kept staring at Arwen. Then his eyes wandered to Aragorn, then to Éomer, then back to the Queen.

“Well,” he finally rumbled. “Everybody is entitled to his own opinion.”

With that he turned on his heels and marched towards the other end of the hall, probably in search of some ale. The three others tried hard not to laugh as long as he was within earshot.

“He is lovely,” the Queen declared.

“Lovely?” both men asked with one voice, sounding equally perplexed.

“I have never thought I would ever hear a dwarf described as lovely.” Éomer looked at Aragorn, seeking his support, but the King of Gondor just shrugged his shoulders.

“If my wife considers our friend Gimli to be lovely, then he is lovely,” he said with a straight face.

Éomer laughed. “You do have a very good husband, my Lady.”

“I think you are right.” Elves did grin. At least, this one did.

The two Kings and the Queen began chatting about lighter topics, the men trading news of mutual acquaintances. Suddenly Éomer saw Aragorn’s gaze lock on something behind his back. The High King smiled in greeting.

“Prince Imrahil, be welcomed.”

And while the Rohír turned around to make his own greetings, Aragorn went on: “And we are very glad this time you were able to persuade your lovely daughter to join us.”

TBC 

_________________

Just in case someone is wondering why I was keeping on about the Gondorians having an excessive preference for fragrances: that can be put down to something our Chemistry teacher used to tell us. He insisted that a person of the 20^th Century (Yes, I know we are in the 21^st Century, but I left school in 1999) wouldn’t be able to stand the smells of the 11^th Century, while some poor chap from the Middle Ages dropped into our time would probably get seriously ill from all the chemical smells surrounding us.

That reminded me of something I read in Sir Stephen Runciman’s “History of the Crusades”. When the northern knights of the 1^st Crusade arrived in Byzantium, they feared they would suffocate when in company of the heavily scented Byzantines, while the Byzantines felt that the North Europeans simply stank.

Keeping in mind that Tolkien thought about Byzantium (and probably Egypt) when he created the Gondorian society, and that the Rohirrim are often referred to as “Vikings on Horseback” (which I personally like even better than Anglo-Saxons with cavalry) the idea of dropping a “Viking” into “Byzantium” and letting him have a good sniff was just too tempting.

Éomer completed his half turn and the smile he had held for Prince Imrahil abruptly vanished. A young woman had appeared in his vision and he watched her rise from her curtsey to King and Queen. Whatever words had rested on the tip of his tongue, they wouldn’t come out. Somebody must have brought a bucket full of freezing cold water and just thrown it in his face.

At least that was how it felt.

It was her!

The healer!

But also someone entirely different.

Large, slanted eyes; a silver iris circled by a darker ring, long thick lashes, but the deep shadows underneath them were gone. No longer was fatigue engraved around that fine nose and soft mouth. Her skin was no longer grey because of lack of sleep, but flawless and luminescent. The bruises he had put on that elegant jawline and her long neck were gone, as were the tight braids, which had forced her midnight dark hair under that ridiculous veil. Now it was held back by a silver headdress and fell down her back past her waist. Gone also was that shapeless healer’s garb, replaced by some pale blue gown, floating around her and hugging the gentle curves that he had felt when he had pulled her against him. She kept her hands at her side, in the folds of her gown, but he could remember them quite clearly: delicate hands with long slim fingers, tipped by perfectly oval nails. And just by picturing those hands, he could feel their touch again: on his chest; on his leg.

As if they were separated by a heavy panelled door, Imrahil’s voice reached him somehow muffled, introducing Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Not Mistress Lothíriel, the healer, but Princess Lothíriel! And while all he could do was stare, the Princess sank down into a curtsey before him and rose again with this unconventional grace of hers.

He had watched her walking across the lawn in the gardens of the Houses of Healing; watched her moving around in that treatment chamber. Her movements were different from other women. She held herself very upright, the shoulders set back; she was graceful, controlled. Watching her move had made him wonder; made him wonder how it would be to have her in bed, have her beneath him. And just watching her curtseying made him wonder once again . . . and that while her father was standing next to her!

What was the matter with him?

She was Imrahil’s daughter.

This healer, the one he hadn’t been able to get out of his head, turned out to be the daughter of a man whose character and integrity he greatly admired and whose friendship he cherished. One was not supposed to dally with an innocent, as the healer had quite obviously been, but one of the primary rules of friendship was that one did not dally with one’s friend’s daughter . . . or sister, if it came to that.

Somewhere in his code of honour, he was quite certain, there was that rule, a commandment, really, that stated: Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Daughter!

And that was what he had done . . . to a certain extent. Unwittingly, but nevertheless he had definitely lusted.

Aragorn’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Éomer, is something wrong?”

Éomer hesitated. He wanted to look into her eyes, to see what she was thinking, what she was feeling at this moment, but Lothíriel preferred to study the embroidery on the high collar of his tunic. Slowly he turned his head towards Aragorn. His friend looked at him; concerned, but also with a touch of amusement in his gaze.

Éomer cleared his throat before answering: “No, nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

Not a very intelligent answer, but his brain didn’t seem able to focus on anything other than the young woman before him. Imrahil’s daughter! Why didn’t she look like her brothers?

Aragorn let his eyes wander between the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth. And then there was only deep amusement in his gaze, and curiosity, but no concern at all.

“Perhaps the headache you mentioned earlier?” he inquired politely.

Éomer thought best not to reply but then a clear, cool voice said: “Willow bark tea!”

Four pairs of eyes settled on the Princess, all of them a bit bemused.

“Willow bark tree?” the Queen echoed, smiling benignly.

“For the headache,” the Princess explained, apparently unaffected by the odd stares she was receiving. “Or rather against a headache,” she clarified after a moment of reverie, and proceeded to extend the information even further: “You boil the bark in fresh water until the stock gets a greenish-brown colour. Then you drink it as hot as possible. You can put in some honey if you like.”

She definitely displayed a distinctive single-mindedness, when it came to her profession as a healer. But how could she be a healer at all, if she was Imrahil’s daughter, a high born noblewoman of the Realm of Gondor?

“My daughter often puts her assistance at the healers’ disposal and helps with tasks at the Houses of Healing.” Apparently Prince Imrahil felt it was time for some clarification on behalf of his daughter. Did he really believe what he was saying?

Éomer tried again to catch the Princess’s eyes, but Lothíriel of Dol Amroth did her best to avoid his gaze. As far as he remembered she had always looked directly at him when they met that night.

“Is that so? Her Highness assists the healers?” Éomer’s voice sounded much more friendly than he felt. “How charitable of the Princess.”

That finally did it. Her eyes flew up and locked with his, and then she gave her head the tiniest shake.

This was getting interesting! Did this hardly noticeable shake mean Imrahil had no idea what his daughter was actually doing at the Houses of Healing? And that she was afraid he would spill it? Well, it was definitely not going to be him who would tell her father the tale of that night. But he felt an urgent need to talk to the daughter. Instantly! He just had to get her alone. Not an easy task in a hall filled with about five hundred guests waiting for a feast to begin. But he was up to a challenge right now.

“I am afraid I will not be able to get some willow bark tea at the moment. But perhaps fresh air will do me some good,” he said to no-one in particular, satisfied that his voice sounded nonchalant, and then addressed the Prince of Dol Amroth: “Imrahil, would you give the Princess permission to accompany me outside onto the terraces? She might be able to recommend some more remedies.”

Imrahil wore the expression of a man who had the distinct feeling he was missing something. But, for whatever reason of his own, he chose not to inquire. He looked at his daughter.

“Of course, she may go with you. I am certain Lothíriel will be . . . ” After a short pause he went on: “. . . delighted?”

Éomer turned towards the Royal Couple.

“I hope you will not mind us taking our leave until the feast begins?”

Aragorn’s eyes were brimming with infectious good humour, the corners of his mouth struggling not to turn upwards. He exchanged a glance with his wife. Arwen just smiled and waved her consent.

“I will send a servant to summon you before I officially open the feast,” Aragorn offered. He was again looking at his wife with mirth and something else in his eyes that should have made his Rohirric friend highly suspicious. Arwen’s answering smile was rather gleeful.

Éomer had turned back towards Lothíriel. She appeared, as always, cool and composed, but a look into her eyes told him that at this moment she would rather be elsewhere. It was this very look of a startled fawn that had caused him a couple of times to cease taunting her. No woman should rightfully be allowed to own those kind of eyes.

But tonight he was not inclined to be affected by them. He had something to say to her and he wanted to ask her something. And he wanted to do it now.

He raised his right arm, a gesture that was more a demand than an invitation.

“Princess.” He lifted an eyebrow. “If you please!”

She put the tips of her fingers on the back of his hand with a graceful arch of her wrist.

“As my father said, my Lord: I am . . . delighted.”

How could he have forgotten that this fawn was in possession of a very capable tongue?

After having paid their respects to the Royal Couple of Gondor and not unaware of the looks the three people remaining behind were exchanging, Éomer attempted to lead the Princess directly out of the hall towards the terraces. It proved to be a journey full of hitches in the form of the nobles of Gondor strolling around the tables, as well as by those who were at pains to move out of the way of a king and a princess. Their progress towards privacy was slow. It was not long before Lothíriel apparently became awkward with their silence.

“I hope you left your sister in good health, my Lord?” she asked conversationally, choosing a topic certainly regarded as harmless for polite conversation.

“That would be the sister blessed to have me as her only brother?” Éomer replied, mimicking her chatty tone. “Thank you for your inquiry. I left her quite well and in fairly good spirits.”

He shot her a sideways glance and saw her wince at his tone. She was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Very good! Why should he be the only one? And he went on gleefully, “Shall we continue with this rather pleasant topic?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Well, after having just parted from Prince Imrahil who, in my opinion, is in excellent health, and having had the doubtful fortune earlier tonight of running into your youngest brother, who also appeared to be in perfect health - at least physically - that leaves me to inquire after the health of your two elder brothers.”

Getting no immediate reply, he prompted: “Well, are they in good health?”

“They are in excellent health, thank you.” Her voice had lost some of the serene tone she had used in her position as healer. Uncertainty had crept in, but also irritation.

“I am so glad to hear that,” Éomer said. “But that should not be too difficult to achieve with such a proficient healer as close kin, should it not?”

The fingers on his hand twitched and he felt her nails scratching him slightly; not painfully, but enough to remind him that this fawn might have claws as well. He had to find out what he had to do to have her draw blood.

“Shall we move on to the next topic, which should be, as I understand the common social conventions, the weather?”

They had reached the three steps to the walkway. With a quick movement of his wrist Éomer caught her hand in his, gently but without giving her the slightest chance to pull it back if she wished to avoid an embarrassing struggle. They turned towards each other and she met his gaze squarely with one of her own, displaying a mixture of utter puzzlement and barely concealed outrage. Quite a sight combined with that pink flash on her cheeks. He smiled at her discomfort.

“You do not want to talk about the weather, my Lord,” she said bluntly, obviously not willing to play games.

“No, not at all,” he admitted and urged her up the steps. At the top she balked again.

“Then what do you want . . . to talk about?” she hissed.

“For a beginning I would like to know why you neglected to mentioned that you are Prince Imrahil’s daughter.”

“My father just introduced us.”

She made an attempt to free her hand, but he easily kept hold of it.

“You know quite well that it is our initial meeting - or shall I say encounter - I am talking about.”

There was a wealth of warning in his voice and she stopped pretending to misunderstand him.

“I saw no reason to introduce myself with my title. It is of no consequence within the walls of the Houses of Healing. There I am called Mistress as are all the others. And you did not come to seek out a princess, but a healer who would treat you.”

“If I remember correctly, I came to ask for something to tend a wound. The treatment was forced upon me.”

“As if I would be able to force you to do anything you do not want, Éomer King?” she nearly spat out. “And as far as I remember, you did not care either to give me your title.”

“But when you came into this hall tonight you knew whom you were going to meet.”

“I knew who you were the moment you gave me your name. There cannot be too many Éomers out and about, and certainly not any who possess your bearing and manners.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you are quite intimidating and rude!”

Éomer shrugged his shoulders. “I have been called worse things by better people.”

Lothíriel’s chin lurched backwards slightly in surprise.

“You are insulting!”

“You feel that should be your privilege alone?”

She gave him no answer but a look so frigid Éomer was surprised he didn’t turn to ice.

“Nothing else to say, my Lady?” he taunted.

“I am trying to decide if you are just the rudest man currently inside the walls of Minas Tirith or simply angry without reason.”

“Have I no reason to be angry?” he asked, his voice clipped.

“No, not that I see. There has been no harm done in your not being aware that the healer who treated you was the daughter of a prince.”

“Not just any prince but one, I am friends with; a friend you expect me to lie to.”

“I do no such thing!”

Again she tugged at her hand, but he didn’t let her go. He felt her pulse under his thumb, which told him that she grew more and more agitated, even though she managed to display an amazingly composed countenance.

“And how am I suppose to interpret this pretty little head shake you gave me? You do not want me to tell Imrahil that we met before tonight. And you certainly do not want him to know the circumstances.”

“Your presumptions are presumptuous!”

She struggled again against his grip, trying not to be too obvious, and this time he complied.

Lothíriel clasped her hands together and let her nails bite into her skin. It looked as if she was hurting herself in an attempt not to hurt him. Quite an amusing notion.

“Why, my Lady, right now I could presume that you would like to inflict a wound . . . a deadly wound.”

Indeed, she looked as if she might disembowel him on the spot.

“I do not need to inflict a wound.”

“No? What are you contemplating then?”

“Feeding you hemlock!”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Poison! How fitting for a healer!”

For quite some time Éomer had been aware of the fact that they were drawing the attention of the other guests in the hall. Standing as they were about three feet above the main floor, everybody had a good view of them. The King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth would have attracted an audience anyway, even on their own. That they were in each other’s company and so obviously having a quarrel would be the gossip of the remaining evening and beyond that. He didn’t care about it at the moment. Later he would very likely have to explain to Imrahil, how they had managed in the short time of their just made acquaintance to be at such odds that they were creating a scene. Something the Prince was probably not accustomed to having his daughter involved in.

Lothíriel appeared to be completely oblivious of their surroundings. It would seem that her professional single-mindedness transferred neatly to her association with others. Or his harsh verbal onslaught had disconcerted her even more than he had thought possible. If he had wanted to upset her, he could claim success.

Nevertheless, it would be better if they retreated to a more secluded locality, or - sooner rather than later - Imrahil or one of her brothers, who were quite probably somewhere in the feast hall, would come to her rescue. And he still was waiting for her answer: why her father was not supposed to know that she had treated him. That he wasn’t very eager for his friend to learn about his part in that night’s encounter was beside the point. He wanted an answer to what she had to hide from her father.

“My Lady, perhaps we should proceed on our way outside,” he suggested, gesturing towards the next door.

She looked startled at this.

“I cannot go outside with you!”

“You have your father’s permission,” Éomer reminded her.

“I will not go outside with you.”

How had Elfhelm put it so vividly? She was digging in her heels.

“And why not?” he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

“It is not proper to venture with you alone into the dark garden.”

Obviously she was able to metamorphose into a prim Gondorian noblewoman if it suited her. Not that he had experienced the Gondorian noblewomen to be excessively prim.

“I am asking you to come with me onto the terrace, which is quite well lit by the light coming from the hall through the open doors. I have no intention of dragging you into the greenery.”

“It is not proper,” she repeated with some force. This word was starting to bother him.

“If it is not proper to step out into breathable air, then what do you consider spending half a night alone in a chamber with a man who is a stranger to you and who is clad only in a linen sheet?”

“That was something entirely different. You were a patient.”

“A patient you do not want your father to know about. Or is it rather the situation you want to keep from him?”

“You do not understand.”

“Obviously not! Therefore you better explain, but not here, because the number of onlookers is constantly growing!”

It took Lothíriel a moment to comprehend but then her eyes widened and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. Very slowly she turned her head towards the hall. Realizing that he had spoken the truth, she was probably mortified by the attention they were drawing. She swallowed and blinked a couple of times.

Yes, of course! She shared that habit with Faramir, her cousin. And now he could see that she bore a certain resemblance to the Steward. Not necessarily their features but their colouring was the same, and the fluid elegance of their movements. Éomer remembered that he once had thought that Faramir could be taken easily for Imrahil’s son, while the Prince’s own threefold offspring had inherited nothing obvious from their father.

He saw her straighten, forcing her breathing to keep even. He could imagine her mind working frantically. He had to admire her for the mastery of her emotions. This woman was not likely to break under fire.

Lothíriel turned back to him and her eyes met his. Their look reminded Éomer very much of that of a filly, which, after having trustingly followed you, had just endured the pain of the branding iron. But there was also a dangerous flash in there. She was a fighter after all.

“My Lord, would you be so kind to accompany me out onto the terrace.”

Éomer decided not to comment on her sudden willingness to venture out into the dark. He just offered his arm and then led her through the next door. As soon as they had reached the terrace, she withdrew her hand and stepped aside into the shadow of the open door panels, so she was out of sight of those inside the hall. Now Éomer could hardly make out her face, save for her facial expression, while he was still standing in the full gleam of light. As a warrior, the King believed strongly in not letting one’s opponent have any advantages. He used his bulk to force himself between the wall and Lothíriel. From this position her face was lit well enough. She had raised her chin in defiance.

“Why are you so angry with me, my Lord?”

A simple, direct question. The honest answer he could hardly accept himself and certainly not give to her. For months now he had deluded himself that the memory of the beguiling and, in her own aggravating way, endearing healer would soon fade, suppressed by memories of a more physical nature – including the Lady Cuillwen. When facing her tonight without any prior warning, it had hit him like a bolt from the blue. He had realized that he wanted her. More than he had ever imagined wanting any woman. And she was the one he could never have! After all, he wasn’t quite ready to give up on the concept of honour.

If he had gotten a warning in advance, had he been prepared to see her again, this would never have happened. And that was why he was angry; angry not particularly with her, but the situation – and himself.

Never let an adversary see the chink in your armour!

“Why is Prince Imrahil not supposed to know what you are doing at the Houses of Healing?” he shot back, not willing to discuss his state of mind.

“My father does know.”

“You told me – and showed me - that you are a competent healer; Imrahil mentioned you are assisting the healers. There is a considerable difference,” he pointed out.

“He does know,” Lothíriel insisted again. “He gave me his consent four years ago, and without it the healers would have never educated me. This is Gondor, my Lord. Without the acquiescence of either her father or her husband a female can do nothing.”

“Then why doesn’t he acknowledge your situation?”

“Because it is easier for him to picture his daughter rolling up bandages and spoon feeding the sick than amputating limbs and shoving bowels back into a man.” Her tone had become much sharper.

He was on the verge of asking her to repeat her last words, because he couldn’t quite believe what she just had said. His brain refused to connect this ethereal-looking creature with the bloody work she mentioned so matter-of-factly. But then, he had been at the Houses of Healing in the direct aftermath of the battle. Even though focused on Éowyn, in the back of his mind he had heard the horrible cries of the wounded, had in the periphery of his vision seen the blood-covered healers, the broken bodies brought to them. He had heard the shouts for water, for dressing materials; the demands to hold somebody down, to get a saw. And now he should imagine this beautiful vision of a woman holding such an instrument? Using it? He swallowed.

“You did amputations?”

“That is certainly not something any healer wishes to do, but if I have to do it, I do it.”

No, she was not somebody who would shy back from a necessity. Should a father not be aware of such a trait?

“Imrahil is not a man living in denial of reality. He was at the Houses of Healing just after the battle was over. He saw the healers at work. He knew you were one of them.”

“He actually saw me, but he did not recognize me. At that moment there was probably as much blood all over me as there was on the wounded. That was not something he connects his daughter with. Erchirion once said that when it comes to me, our father only sees what he wants to see. And he sees a girl who should be protected, who should have care and attention lavished upon her.”

“But that is not what you want.”

“What I want is to work as a healer.” There was passion in her voice, which he understood, but also longing for something unattainable. That he did not understand.

“That is what you do,” he reminded her. “You said so yourself: your father gave his consent.”

“Only because I caught him in an hour of weakness, after my mother died. She suffered from a disease of the lungs and died a cruel death. I had watched her dying for three years. My father hoped to ease my grief by granting me my deepest wish. But he was never content with the idea of me working as a healer. He never really understood why it is so important for me.”

“And why is it so important for you?”

Éomer’s earlier anger had faded. Those big, guileless eyes meeting his squarely had their effect on him again. How could he have thought he would stay immune? That she was deeply devoted to her art, he had learnt the night he had first met her. The compassion and empathy he had seen in her eyes, heard in her voice when she spoke about those men given into her care after the battle. From what Elfhelm had told him tonight, he gathered that her concern for her patients was not limited to their physical well-being. What had caused a Gondorian princess, who should have been content being sheltered and doted upon, to choose hard work and great strain?

“What draws you to being a healer?” he asked.

“My mother used to say, you have two hands: the first is to help yourself, the second is to help others. The healers taught me compassion and dedication. They showed me that there is joy in helping and caring for others and that there is more to life than grooming yourself and embroidering cushions. I do not want to sit around all day, trying desperately to find something to occupy an empty life. It is better to be tired at night out of exhaustion than out of boredom."

“Working as a healer is what you do,” Éomer repeated his earlier statement.

“Only for the moment. I have always known that my father considered this arrangement as temporary. There is the life that I have been bred for, waiting for me.”

“What could you have been bred for?” he asked not quite understanding what she was suggesting, and then added in Rohirric: “For Bema’s sake, you are not a horse.”

There was a tiny frown between her brows, probably trying to imagine what he had said.

“I am a pledge,” she stated, as if that would make things any clearer. She must have seen the lack of understanding in Éomer’s eyes, because she clarified her explanation further.

“I am a pledge for an alliance in favour of Gondor.”

“What alliance?” Did he miss some post-war negotiations?

“Not any specific alliance at present. But currently I am the only born Princess of the Realm. My father is the Lord of Dol Amroth; my cousin the Steward of Gondor. I will be bound to whomsoever might help to straighten out relations within the realm or be generally for the good of the land.”

She couldn’t be meaning what she was talking about! The thought of having her thrown into the bed of a man, any man, for a political agenda made him feel somehow hollow in the chest. Arranged marriages were not unknown in Rohan. But this sounded as if women were produced and kept in stock just in case they were needed for the strengthening of agreements.

“That is ludicrous,” he murmured.

“No, my Lord. That is politics. My Grandfather Adrahil was at odds with the Steward Ecthelion. The opposition between the two families did Gondor much harm, and when it was finally settled, the agreement was strengthened by a union between Ecthelion’s son Denethor and my aunt Finduilas. My own parents’ bond was arranged to settle a decade long dispute regarding the coastal island of Tolfalas.”

“And you can accept that?” Why did he feel outrage on her behalf while she appeared to be content with this fate?

“It is not a matter of acceptance, but a matter of duty. And I should have thought that you, my Lord, would understand the concept of duty.”

“This does not sound like duty to me but self-sacrifice.”

“Sometimes it feels that way, but I am trying not to pity myself. I was always destined for an arranged union. I can tolerate a bond based on a political necessity, on duty and on common sense. As I said: I have been bred for it. ”

Did she have to state something abominable like this with her voice an epitome of reason?

“I have not known Prince Imrahil for a long time, but I cannot believe I have misjudged his character so profoundly. He is a generous man, who cares deeply for his kin. I cannot imagine him forcing his daughter into a bond she may detest.”

“Do not misunderstand, my Lord. I do not say that I would be forced to wed a suitor I am deeply opposed to. Nevertheless, there will be a time when I have no other choice than to accept my father’s choice. I just hold the hope that this time will not come too soon, and that, until then, I will be allowed to keep on my work at the Houses of Healing. But if my father learns that I have committed a breach of propriety he would coerce me into leaving at once, sending me back to Dol Amroth.”

“And you committed a breach of propriety the night I came to the Houses of Healing?”

Brainless question! Even in Rohan it would have been regarded as rather improper to jump at a woman stark naked and nearly break her neck.

“In my father’s opinion I certainly did. Treating a man on my own, without another healer present, would not have his approval. But that is highly impractical. I could not impose such a restriction on the other healers. And that night I did not expect . . . When I offered to treat you, I did not expect you to become such a challenge as a patient. You were rather . . . ”

“. . . intimidating and rude?” he interrupted. “I am afraid I was not on my best behaviour that night! And earlier tonight . . . that was even worse.”

“You have the extraordinary ability to discompose me, my Lord.”

This unpretentious confession surprised Éomer and made him feel even worse for his recent demeanour.

“Tonight I wanted to discompose you,” he had to admit.

“I noticed,” she replied with a surprisingly wry tone, “but I did not quite understand. Why were you so angry?”

“I do not like being surprised and at a disadvantage.” That was not really a lie, but a rather rough evasive manoeuvre. “But that is no excuse for how I behaved and the rude way I spoke to you. I owe you another apology. - Will you accept it, my Lady?”

She looked squarely into his eyes, and then slowly, very slowly, a smile lit her face, one that finally reached her eyes.

“Your apology is accepted, Éomer King. After all, with three brothers I have lots of practice in forgiving stupidity.”

“And lots of practice in hitting back with words, I suppose?”

She nodded in agreement, and then her expression grew a bit more sober again.

“I must confess, I felt myself to be at a disadvantage, too. I was afraid that when you saw me you would . . .”

“. . . just blurt out that I have met you before and where?”

“I would not have it phrased that way, but yes! That was what I had feared.”

“I think I also have to make a confession, my Lady.”

She raised her eyebrows to indicate that she was listening with interest.

“I do not wish Prince Imrahil to know about my not so glorious part in that night’s encounter.”

“Oh?” She appeared genuinely surprised.

“Tell me, what do you think your father would do if he learnt that I bruised his daughter in the way I did?”

For a moment she seemed to consider that question rather seriously and judging her facial expression she found an answer. Suddenly her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as if she was going to say something. But then she pressed her lips together, apparently trying to keep a straight face. There was an odd mixture of mischief and embarrassment in her eyes.

“Well?” Éomer prompted, but the Princess just shook her head.

“I do not think you want to know the answer, my Lord.”

“Of course I want to know the answer,” he insisted, having the feeling he was being laughed at. “I want to be forewarned if I am going to be just whipped or broken on the wheel.”

“I doubt doing you bodily harm would be in the forefront of my father’s mind.”

“What a relief!”

Something about this harmless remark must have been utterly amusing, because Lothíriel’s lips started to twitch. Her entire neck began quivering with the exertion required to keep a laugh inside. Finally she had to surrender. She laughed out loud! It was the first time he had heard that sound. It was warm and very pleasant, alternating with short, breathless giggles.

“What are you laughing about?” Éomer asked, chuckling himself, infected by a true cheerfulness which surprised him.

The Princess just shook her head and clapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to silence herself.

“You are laughing at me!” he accused her. “Tell me at once what this is about.”

Just another headshake and a look of mirth from sparkling eyes.

Éomer circled her wrist with thumb and index finger and pulled the hand from her mouth.

“You will tell me!” he ordered, trying hard to suppress his own laughter. When Lothíriel made an attempt to bring her other hand to her mouth he caught that as well, and then kept both in a firm hold between their bodies. Some kind of barrier seemed to be advisable.

“You are aware, my Lady, that making fun of a king is a capital offence. If you do not want to be broken on a wheel, you had better tell me what I want to know.”

“I cannot tell you.” Her voice was still breathless with laughter. “You will believe me insane.”

He refrained from mentioning that after having met Amrothos the possibility of insanity running in her family had actually occurred to him. Right now he couldn’t concentrate on her sanity, because, with her head tipped backwards to be able to look at him, the sparkling eyes and a mouth caught somewhere between a laugh and a smile, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Éomer nearly forgot to breathe.

He found himself wondering how she would taste. He knew he couldn’t dally with her, not with Imrahil’s daughter. And still he found himself leaning towards her. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he suddenly felt off-balance and lurched back upright. Totally surprised by his momentary loss of control, he let her hands go and took a step back. Shaking himself mentally, he searched Lothíriel’s eyes, but she was still smiling at him, blissfully unaware of how close she had come to having been kissed utterly senseless.

Wasn’t it time for Aragorn to open the feast?

“Have you reached a truce?”

The unexpected voice came from his left side. Simultaneously both he and Lothíriel turned to watch a tall, slender figure approach. Another of her brothers!

“Erchirion! You made it!” Lothíriel exclaimed, clearly joyous to see this brother.

She walked over to him. Erchirion took her hand and placed his lips lightly on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving the Rohír.

Éomer probably should have thanked fate that he had been able to pull himself together, or he would have been caught making the greatest mistake in his life. Somehow he doubted Prince Erchirion would have taken kindly to finding his sister being ravished.

The Prince was watching him with a shrewd gaze. From the very beginning of their acquaintance Éomer had suspected that there was quite a bit of substance under Erchirion’s ever-amused surface. He had felt that he would make a good friend – or an adversary not to be underestimated.

“I have not only just made it, dear sister.” Erchirion smiled at Lothíriel tenderly. “I have been in the hall for some time. Actually,” his eyes went back to Éomer, “I have been there long enough to watch your quite noticeable exit.”

“Erchirion has just arrived back from Dol Amroth,” Lothíriel explained, happily ignoring her brother’s allusion. “We were afraid he would not make it to the feast, after his ship failed to arrive at Harlond this morning as scheduled.” She smiled at her sibling. “What was the reason?”

Erchirion looked slightly baffled.

“A damaged skiff blocking the shipping channel about forty leagues downstream,” he answered automatically.

“And now I am so glad to see you,” his sister went on, obviously not willing to give him the chance to pursue his own enquiries. “I hope you are in good health?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” he said, sounding rather dubious.

“To hear that will please the King.”

“Which King?” the Prince asked in a bewildered tone. “That King?” He jabbed a finger towards Éomer. “Why should he be pleased about it?”

“Yes, why should he?” the Rohír murmured.

“You inquired about his health earlier,” Lothíriel reminded him. “After I asked you about your sister’s. And then we established that all our families are in excellent health, except you are having your doubts about Amrothos’s state of mental well-being.”

Erchirion had listened to his sister’s prattle, watching her with a rather mystified expression. Éomer couldn’t blame him. Lothíriel seemed to him the last woman in the whole of Middle-earth who might prattle . . . except, of course when she chose to for her own reasons: diversionary tactics!

Once before he had had the opportunity to watch the three Princes of Dol Amroth interact. They had talked all over each other and rarely resisted the impulse to trade sly jibes. Perhaps because the Princess looked so different from her brothers, he wouldn’t have imagined her sharing these traits. Watching her now for the first time with one of her siblings, he had the growing suspicion that, underneath her serene and composed façade, there was a profound sense of the ridiculous. This woman had more layers than an onion, and this was not the time to give into the temptation to peel them back.

Brother and sister had looked at each other for a moment, humour creeping into Erchirion’s gaze. He understood quite well what Lothíriel was aiming to achieve.

“Éomer King wouldn’t be the first to question Amrothos’s sanity, but right now I feel I should be worried about you, dear sister. Are you sure you are well?”

“Quite well,” she answered without batting an eyelid.

“Good!” Erchirion seemed satisfied. “Then you may answer my initial question.”

“And that was what?”

“Have you reached a truce?”

“A truce?” Lothíriel echoed, obviously stalling. Éomer decided to keep out of this spat for the time being. He wasn’t quite sure he understood the rules.

“A truce is an agreement between adversaries to stop fighting,” the Prince explained patiently.

“If a requirement for a truce is previous fighting, then a truce was not necessary because there was no fighting.”

Rohan’s King couldn’t resist crossing his arms over his chest and settling his back against the open door panel behind him. This was going to be interesting.

“There was no fighting?” Erchirion asked, highly sceptical. “You could have fooled me and the rest of the crowd in there you chose to entertain.”

“There might have been a slight disagreement,” his sister yielded.

“And what was this slight disagreement about?” the Prince probed.

“The weather,” she said with a perfectly straight expression.

During this exchange Erchirion’s eyes had wandered between his sister’s and the King’s faces and at Lothíriel’s answer it had been unfortunately on Éomer’s. He saw the other man’s perplexed and then highly amused reaction.

The Prince gave an exaggerated groan.

“Lothíriel, I know this quarrel was not about the weather. And you know that I know. And I know you know that I know. And we both know that father will want to know.”

“We are a knowledgeable family,” his sister dared to throw in.

“Unfortunately sororicide is illegal in Gondor,” Erchirion muttered.

Éomer was quite certain that he was not able to keep the straight face he’d been aiming for, but the next moment he didn’t feel quite so amused because the Prince’s voice grew much more serious than he had ever heard it.

“Take my advice, both of you, because it is given with the best of intentions. Our father is going to question why you created quite a scene after having officially met only moments before. You had better think about a good answer, an answer that you should try and coordinate.”

Éomer looked at Lothíriel. All playfulness and mischief were gone from her eyes. For a moment he could see a deep worry, but then she had found her usual composure and nobody could have guessed what was going on inside her. Erchirion had watched her as well. Seeing her mask fall back into place, he nodded his agreement.

“I came here to inform you that King Elessar is about to open this feast officially and asks you to be at his side,” he addressed the King of Rohan. Éomer was surprised that there was not the slightest hint of accusation in the Prince’s tone.

Erchirion took his sister’s hand.

“I think it is better that I escort Lothíriel to her seat.” And then he added maliciously: “By the way, Éomer King, tonight you will be sitting between King Elessar and my father.”

Éomer closed his eyes. He had known from the beginning: this would be a highly unpleasant evening.

It had been a wise decision not to go through with his first notion of getting drunk at last night’s feast, Éomer reflected as he lay in bed the next morning, face buried in the pillow. That not only had preserved him from definite embarrassment but also from the strong after-effects spirits were inclined to have on him.

He rolled onto his back and stretched out both arms sideways. There was still a lot of space left between his fingertips and the edge of the bed. It was huge and probably not meant to be for lying in alone.

Not again!

Being on his own in this bedchamber, which was big enough to house half an éored, Éomer permitted himself the luxury of a loud and lengthy groan. He had to get these images out of his head! He had dreamt last night; he had dreamt in vivid details. Of the healer! Or rather the Princess!

He couldn’t even understand what drew him to Imrahil’s ethereal-looking daughter. He had always sought out the more lush female forms. True, she had intrigued him from the very first moment. That odd mixture of compassion and control, of a sharp mind and innocence had been captivating. Neither her fatigue nor that awful garb had been able to veil her beauty. He had felt annoyed when she started ordering him around; when he thought she tried to patronize him. But soon he realized, with some amusement, that she was as much irritated by him as he was by her. And what were you supposed to make of a woman who simply shrugged off that you had just bodily attacked her, but who had to struggle for her composure as soon as you began to tease her in a rather harmless way?

That night had been one of many surprises. Never before had he been confronted by a female who, at one point, seemed to appreciate what she had before her and the next moment regarded him with the curiosity a child might display for a rare butterfly. And certainly never before had he had a woman drop down on her knees before him; wrap her hands around his leg with a completely dispassionate touch, concentrating on the state of his tendons! At that moment he hadn’t known if he should howl in frustration or laugh his head off. A look into her eyes had told him that she was so bloody innocent she hadn’t even understood the situation.

Later he often had asked himself what would have happened if he had given into the temptation and kissed her, scruples be damned. It had made quite an agreeable daydream over the months. But last night something had changed for reasons he couldn’t for his life understand. Instead of a faint desire, all of the sudden he felt a deep hunger.

Éomer allowed himself another groan. Éothain had been right! It was unhealthy to work from dawn until deep into the night and then sleep alone.

He tried to concentrate on something different. The canopy above him was a tapestry showing some kind of symbol he couldn’t quite figure out. Was this leaf-covered female carrying a goose? What should a goose have to do with Númenor or Gondor? No, it couldn’t be a goose! Some other bird!

A knock at the door had him sitting bolt upright, his right hand going for his sword. It was not next to him of course, but on the other side of the chamber lying on a chest. He had to find a way to control these reflexes, or one day he might hurt somebody.

He reached behind him and bunched up a couple of pillows, then sat back against them.

“Enter!” he called.

As he had expected it was Dewon, a servant who had already been assigned to be at his disposal before when he stayed in the Palace for Aragorn’s coronation. The man was in his forties and looked able-bodied and healthy. Why such a man should choose to be a domestic instead of doing something useful was beyond him.

Dewon carried a tray with a mug of some steaming liquid, and Éomer could make out a pile of honey cake and almond bread. At least the man had remembered that he liked something sweet for his first meal of the morning and preferred fruit tea to ale.

“My Lord,” the man greeted him with a bow. There were props attached to the tray and Dewon just placed it across his lap without even asking if he wouldn’t rather eat at the table. Taking a meal in bed! He wished some of his riders could see that . . . or perhaps better not! He would have to ask Elfhelm if he had gotten the same treatment.

The domestic opened the half-transparent shutters and let the early morning sun fallinto the chamber.

“Is everything to your liking, my Lord?”

“Thank you. Everything is fine.”

“Do you wish a bath to be readied, my Lord?”

“Big tub, hot water?” Éomer asked mildly, watching the man’s bewildered expression.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, I do wish to take a bath after I have eaten.”

“Very well, my Lord. Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. You may go!”

The domestic left the bedchamber, probably having found new nourishment for his prejudices against the aberrant Horselords.

Éomer applied himself to the food. He was quite hungry. Between his conversation with Aragorn and Imrahil and a constant flow of friends and acquaintances coming up to their table to greet him, he had hardly found the time to eat any of the sumptuous choice of dishes on offer. And all the time he expected Imrahil to mention his rather unfortunate behaviour towards the Princess. But his friend had remained silent on the subject, at least for the evening.

Perhaps he didn’t want to bring it up for anybody to overhear and was waiting for some quiet time today to demand an explanation. Éomer still had no concept of what to tell the Prince. He didn’t want to tell his friend an outright lie, but even less did he want Lothíriel to suffer the consequences of his - as she had more than rightly called it - stupidity. He wished he could talk to her before he had to speak to her father. Erchirion’s advice to tune their stories was nothing but sensible.

During the feast the Princess had sat with her brothers, a few seats down the table to his right. The threesome appeared to be in a good mood, obviously bantering with each other and smiling a lot. Once he had caught Lothíriel aiming her fork at Amrothos’s hand when he had been trying to steal from her plate. There was no doubt that the brothers felt very protective towards their sister. Before the feast had ended they had managed to usher her out of Merethrond and away from their father. Amrothos had come up to Imrahil to give a lengthy and highly confusing explanation why Erchirion had to accompany his sister straight back to her quarters at the Houses of Healing. Even the Prince, who must have been used to his youngest son’s rhetoric, had looked rather dumbfounded. He had not found the time to recover or respond, because the Queen had called him to her, as she wished some enlightenment regarding the history of Dol Amroth.

Before he took his leave, Imrahil’s youngest son had dropped something next to Éomer’s chair, and while he bent down to pick it up, he said in a low voice, so that only the Rohír could hear him: “It was not supposed to be an offer to swap the Lady Cuillwen for my sister.” The next moment he was gone.

Perhaps it would be a good idea if he and Lothíriel also agreed on what to tell her siblings. He had no intention of dealing with a belligerent pair of brothers on top of everything else.

Having finished the last crumb of his food – except for a piece of honey cake, which the stallion adored, for Firefoot,– Éomer set the tray aside and rolled out of the bed. From the noises he heard coming from the dressing room adjoining his bedchamber, the bath was now prepared. He and Aragorn had agreed to meet early in the High King’s study. There was much news to be traded. Not all details could always be carried by the messengers constantly going back and forth between Edoras and Minas Tirith. And as hard as he found it, he had to plead for help. Without aid from Gondor, many Rohirrim would not survive the next winter.

He was about to make his way to the dressing room, but on second thoughts he pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his hips. There were some things a man didn’t want to deal with naked, and Gondorian servants were among them. Soon it was confirmed as a sensible precaution, because beside Dewon there were two female domestics busy with the preparation of the bath. Too many willing hands in this palace! The younger one turned the colour of beetroot when she saw the half-naked King of Rohan standing in the connecting door to the bedchamber, but at least she didn’t shriek. With a wave from Dewon, both women left the room.

“Will that be all, my Lord?” the man asked with an unmoving face.

Éomer just nodded, glad to see the servant bow his head and disappear. He tugged off the sheet and tossed it aside, lowering himself into the large copper tub. If these domestics understood anything, then it was how to make water the perfect temperature. He looked around the small chamber. No, there was definitely nothing left for Dewon to do. His few items of clothing had been taken from his saddle-bags, pressed and now hung over hooks along the wall. His riding boots were polished and his armour cleaned. Leather shining, metal gleaming; it hadn’t looked this good since  . . . well, since Aragorn’s coronation when Dewon had his first go at it. Nevertheless, the last thing he needed was a personal servant. Having somebody permanently bustling around him would drive him crazy.

Just before he was about to dive under to wet his hair, he remembered his last lecture on this subject. Comb it before you wash it! He got half out of the tub, taking a comb from a nearby stand, then letting himself fall back into the water, splashing quite a bit of it over the edges. Pulling the comb through his hair, he swore flatly. This was becoming a real nuisance! He couldn’t even perform the most trivial, everyday routines without being reminded of her.

The King forced himself to concentrate on the issues he had to discuss with Aragorn. He didn’t have the slightest hint if Gondor had the means, or his friend the power, to help the Riddermark. He hated the idea of becoming a supplicant, but he couldn’t allow that to mean that his kinsmen had to suffer through another Long Winter. It may have been more than 250 years, but none of the Rohirrim had forgotten about the hardship their forefathers had to endure. This time it had to be different. They needed help; they needed it desperately.

Éomer got out of the bath, dried himself off and yanked on his breeches. He looked around to see what else Dewon had provided. That man had obviously thought about everything. He found a large tin with tooth powder and patches of wool. Making a small ball out of some of the bleached wool, he wetted it, dipped it into the powder and shoved it in his mouth to rub it over his teeth. It tasted rather flowery. It would appear the Gondorian even tried to scent their breath.

Removing the wool from his mouth, he prepared another patch when he heard a knock at the door to the bedchamber. Probably Dewon wanting to tidy the room.

“Enter!” he barked over his shoulder and put the new wool ball into his mouth, moving it around with his index finger. He didn’t hear footsteps or anything at all, until a cool, clear voice addressed him from behind.

“My Lord!”

Éomer nearly choked on the wool. Only a retching cough kept it out of his throat. His eyes watered and he had to brace himself against the chest by which he had been standing. A small hand started rapping him on the back with unexpected strength. It made clapping noises on his bare skin.

“I apologize, Éomer King. It was not my intention to startle you.”

The Rohír turned around, contemplating murder.

“Princess!” he spat out and then clenched his teeth. “What . are . you . doing . here?”

His mind spun, trying to figure out why Lothíriel would do something so ill-advised as to come to his bedchamber in the early morning. . . . Not that in the middle of the night would have been any better!

Lothíriel had taken a step back, obviously surprised by his display of anger.

“I came on Erchirion’s advice.”

“Your brother sent you here?” To say that there was doubt in his voice would have been a definite understatement.

“Of course he did not send me, but, as you remember, he advised that we should talk before my father might confront us separately,” she reminded him in that annoyingly reasonable tone of hers.

“And therefore you came to my bedchamber, in the early morning, before I even had the chance to get dressed?” he asked, his voice low and clipped.

“I admit it is not entirely prudent,” At this Éomer just couldn’t keep back a snort. “But I think we can establish that I have seen you in less!” How did she manage to achieve such a remark without a hint of sarcasm to it?

“But then I was your patient, and this is now a very different situation.” He was quite certain that she caught her own words thrown back at her. “This is my bedchamber,” he repeated, keeping his voice scrupulously even. “Do you feel this is the right place to discuss how to keep a previous breach of propriety from your father?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on his chest, or rather on the right side of his rib cage. She had this intent, distant look, which came to her eyes when she concentrated on her profession. Éomer followed her line of vision: the faint scar of the wound she had treated. He gritted his teeth, moving the soaked wool ball with his tongue behind his molars.

Lothíriel leant in closer.

“That looks good. The skin is smooth and well healed over. No malformation.”

She extended her hand as if to touch the scar, causing Éomer to take two hasty steps backwards. If she touched him, he couldn’t guarantee anything. He might even throttle her after all!

Her gaze lowered to his leg.

“Has the muscle healed well?”

“It has healed very well indeed, even without any bandaging. But this is not the place or time to examine the healing process! And this is certainly not a place where you should be at all!”

“But this is the only place where I could get you alone before you go into council with King Elessar . . . and my father.”

Éomer closed his eyes briefly and ran both hands through his still wet hair, struggling hard not to lose the rest of his composure.

“My Lady, would you mind taking yourself off to the bedchamber, so I can finish getting dressed. Then we may talk.”

“As you wish. I will wait for you.”

Lothíriel left the dressing room, closing the connecting door behind her.

Éomer pressed his fists into his eye sockets and groaned. Lately groaning seemed to have become a bad habit of his. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to send her to the bedchamber. Imrahil’s daughter and a bed in the same room were not the best of images to restore his mind to order.

He spat out the wool into the spittoon and rinsed his mouth with the mixture of water and wine from a mug left for this purpose. Yanking the freshly polished boots over his feet and shrugging on a lightweight tunic, made to be worn without a shirt to suit the hot weather, he grabbed his belt, buckled it around his waist and jerked open the door to join the Princess.

Lothíriel stood in front of a chest, her back turned towards the room. She was wearing only the long-sleeved healer’s gown; no tunic, no veil. Her dark hair had been plaited into a simple, thick braid hanging down her back, long enough for her to sit on it. She couldn’t be much shorter than Éowyn, but she was more delicately built.

Right now she was paying the same attention that she usually displayed towards her human subjects to his sword. She let two fingers glide over the length of it. When she heard him come closer, she looked at him over her shoulder. Seeing her for the first time in broad daylight, he was able to make out that there wasn’t the slightest hint of blue in her iris. The colour was a clear, silvery grey, the bright intensity emphasized by the thick fringe of dark lashes. Aragorn had the same eye colour; and Faramir, and of course Imrahil. The heritage of the Dúnedain.

Her eyes had a troubling effect of him. Whenever she turned them towards him, looking squarely into his, something inside him settled and quietened. Just now he had been tempted to shake her and throw her out, angry that he couldn’t evade the effect she had on him and angry that she had just walked into his bedchamber. Any number of the servants who were swarming round this palace, might have seen her coming in.

It would have been a good and right notion, to get her out of this room, but a look from those guileless eyes, eyes which probably didn’t even know the meaning of ulterior motive, and all his intentions flew out of the window.

Her hand was lying on the sheath of his sword.

“The blade of your sword is much shorter than the ones my father or my brothers use, or any I have seen in the hands of Gondorians. And there is no guard.”

“Is there anything you are not curious about?” he asked, still a little unnerved.

“Is there anything one should not be curious about?” she replied. It was a serious question, not just rhetorical. She turned, facing him.

Éomer shook his head, feeling at the same time frustration and amusement.

“I think you did not come here to discuss weaponry, but to tell me how I am supposed to answer your father, if he confronts me about my disproportionately bad behaviour last night?”

“I came to suggest how you may answer, but I wouldn’t want you to lie on my behalf. At least it is your decision what you will say.”

“My Lady, I already said that I do not want you to suffer the ill consequences of my . . . “

“. . . disproportionately bad behaviour?” She smiled. “Erchirion used the same phrase.”

How could he have forgotten her brothers? Probably he should be grateful that there were only two out of three present at Minas Tirith.

“What did you tell your brothers last night?” he asked carefully. “They must have asked you some questions. At least that is what I gathered from a comment Amrothos made.”

“What did he say to you?”

Éomer swore softly under his breath. He shouldn’t have mentioned Amrothos’s remark. He could hardly repeat the words the Prince had aimed at him.

“I fear, I cannot repeat what he said. I am certain that he did not intend you to hear it or for me to tell you.”

“It is a real nuisance with Amrothos. Whenever he says something not ridiculous, it is not for my ears to hear.”

“He was upset on your behalf. What did you tell him - and Erchirion?”

“The truth, of course,” she answered, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

Éomer wasn’t quite certain he had heard her correctly. Perhaps there was still some water in his ears from the bath.

“The truth?” he echoed and then added on second thought: “The entire truth?”

“The basic truth!” Lothíriel had to cut down.

“Ahh!” Éomer gave her a faintly amused glance. “Would you mind defining basic?”

“I told them that you came to the Houses of Healing and that I treated your wound. And that I neglected to introduce myself, therefore you were taken by surprise when we met again last night.”

“Your brothers accepted this summarized tale?” he asked dubiously.

“They usually accept my tales, because they usually do not have any reason to doubt them.” Could it be that her brothers, too, were not immune to these large candid eyes? “Unfortunately, in this case they demanded additional details,” she added, sounding a little bit miffed at the scepticism of her siblings.

“Somehow I have the feeling I am going to regret asking this, but what kind of details did you give them?” he inquired carefully.

“I did not mention the bath, or your attire, of course.”

“Of course!”

“Or that there was no other healer or even a domestic in attendance.”

“Of course!”

“But I had to give them something; therefore I admitted that I punched you.” He should have been forewarned by the gleam in her eyes that she had aimed to baffle him. 

“What? You did what?” His expression settled into a frown. “Did I miss something that night?”

“I punched you on your wound when you were reluctant to have it treated,” she elucidated.

“You mean you gave me a slap!”

“Your own words were I threw a punch,” Lothíriel pointed out.

“I must not have been myself that night; otherwise I would not have exaggerated in such a way.”

“It did hurt.”

“It usually hurts when you touch a wound rather roughly,” he saw fit to clarify.

“Especially when it is infected.”

“I do not feel we have to go back to that argument.”

Lothíriel raised both hands, palms turned towards him. She had used this gesture before to appease him. He mirrored it, earning himself a smile.

“Have we reached a truce?” she asked.

“Have we been fighting?” he asked back.

She appeared to think about it in earnest and then gave him an impish smile, one that, for the moment, eliminated all traces of sophistication from her face, reminding him how young she really must be. The little sister of too many overbearing elder brothers!

“And beside the tale of your bodily assaulting me, what other details did you pass on?”

“I mentioned that I was not very careful when disinfecting your wound.”

“Indeed?” His lips twitched ever so lightly

“I could have been more gentle.”

“So I had gathered,” Éomer said dryly.

“Anyway,” she went on quickly, “that is everything I thought they should know. I guess it makes sense in regard to the ill-temper you displayed.”

“It makes perfect sense, my Lady. Especially considering my reputation of being quite ill-tempered . . . at times.”

She cocked her head. “I wonder how you got that reputation, my Lord.”

Éomer bit his lip to contain his smile. “Careful, Princess! Never insult a man in his own bedchamber.”

She seemed to consider his words, and there was a faint hint of suspicion in her gaze. Then she must have caught the smile in his eyes and realizing he was teasing her. A tiny frown appeared just above the bridge of her nose. Éomer hastened to take the opportunity on offer.

“And while we are speaking of this chamber, now that we have established what to tell whom, we had better think about a change of location.”

Éomer gestured towards the door, but the Princess made no move to follow the request. She shook her head.

“Not yet!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There is something else I have to talk to you about.”

“My Lady, whatever it is, I do not think we should talk about it right now and certainly not here. You have been in this chamber far too long already.”

“It will not take long, and I feel it is important.” That she could be stubborn he knew: nevertheless, the obstinacy in her tone took him by surprise.

“After we have just found a way to explain our last mishap, I do not feel we should provoke the next one. And right at this moment I should be at a meeting of great importance with King Elessar and Prince Imrahil.”

“But this is about your kinsmen and should be of great importance to you as well.”

Éomer had been already on his way to the door when her words brought him to an abrupt halt.

“What about my kinsmen?”

“Currently there are sixty one of your kinsmen left at the Houses of Healing. They are due to leave with you for Rohan in a couple of day’s time.”

“That I know,” he said curtly.

“Twenty three of these men barely survived the battle of Pelennor. Their bones were smashed; their shoulders, their hips, their spine. Four lost an arm, seven part of a leg. They can move only with pain and with great difficulties. Two will never walk a single step again.”

“So I was told by Marshal Elfhelm. They are maimed for life. He had a meeting with your Warden yesterday, and I understood the healer present at this meeting was you.”

“Indeed, I was there. These men are in my care.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to speak to them.”

“I will do so on our journey to Edoras.”

“Because then you cannot avoid it?”

He looked at her with disbelief. “What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, my Lord. But you never came to the Houses of Healing to see the wounded. Your Marshal came, and your Captains.” He detested this even voice, stating facts as she saw them.

“Are you implying I do not care about my kinsmen?” His own voice had become a dangerously low growl.

“No, I am not, because I know otherwise. You do care, but I do not think you know what these men need.”

“And, in your opinion, what is their need?”

“To have you come to them. Not necessarily as their king, but as the man who was their Marshal. Whom they trusted through all those years of darkness; whom they followed when he called them. They need to see Éomer Éomundson, not Éomer King.”

A part of him yelled that he was being unjust, but at this moment he saw only a member of the Gondorian nobility presuming to pass judgement on him and his people. How dare she!

“You seemed to know a great deal about my kinsmen.”

Lothíriel seemed unflustered by his chilly tone.

“I listen, my Lord. If, after four months, I knew nothing about these men, I would not only be a bad healer, but a shallow person.”

“And what do you want me to tell them, my Lady,” he asked through clenched teeth. He felt his temper threatening to flare up and had to struggle to keep it in check. “That I am going to take them back to a land that is as devastated as their bodies? That our herds are neglected, because so many of the herdsmen who had lavished care and attention on our horses have died. Slaughtered by raiding Orcs from Mordor, trampled into the ground by mûmakil on Pelennor Fields? I do not have to tell them, my Lady. They know!”

“They do know, and in you they see the man who will make it right!”

Éomer laughed. It was not a nice sound. It was low and bitter.

“I will make it right, my Lady? At present I do not even know how to feed my people.”

“They have trust in you and this trust is their hope. And for the years to come you will need their trust and their hope for the rebuilding of Rohan.”

He sat heavily on the foot of his bed.

“Do you have any idea what this council with Aragorn and your father is about? I am going to beg for Gondor’s aid!”

He saw her move her lips as if she were repeating his words. And then she surprised him by taking some swift steps across the room and squatting down in front of him. As if that weren’t inappropriate enough, she put her hands on his knees and made his muscles twitch. But her words came as an even greater surprise.

“You feel you come as a beggar to Gondor? Éomer of Rohan, you are a fool! It was Gondor that called for Rohan’s aid. Do you have the slightest inkling how it was when the forces or Mordor approached and everybody knew it was only a matter of time before the walls of the city would be breached? It was then that one question was repeated again and again: will Théoden come? Will the Rohirrim come? And you came. You turned the tide. You held them up. Without you and the sacrifices of your kinsmen, Minas Tirith would had fallen before Elessar could have arrived leading the Dead Men of Dunharrow. It is Gondor that owes Rohan. You can ask us for anything!”

“But can I get anything?”  He could hardly believe he had spoken out aloud.

“If you cannot trust those who love you as their friend and brother, then you are a fool indeed, my Lord Éomer.”

What a audacious statement! "You do have very decided opinions on everything and everyone, do you not?" he hissed.

Éomer looked into the face tilted up towards him, her eyes angry and hurt. She was the most irritating and disconcerting woman he had ever had the debatable fortune of running into. If it were just her lovely face and those enchanting eyes, if she were just a beautiful, desirable female, he could deal with her. If she were just the single-minded, compassionate healer, who took everything to her heart and made everything her concern, he could deal with her. If she were just an innocent, who made one want to protect her, he could deal with her. If she were just the sharp-minded, sophisticated Princess of Gondor, sometimes patronizing and always outspoken, he could deal with her. But she was all of these in one. Too much for him to deal with in his present state of mind, and he actually didn’t know if he ever wanted to deal with it at all.

And what was really hard to handle was this urge to kiss her. Not only to kiss her, but to taste her and touch her, pull her with him onto the bed, explore that svelte body and make love to her.

What was the matter with him?

If it were possible, Éomer would have kicked some part of him where it would really hurt. He had his people to care for, his land to rebuild. He had a council waiting for him with a king and a prince, that would be decisive for the future of Rohan. And he was thinking about bedding this woman. Perhaps the strain of the last month was finally showing. Something must be wrong with his brain. Or rather his groin. Probably he just needed a woman; any woman! But certainly not this one!

Gently he took her hands and removed them from his knees. Standing up from the bed he urged her back onto her feet. He guarded his expression carefully before he looked at her.

“My Lady, this audience is over!”

Lothíriel’s eyes narrowed at his tight, chilly tone, his curt words. Her chin went up slightly.

“Did I say something you did not want to hear, or did I say something you did not want to hear from somebody else?” When she didn’t get an immediate answer, she went on, her voice getting sharper: “Are you irritated by me or by yourself?”

As strikes went, this was perfectly aimed and Éomer nearly flinched. She was much too perceptive, even though she couldn’t possibly comprehend the cause of his discomfort.

Right now he felt any more words from him would lead down a straight path to a place he certainly didn’t want to go. Interaction with Lothíriel had proved always to lead to places too close to disaster. Until now they had only been narrowly avoided.

“You better take your leave now,” he said in a measured tone.

Before she was able to reply -  and she was intending to, that was for sure – Éomer heard the outer door of the dressing room open. Dewon had returned to remove the remains of his bath and early meal. Any moment the domestic could come into the bedchamber. The Rohír displayed the quick reflexes of a warrior. He clamped his hand on Lothíriel’s shoulder and spun her around. Surprised, she allowed him to push her towards the door, not that she could have done anything against it. Reaching from behind her, he grasped the door bolt, opened the door rather forcefully and shoved her out of the room . . . and nearly into the arms of Elfhelm.

The Marshal stood directly in front of them, his fist raised ready to knock at the door. One had to consider that a point in his favour, that the seasoned warrior kept an absolutely straight face when suddenly finding the daughter of Prince Imrahil stumbling without her usual grace out of his King’s bedchamber. Only with a slight delay, but without as much as batting an eyelid he bowed his head in greeting before the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth.

“My Lady! My Lord! Good day.”

A suppressed groan escaped Éomer. Whatever entities, named or unnamed, there might be, they had definitely decided against him. Nevertheless, he had to admire how the Princess kept her composure. With only the delay of her customary double-blink, she managed to produce a polite smile to answer the Marshal of the Mark.

“Good day, my Lord Elfhelm.”

Éomer not knowing what to say and Elfhelm knowing better than to say anything, there was a long uncomfortable silence. Finally Lothíriel decided to take her leave.

“I must make my farewell. If you will excuse me.” Her silver eyes met the darker ones of the King, her gaze intense and with a gleam of warning in it.

“I will see you at the Houses of Healing after your council with the King, my Lord?” That it was pronounced as a question was only polite rhetoric.

A rather irritable scowl darkened Éomer’s features, but his tone showed more than just a hint of resignation.

“I suppose you are aware of the saying about the dog and the bone, my Lady?”

“I do not mind being the dog as long as the bone is worth it. Until later, my Lord. My Lord Elfhelm.”

She executed a brisk, but elegant half-turn on her heels. Having had no time to bid her farewell, the two Rohirrim watched her move down the hallway. After a few steps she disappeared behind a curtain hiding a staircase. They turned and walked in the other direction.

“Did I mishear, or have you just received an order?” The Marshal glanced sideways at his King, who grimaced.

“If I do not go to the Houses of Healing later to see our kinsmen as she wishes, she will be back again, I am afraid.”

“Besides feeling that it is a good notion to speak to the men, doing whatever she asks you to do in order to avoid her returning to your bedchamber appears to be an even better notion.”

“Who was complaining about speech not being plain enough?” Éomer tried a light tone. “Just yesterday?”

“It could have been Prince Imrahil instead of me catching you in what is commonly called a compromising situation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Before I came here I met the Prince who was on his way to see if you were awake. I offered to call upon you instead. Therefore it was me and not the father of the Lady who stood in front of your door.”

Elfhelm was one of the few who wouldn’t be intimidated by one of Éomer’s glares.

“As a friend, my King, let me give you a well-meant piece of advice: be careful around the Princess or you might leave Gondor betrothed.”

Éomer ran into the next corner.

“What?”

“If it had been Prince Imrahil instead of me, Rohan would soon be welcoming its new Queen.”

“Are you insane?” Éomer rubbed his hurting shoulder. If the tone of his voice was an indicator, he indeed believed his Marshal suddenly to have metamorphosed into a madman.

“I am just a man who knows what he is talking about!”

“I wish I knew what you are talking about.”

“I,” explained Elfhelm laconically, “married my wife after we were caught in a compromising position by her father.”

Rohan’s King just stared, fortunately not hitting another wall.

“Have you never wondered why I married so young?” Elfhelm asked.

Had he ever wasted a thought on why the twenty six year old Captain of his first éored had already had a wife and three small children?

“Ahh,”  Éomer began, slightly put off, “I assumed you love your wife.”

“Oh, but I do,” Elfhelm replied matter-of-factly. “Nevertheless, we were bonded about a day after I first laid eyes upon her.”

His initial irritation not withstanding, Éomer was actually beginning to enjoy the situation.

“What had you done, my Lord Marshal?”

“There are certain things it is better a man keeps to himself,” Elfhelm replied with a crooked half-smile. “But I assure you, everything was quite harmless. It just did not look that way!”

“And you were not given the chance of an explanation?”

“Oh, we were given the opportunity to explain, the explanation was cordially noted, and as I said, the next day we were bonded.”

The Marshal watched his King trying to fight back a grin and added straight-faced,  “Prince Imrahil is a reasonable man. I am certain he will grant you at least half of the usual betrothal period.”

Éomer was ambushed by a sour feeling in his stomach.

“Do not even dare to think about it. And by the way,” he pointed out, “I put the blame entirely on you.”

“Well, I suppose that also is what marshals do: take the blame.”

“You insisted upon me going to the Houses of Healing to have a minor wound treated,” the King growled.

“When did I do such thing?”

“After we returned from the Black Gate.”

“So you met her that long ago.”

“Yes, and you could have warned me that she was Imrahil’s daughter. You told me you had dealings with her before.”

“But it was only yesterday I learnt that she was the Princess of Dol Amroth,” Elfhelm defended himself, and then saw fit to add, “When you had that quarrel with a rather large crowd watching.”

Éomer started swearing under his breath. His Marshal had to admire his originality. Suddenly he stopped abruptly and stared just blankly at the floor, certainly not seeing the beautiful pattern of the multicoloured marble tiles.

Elfhelm watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement.

“My Lord?”

Rohan’s King spat out a curse bad enough to cause his Marshal to look around to see if anybody might have heard it, even though it was spoken in Rohirric.

“She knew it! She bloody well knew it! Yesterday she said I would not want to know the answer. But she knew it. And she came in spite of it.”

Elfhelm wished his King would stop talking in riddles, but before he could ask, Éomer went on, “I should have broken her neck when I had the chance. And I am going to break her neck as soon as this council is over.”

With that rather violent threat still hanging in the air, he stormed off, flung open the door to Aragorn’s study without knocking, burst into the room and slammed the door behind him.

Elfhelm listened to the echo of the bang dying away in the depths of the Palace. Now at least King Elessar would have discovered that his Rohirric counterpart knew how to make an entrance. He wondered if Éomer would have to explain his explosive appearance, and if so, what he would say.

The Marshal resumed his way, thinking about what just had happened. He had known his King for nearly twelve years, had been his captain and his friend. He had watched him having his first experience with women, having his fair share of liaisons over the years. Éomer didn’t need to take a lot of trouble with the opposite gender. He had the same appeal to a woman as a honey-pot to a fly.

For some reason he had never had to struggle with his well-known temper when it came to females; with them self-control had never been an issue.  Today was the first time Elfhelm had seen his King losing his composure because of a woman.

He chuckled. Perhaps he would be at the Houses of Healing later today. After all, a marshal had to be at his King’s side in times of trouble.

Most of Éomer’s fits of temper usually vaporized as quickly as they erupted. Therefore he had the grace to look faintly embarrassed at the consequences of his forceful entrance into the High King’s study.

Prince Imrahil had jumped up so quickly from behind the large table where he had been sitting, that he had smacked both his thighs on the edge of it and was now rubbing the resulting painful bruises. Faramir, who had been indulging in the habit of tipping his chair onto the two back legs, had fallen over and landed on his back at his King’s feet. Aragorn let the indignity pass without comment. The former Ranger from the North hadn’t even flinched at the sudden appearance of the Rohír or at the accompanying chaos. Fighting Orcs and chasing Uruk-hai gave a man a certain imperturbability.

“Good day, Éomer,” he said mildly. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything is just fine,” Rohan’s King mumbled and extended his hand towards the Steward of Gondor to help his soon-to-be brother back on his feet. “Are you well, Faramir?”

“Quite well,” the dark-haired man answered, brushing some dust off his tunic. “Is he still alive?”

“Who?”

“Whoever caused this outburst?”

“Oh, yes,” Éomer answered, in what he hoped sounded a casual tone, not bothering to rectify the gender in question. “Alive and likely to stay that way after all.”

“That is a great relief,” Aragorn stated dryly. “I am uncertain how the law of Gondor treats murder, perpetrated by outside rulers, within the boundaries of the city.”

“I am much obliged you said outside and not outlandish,” the younger man replied with a lopsided grin.

Faramir had retrieved his chair and the four men settled around the beautiful inlaid walnut table in the centre of the room. Éomer had been to Aragorn’s den before and he understood why his friend had chosen this to be his study. Tall windows facing southeast provided light the whole day. Two walls were lined with books, a third dominated by a huge fireplace with a carved mantelpiece. In front of it stood a massive desk. Papers lay on top in not exactly neat piles, and a quill and inkpot still sat on the blotter. It couldn’t have been much easier for the Ranger to confine himself to the day-to-day administrative work the position of a king required than it had been for his Rohirric friend. But at least he was able to do it in this warm and welcoming room, while Éomer sat in his uncle’s chair, behind his uncle’s desk. Every piece of furniture, every shadow on the walls reminded him that two men he loved had to die to bring him to this position.

Prince Imrahil had taken a seat closest to a silver tea brewer and didn’t feel it to be beneath his dignity to fill mugs with the sweet, steaming liquid and hand them to the other men.

“Pray tell, Éomer, are those in your close vicinity used to the way you enter a room or do they just have strong and healthy hearts?”

“Both, I suppose.” Éomer took a sip from his mug, relieved that his friends had decided just to mock him and not inquire any further about the person who might have enraged him so early in the morning.

“It is the lack of armour,” Faramir speculated. “He is so used to its weight that without it he simply has too much momentum in his forward movement.”

“You had better get used to that kind of momentum,” the Rohír warned, “because it is a trait I share with a certain Lady, one of whom I have heard you are quite fond.”

“Then let us hope, nephew, that your heart is strong.”

The men chuckled at this comment by Prince Imrahil, keeping silent for the moment and sipping their tea. Aragorn eyed his younger friend thoughtfully. He put down his mug and laid a hand on Éomer’s forearm.

“We are all glad to have you with us once more, brother. But I can see it in your eyes; your own strong heart has not come with you.”

“No,” Éomer confirmed in a sombre voice. “My heart stayed behind in the Mark, with my kinsmen. To my shame I must admit that it even refuses to be touched by Théoden King’s last journey.”

“So things are that bad in Rohan?” Aragorn asked.

“Worse. They are worse than I could have ever imagined.”

“Your letters over the past month have been rather vague.”

“My knowledge has been rather vague. After the victory at Helm’s Deep and the celebration at Edoras we failed to inquire at once what this triumph had cost us.”

“There was hardly any time,” his brother-in-arms called to mind. “The muster of the éoreds and the ride to Minas Tirith, . . . you had just five days, and they were filled with many deeds.”

“But on our way to Isengard, we should have looked . . . I should have looked to the left and to the right, then I would have seen.” There was more than just a hint of self-loathing in Éomer’s voice.

“Seen what?” Imrahil interjected.

“What Saruman’s plans had really been.”

The three other men exchanged quick glances.

“To destroy the people of Rohan,” Imrahil said, obviously not liking to have to give expression to this outrageous scheme.

“Yes, but his plan was not simply to send his Orcs and Uruks and the Dunlendings to slaughter whoever they could find. In a land where the people do not live in large cities but where they are scattered all over the land in small hamlets and villages, you can attack the first settlement, perhaps the second but the third will be warned. Rohan is the land of fast horses and therefore warnings travel at speed. Most people were able to flee and save their lives. They fled to Helm’s Deep and Glaemscrafu, to Dunharrow and into the high-lying valleys of the Ered Nimrais and across the Adorn into Drúwaith Iaur. But when you flee in haste you cannot take much with you. Just the bare necessities. So they left virtually everything behind: most provisions remaining from the winter, seed corn not yet sown, the animals, farm implements and their houses with whatever was in them. When Isengard came, they destroyed everything, burnt it and slaughtered the livestock down to the last chicken. The carcasses were thrown into the wells and springs to poison the water. The land between the Isen and Adorn and between Isengard and Helm’s Deep, a strip about 50 miles wide, is scorched soil; systematically despoiled.”

“And your kinsmen?” Aragorn inquired, caught by the dread in his friend’s recollections.

“They have survived and they are still surviving, but I do not know how long I can keep them alive. We have scraped together every single grain, every last dried bean we were able to find, every piece of fruit we could shake from the trees. Whatever people in the Eastmark could spare was taken West. But the Westfold is the farmland of the Mark: on the plains of the East we have our herds grazing. The Eastmark depends on the Westmark for crops. Now the men hunt and fish, but it appears Saruman thought even about that. There is hardly any game to be found. Everything the Uruks and the Orcs could reach was hunted down and destroyed. And the water of the Isen is contaminated by the filth swept into it when the Ents flooded Orthanc.”

Éomer absently took another sip from his mug, not noticing that the tea was rapidly cooling.

“The Wizard wanted to make sure that every one of the Rohirrim, woman or man, old or young, he could not strike dead, would starve to death sooner or later.”

“How about shelter for the women and children?” Faramir wanted to know.

“Right after the éoreds left Dunharrow Erkenbrand took all the tents and huts left behind and distributed them to the people returning from their sanctuaries. At the moment they provide protection against rain and sun, but they are not suited to protect against the elements during the winter. With the help of Gamling, Marshal Erkenbrand oversees the reconstruction of the villages. But I do not have to tell you that we are rather short of woods in Rohan. We have to fell the trees on the western slopes of the Ered Nimrais and then transport the trunks over land to wherever they are needed. It is a slow and arduous process. Any sawmills we had were destroyed as well. We were only able to get a few working again. And as we have no harvest this autumn there will be no straw for thatching, so we collect reeds along the river banks and dry them.”

“You certainly do not stand idly by,” Imrahil remarked, nodding his appreciation. But Éomer wasn’t content with this assessment.

“I cannot shed the feeling that we are not doing enough, that we have lost too much time already and that I should be with my kinsmen. Now!”

“With Erkenbrand and Gamling you left two men with great experience in charge.” Aragorn assured him. “They know what they have to do, and they will do it without delay.”

“Gamling was not happy with being left behind. He wanted to escort his King on his last journey.” Éomer didn’t like to be reminded about the clash he had with his uncle’s devoted captain. “But he is from the Westfold; he knows the land and the people. Erkenbrand cannot do without him.”

“He is a man who has always done his duty. He will understand.” Aragorn had learnt to appreciate Théoden’s right-hand-man. He would be as loyal to Éomer had he had been to his old King.

“I hope so. I had to give him a direct order and make it clear that his first duty is with the living. But he is Gamling. He will come around.”

“You do not have a problem with the acceptance of your kingship?” Faramir asked hesitantly, from his expression not quite sure if he should have asked it at all.

“Certainly not!” said Éomer, with poorly concealed indignation. His voice dripped with all the lack of understanding at what he considered to be an absurd question. His glare was fixed on Faramir; therefore he missed the look Aragorn and Imrahil exchanged. Self-confidence was something Rohan’s young King had never been short of. “We Rohirrim are not a people to question the leadership of our ruling House. We are, as experience has shown, loyal to a fault. But we are also headstrong. If one of us has an opinion, he or she will give it to you freely. And that is everybody’s right . . . as long as in the end everybody will follow orders.”

“I suppose you do not mind giving orders, even though they are not always well received.” Imrahil stated with a decidedly amused look.

Éomer’s lips twisted into a dismissive expression.

“Leadership is not a popularity contest. In the middle of a battle you cannot start discussing the broader meaning of an order. And right now we do not have the time for disputes about the rights or the wrongs of measures taken. If I give a command I expect it to be executed.”

“Then let us not waste time. Tell us what Rohan needs from Gondor,” Aragorn requested.

So the time had come. He had to beg. Éomer sighed. Best to get it over with.

“Provisions. My kinsmen are a hard and unshakeable people. As long as I can fill their stomachs, they will survive any hardship. We need food.”

There! It was out. Perhaps too much as a demand where it should have been an appeal. But Gondor’s King didn’t seem to mind.

“Then food you shall have!”

That was all? Just so? Food you shall have? No question? No objections? No reservations? So easy? Not a hint of humiliation?

His utter bafflement must have shown very clearly on his face, because Aragorn shook his head with an indulgent grin.

“Éomer, honestly, what answer did you expect from me?”

Having totally lost his thread, the Rohír caught himself blinking. - Was the habit contagious? - Finally he gathered his wits.

“Well, at least I thought first you might ask food for how many.”

“Not that it makes any difference,” Imrahil cut in, “but how many of your kinsmen are there?”

“Somewhere between 55,000 and 60,000.” The answer came promptly and that seemed to surprise at least Imrahil and Faramir.

“I had not expected the Rohirrim to execute censuses,” Faramir remarked.

“Well, we are not in the habit counting our people like sheep,” Éomer replied. “Therefore I did make some calculations.”

“And they are valid?” the Steward of Gondor asked without thinking. He was assaulted by a glare from the Rohír that led him to swallow heavily, averting his eyes, trying desperately to find something else to look at instead. Prince Imrahil watched this interaction with interest.

“Well,” he said wryly. “I will have to learn how to glare like Éomer King. I would have my sons in line in no time.”

Éomer frowned at him. And your daughter? He wanted to ask, but knew it was better for him to hold his tongue. Never bring up a subject on your own that you would rather avoid.

Aragorn got back to the heart of their discussion.

“I think we may assume that Éomer’s calculations are faultless.” He registered his Steward’s embarrassment over his slip with a grin. “Now we have to find out the amount of provisions Gondor has available to send. We must ensure that the Rohirrim are properly fed over the winter months.”

“And you think you have the means to provide for an entire people?” The next moment Éomer wished he hadn’t sounded quite so sceptical.

“Oh yes! I do not think quantity will be a problem,” Faramir had recovered and joined the debate again. “Gondorians share some traits with hamsters. They always hoard. They like to have more than they actually need.”

“Thank you, nephew,” Imrahil said prosaically. “This is the first time ever I have been compared to a rodent.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Ah, my Lord Steward. Not your day, is it? Your foot in your mouth with every other sentence?”

“Have you been spending much time with Amrothos lately?” Imrahil pumped his nephew.

Curling his large hands around the mug, Éomer concentrated on drinking his by now cold tea. He still felt the supplicant in this council, the outsider, even though the three other men didn’t appear overly concerned about the extent of his need. As long as he could remember people had turned to him for help. He himself had always tried to avoid asking for support from others. To say he didn’t like the feeling of being dependent on anybody’s good graces would be an understatement. He couldn’t bear feeling under an obligation to anybody. And even though he hadn’t asked for himself, but for his people, it had been even harder than he had expected it to be.

Wrapped in his own thoughts, it took him a while before he became aware that Aragorn had him under intense scrutiny. The sharp grey eyes seemed to look right into his mind and made him uncomfortable. The Ranger saw his unease and smiled.

“We are brothers, Éomer,” he said, using the language of the Horselords, which the two Princes of Gondor couldn’t understand. “Your needs are my needs. Your worries are my worries. What is mine is yours. And I know you would tear the world apart if I needed anything from you.”

Seeing the younger man’s awkwardness over his words, he wrested the mug from his fingers.

“Some more hot tea?” he asked conversationally.

While Prince Imrahil took the mug from his Liege and filled it once more, he went on with their earlier topic without showing any curiosity over what had been spoken between the two kings.

“Now that we have established what Rohan basically needs and that Gondor has the means to provide it, we just have to find a way to convince the southern vassals to contribute their share.”

Éomer’s blond head swung around. “What do you mean by convince? Do you expect a problem?”

“It is never trouble-free to remove something from under the control of somebody.” Imrahil handed the mug back to Éomer and began to refill the others as well. “The river valleys south of the Ered Nimrais are fertile beyond measure. The soil has always given us much more than we needed. Therefore you will find granaries and store halls all over the land, minded and held in trust by the lords of the vales. But what is in store is rightfully Gondor’s and therefore the King or his Steward alone has the right of disposal.”

“But even through the war against Mordor, there has not been a crop failure or any other shortage,” Faramir continued. “For many years the Steward never had to push through his rights, and so quite a few of the Lords have conveniently forgotten that they do not own the provisions of Gondor.”

“It is time, anyway, to remind the very last vassal, that the King has not only returned to do his duty towards his Land, to free and protect it, but to call in all his Rights of Old,” Imrahil stated matter-of-factly.

The Rohír took a sip of his tea, watching Aragorn over the rim of his mug. The High King shrugged his shoulders.

“Domestic affairs. They shall not be of any concern to you. You have my word that the Riddermark will get everything it may need as long as it needs it.” He gestured towards the two Princes. “How it will be conducted is up to you, my Lords.” He smiled at them and then leant over to Éomer, whispering conspiratorially: “I am just discovering the merits of delegation.”

“And as Faramir and I will accompany Théoden King to Edoras, I will instruct Erchirion and Amrothos to take the necessary measures,” Imrahil explained.

Caught mid-sip, Éomer nearly spat his tea across the table.

“Both can be very proficient when they choose to,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth mildly. “Erchirion has remarkable organizational abilities and knows how to push through with his intentions.”

“And if that should not be enough with some of the southern vassals, Amrothos can talk them into the ground,” Faramir added. “They will give him whatever he demands just to get rid of him.”

That was a notion Éomer could easily comprehend.

Having successfully found a solution to the most pressing problem, the two kings and two princes had many other issues to discuss. Having defeated the enemy in battle didn’t mean the threats along the different border regions had just vanished. After they had licked their wounds Umbar and Harad would be back in the picture. Centuries had proven that long lasting peace with those two was just wishful thinking. Constant vigilance was imperative.

The same went for the Dunlendings. Fragmented as they were into many tribes, negotiations with them had always been fruitless. You made a truce with one group and another would raid some remote area of Rohan. And whatever misery came over them they would blame the Horselords anyway. One could only hope that they had gotten away with enough pillage while under the command of Isengard to leave the Rohirrim alone for at least this coming winter.

Believing in the age-old cognition that to be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace, Aragorn had already decided on different measures to strengthen Gondor’s stand. The Swan Fleet would be reinforced, as would be the harbour of Dol Amroth and the fords at Linhir. The delta of the Anduin had to be fortified, so that in future no enemy fleet would be able to sail upstream and endanger the heartland of Gondor.

It had also been decided to build up Gondor’s own mounted companies; not necessarily warriors fighting from the back of their steeds, but rather knights, travelling swiftly by horse and fighting on foot. Éomer promised to provide as many horses as needed as soon as possible after the great losses through the war. In the autumn the herds would return to graze on the plains of the East-Emnet. Before that they had to be counted. And they had to be guarded closely, because the Rohirrim feared that during the winter months hungry Orcs would leave their hideouts in the Emyn Muil and the Hithaeglir and try to slaughter the horses in their attempt to get food. For a Rohír the sheer thought was sickening. He wouldn’t eat the flesh of a horse as he wouldn’t eat the flesh of a human.

Deep into their discussion, into an exchange of opinions and the weighing up of possibilities, none of the four men paid any attention to the time passing by. Éomer was just explaining the necessity of altering the usual Gondorian weaponry for the mounted knights, when a long-stretched, canine-like growl interrupted him. First he looked under the table, then at Aragorn.

“Did you get yourself a dog?”

Three pairs of eyes settled on the Steward of Gondor. Faramir grinned sheepishly.

“My apologies. I only had a hasty and frugal meal this morning.”

His uncle took a look out of the window to check the position of the sun.

“It is well into the afternoon,” Imrahil discovered, his voice showing some surprise. “Perhaps we should take a break here and find us all something to eat.”

“You are right,” Aragorn agreed and got up to stretch himself. “I imagine you all are hungry, and if we tarry much longer, the Hobbits are sure to have eaten me out of house and home.”

Imrahil laughed out loud, something the dignified Lord of Dol Amroth did not often do.

“Those little men never cease to amaze me: be it for the amount of food they are able to take in, or for their courage and strength. And most of the time I forget that they are men and view them rather as children. One tends to forgive whatever mischief they are up to.”

The mention of children reminded Éomer that there was something else he had to bring up in this council.

He signed resignedly.

“Aragorn, yesterday Elfhelm spoke to the Warden of the Houses of Healing and was informed that my riders have left behind a . . . certain legacy.”

“That is what I heard, too. Your riders were rather popular with the womenfolk of Gondor.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“You to do? Right now? Nothing!” Aragorn shook his head. “Éomer, you are not answerable for everything and certainly not for what happens between a grown woman and a grown man.”

“But what about the children?”

“Time will tell if these children and their mothers need support: if so they are going to get the support. It is certainly not the most desirable consequence, but every army of men leaves behind this kind of legacy.”

Rohan’s King was not exactly satisfied with this decision, but right now he couldn’t offer any better idea.

“I had gathered that not only the Riders of Rohan were popular with the ladies, but their King also.”

This time Faramir had prepared himself for the fierce glare of the Rohír and did not give way. He just smirked and Éomer asked himself seriously if Éowyn would mind very much being bonded to a man with a multiple broken nose.

“So, nothing new there? Still favoured by the ladies, Éomer?” The King of Gondor leant against his desk, quite obviously enjoying his mockery of his younger friend. “Enviable. I remember a lovely lady at Dunharrow; and a not less lovely one at Cormallen and then here at Minas Tirith . . .”

“I think I had better take my leave before this gets bloody.” Éomer got up from his chair with some haste and retreated towards the door. There he turned to face the other men.

“As you are newly wed,” he jabbed his index finger in Aragorn’s direction, “you are the very last who should talk about envy in connection with this. And you,” he went on, his finger taking a new direction towards Faramir, “are betrothed to my sister. Therefore the same goes for you.”

He had his hand already on the door bolt, when, accompanied by the laughter of Gondor’s King and his Steward, Imrahil’s voice reached him.

“Then all we have to do is find you a wife.”

Éomer froze. Slowly he turned his head towards the Prince of Dol Amroth, staring at him in disbelief, searching his eyes for some ambiguity. But Imrahil’s expression had settled into a deliberate look of innocence, so similar to Amrothos’s that Éomer’s insides cringed in horror.

“The last thing I need at the moment, in addition to all my other problems, is a wife,” he announced firmly, and for a second time that day the door to the King’s study was slammed shut forcefully.

Outside Éomer lingered for a moment, taking a deep breath. It was probably good he was leaving the day after tomorrow, or some repairs to the mounting of the doors here at the Royal Palace might be necessary.

The entire family of Dol Amroth constantly caused his brain to become highly confused. Why had Imrahil mentioned him needing a wife? And why hadn’t he confronted him – as everybody had assumed he would – regarding his calamitous behaviour towards his daughter? Bema, he could just hope that the Elven blood running in his veins, no matter how thin, didn’t enable the Prince to read other’s minds. That would be his doom!

Éomer set off for the outside, not quite sure where he should be heading. He knew that Lothíriel was expecting him at the Houses of Healing, and she and Elfhelm were right. It would be good for morale of the maimed men to be paid a visit by their Marshal . . . former Marshal . . . their King. But with them would be most likely the Princess of Dol Amroth and seeing her again may mean provoking another misfortune in their hapless dealings with each other.

On the other hand: he had a bone to pick with her!

TBC

Somewhere on his way through the halls Éomer took a wrong turn and ended up outside the southern gate of the Palace. The two guards on duty there recognized him and saluted him after the manner of Gondor with an outstretched hand and a bowing of the head. He acknowledged them and headed left towards the great court of the citadel, passing the White Tower of Ecthelion. The shining stone of the place around the fountain and the newly planted sapling was gleaming in the afternoon sun, reflecting the heat and causing the air to shimmer. There was not the slightest breeze, and after just 400 feet, when he reached the tunnel leading down to the sixth level, Éomer felt thoroughly cooked. The tunnel itself provided shade, but the great number of torches lighting it, converted it into a long narrow oven. Not even three days in Minas Tirith and he was longing for the rain and the winds of Edoras.

Emerging from the tunnel next to the royal stables, he was welcomed by the familiar and, to his nose, most agreeable odour of horses. He was tempted to visit Firefoot. He hadn’t seen his mount since arriving at the White City and hoped his from time to time not quite sensible horse hadn’t maimed any of the stable-lads. He knew that there was a general belief that the huge grey was part warg, something he couldn’t quite understand. He found his stallion perfectly amiable. He remembered with regret that he had forgotten to pocket the piece of honey cake he saved for the horse when he shoved the Princess out of his chamber. Now he had to find another treat before he could visit his companion.

From his position in front of the gate to the stables he could see the high walls that ensured the Houses of Healing seclusion and quietness. The building complex could have been as white and lifeless as everything in Minas Tirith had it not been for the lush green of the tall old trees towering above the wall coping and interlocking ridges of the roofs. Once before he had made his way from the stables to the Healers’ domain, seeking only some dressing materials but finding a constant disturbance to his mind.

Éomer walked slowly along the flagstone-paved street, making use of the shade cast by the seventh level wall above him. When he arrived at the ornamental portal he recognized the same gatekeeper who had received him with some reluctance that night all those months ago.

And the old man recognized him. Not as the injured warrior he would have rather sent away, but as the King of Rohan. Éomer wished he hadn’t gained the prominence he now enjoyed since Aragorn had announced him publicly as his friend and brother-in-arms. It was a real nuisance being recognised everywhere. Even here the grumpy gatekeeper jumped up from his bench and bowed low. Hang these Gondorians and their affectations!

“Greetings my Lord. What may I do for you?”

“Good day, . . . Arom, is it not?”

The man stared at him, wondering why the King of the Horselords knew his name. Éomer had surprised himself by remembering it.

“Where can I find the Rohirrim who are still in the keeping of the healers?”

“At this time of the day most of them should be in the gardens, my Lord. Do you wish me to guide you to them?”

“No, I will find my way if you tell me how to get there.”

The old man pointed across the paved yard towards an archway, which, as Éomer recalled, led to the extensive gardens of the Houses of Healing.

“Walk across the lawn, my Lord, and under the arcades turn right. That leads you to the patio where you should find your kinsmen.”

Éomer thanked the man with a nod, taking the way he had gone once before, but then of course he had been led by the gatekeeper.  He remembered that Lothíriel had stepped out of the shadow of the arcade. He had been surprised by the youth of the healer. When he followed her to the treatment chamber, he had wondered how she managed to walk so overly-erect but smoothly at the same time.  And he couldn’t help but think that from the moment he had stepped over the threshold into the chamber he had started to lose control of the situation.

Following the path the old man had shown him, he could hear voices getting louder, conversing and laughing. It sounded rather cheerful. Making his way around some hanging plants he was presented by a sight he hadn’t quite expected.

A group of men, some sitting on stone benches surrounding a well-kept lawn, others in chairs spread out over the grass, seemed to have gathered for a light meal. Baskets with fruits were being passed around and on a low table sat a large tea-brewer and a not quite matching set of earthen mugs.

All the men wore a more or less similar kind of loose pants and simple linen shirt. Their beards and long hair in different shades of blond made it easy to identify them as Rohirrim.

It took at least a second look to realize that the men of this laidback group all were marked by war. Lothíriel had given him the actual numbers, which he couldn’t now remember, but what he could recall were the kind of injuries she had specified: smashed bones, broken spines and the loss of limbs. On closer scrutiny he made out the empty sleeves and trouser legs and that two of the men were held up by leather straps against the back of their chairs.

These men had been riders. They had lost their lives as they had known them since they were born. What was he supposed to tell them? He hadn’t really thought about it. He had come here with his thoughts elsewhere, certainly not with these men. Lothíriel and Elfhelm had insisted that they needed to see him, that it would be good for their morale if their king spoke to them. Not that they looked as if they needed a lot of cheering up at the moment. They appeared well looked after and quite content. Whatever he was able to tell them about their forthcoming journey home and of what would await them in the Riddermark could trample their morale as the mûmakil had trampled their éoreds.

Éomer glanced at the men with apprehension. He would have preferred to confront a tenth of their number, armed and hostile, than meet them like this. While he was contemplating how to announce himself without having to make a big fuss, he saw Elfhelm among the convalescents. Usually hard to miss, his Marshal had been squatting in front of one of the seated men and was just now getting up, stretching himself. He spoke to somebody kneeling next to him; somebody in a plain, grey gown with a thick braid hanging down her back. Before he was able to make out what the Princess was doing there, he was spotted by one of the Rohirrim.

“Éomer King!”

So much for making no fuss about his visit. Suddenly everybody seemed to be shouting his name and hailing the new king. Whoever was able to get to his feet did so. Now there was nothing else to do but to walk over to the men. He tried to catch Elfhelm’s gaze and received an approving grin from his Marshal.

The decision how to greet them was taken from him by the first Rohír who approached him. Éomer recognized the gaunt man. Every year in spring he had delivered the yearlings chosen from the herds grazing on the East-Emnet for training to Aldburg. Never had he made a mistake. All his choices had proven to become solid battle horses.

“Ealric!”

“Ay, my Lord Éomer.”

The man grinned and extended his left hand. Éomer was quick enough in his reaction and clasped Ealric’s forearm with his left. The right sleeve was empty from the shoulder down, and the man obviously had problems standing upright. Éomer waited for him to pull his arm back first, not to throw him off balance.

“Ready to go back to your yearlings?”

“Can hardly wait, my Lord. Stone piled on stone is not meant for me.”

Éomer went from man to man greeting everyone with an arm clasp. Some of the faces looked familiar, but even as the Third Marshal responsible for the Eastmark, he had met most of the herdsmen hardly more than once a year. But he knew what a great loss the death of so many of them on the Pelennor Fields meant for the Mark.

Finally the men settled back into their seats, still showing excitement at having their king in their midst. Said King couldn’t quite comprehend why his sheer presence seemed to cause such enthusiasm. He walked over to Elfhelm, who had helped Lothíriel back to her feet. Behind the folds of her gown he saw another man sitting somehow slumped in his chair. When Éomer extended his arm in greeting he raised his own with obvious difficulty.

“I am named Hleogar, Ilfridsson, my Lord.”

“I remember your name: the Princess mentioned it once before.”

The lack of understanding in the man’s expression reminded Éomer that his kinsmen weren’t aware of the true identity of their healer and keeper.

“We are honoured, my Lord, that you found the time to come and talk to us.”

“I should have found the time earlier, and on our journey back to the Riddermark, there shall be more time to be found.”

Lothíriel hadn’t understood the words spoken in Rohirric, but she had observed the scene closely and seemed quite satisfied. She smiled at Éomer as if the rough conclusion of their last encounter hadn’t happened.

“I told you so,” she said in a quiet tone. “Your visit means much to your kinsmen and does them good.”

Éomer’s mouth tilted wryly.

“Has anybody ever mentioned to you that the words I told you so do not give rise to an overly great appreciation of those who use them?”

She didn’t answer right away, appearing to consider his words.

“If that is so, my Lord, then it is because those at whom the words are aimed do not like that they were proven wrong.”

“And you are always right?”

“No, not necessarily.” She said, sounding deliberately thoughtful. “But I am trying to conceal it.”

Despite himself, Éomer laughed. He was aware that Elfhelm was watching them and became slightly suspicious of his Marshal’s reason for being there. Surely he hadn’t really expected him to do the Princess bodily harm?

“You have arranged for appropriate means of travel for these men?”

“The Steward will provide wagons and draught animals,” the Marshal replied and then couldn’t help himself asking: “The council?”

Éomer’s answer was just a short nod but one couldn’t fail to notice the relief it brought to Elfhelm’s features. From the corner of his eyes his King saw Lothíriel open her mouth. He swung his head around to face her, pointing a finger in the direction of her nose.

“Do not say a word,” he commanded sharply, surprising his Marshal more than the Princess with the tone of his voice and his rather rude gesture.

Lothíriel tilted her head very slightly to the side, tapping her fingertips together, her hands making a hollow triangle in front of her belly. The very picture of serenity and demureness.

“I had just wished to express my satisfaction that comfortable means of transport have been found.”

“And you are expecting me to believe that?”

“Are you questioning my word, my Lord?”

“Yes, my Lady!”

Now they had not only Elfhelm’s attention but also that of the other Rohirrim. They watched with a kind of concerned fascination.

Éomer had suspected the Princess enjoyed trading puns. What she obviously did not find agreeable was doing it with an audience. Realising that they were being watched, she backed down and her demeanour changed.

“I imagine you now wish to spend time in the company of your kinsmen. I shall leave you. Éomer King. My Lord Elfhelm.” She bowed her farewell and turned towards the building, but Éomer called after her:

“Princess!”

She looked back, without a doubt not happy that he had used her title.

“If you please, I wish to have a word with you later.”

She gave him an incredulous look and then simply nodded.

“You will find me in one of the treatment chambers over at the Great Courtyard.”

When she had disappeared into the next doorway he saw Elfhelm giving him a doubtful look.

“Do not be alarmed, my Lord Marshal,” he said in a low voice only meant for the other man’s ears. “I have decided not to break her neck after all.”

“Well now, I must say I am quite relieved,” Elfhelm replied wryly. Éomer left it at that and found himself a place between his kinsmen.

“Would you like some tea, my Lord?” one of the men offered. “It should be still quite hot.”

“No, thank you. I think I had enough tea already today. But if you do not mind, I will take some of the fruit. I have not eaten all day. Well, at least not since the early morning.”

A basket was passed to him and he took an apple and some plums.

“May I ask why you called the Mistress Lothíriel Princess, my Lord?” It was Ealric who dared to ask.

Éomer had just bitten into the apple therefore took his time to answer. Lothíriel wouldn’t probably like her patients to know about her ancestry. She had attached great importance to the fact that within the walls of the Houses of Healing she was just one of the healers. But these men in her keeping would leave early the day after tomorrow; therefore no harm would be done if they learnt who had been caring for them over the past four months.

“She is the daughter of the Lord of Dol Amroth, a princess of the Realm of Gondor.”

He watched the men digesting this information. The whole lot of them looked rather dumbfounded.

“Ehhh . . . she does not behave like a princess,” Ealric finally declared.

“But she looks like one,” someone else pointed out.

Elfhelm chuckled. “How, in your opinion, is a princess supposed to behave?”

“I have no inkling.” Ealric again. “We do not have princesses in the Riddermark.”

“Éomer King’s mother was a princess,” another voice put in.

“But she was Lord Éomund’s wife.”

Éomer wasn’t quite certain if he had to take that statement as an insult towards his father or as a compliment to his mother. He realized that some of the men were old enough to have known his parents, as they had resided in Aldburg for many years. He looked at Elfhelm who just shrugged his shoulders.

“Whatever she is, Mistress Lothíriel took very good care of us.” It was Hleogar who sounded as if he felt he had to defend his healer. “She was always there when we needed her. She was more than just our keeper.”

The other men murmured their approval.

“But she has been . . . sometimes . . . bossy,” somebody felt necessary to add, if only with reluctance.

“That is not true. She only forces us to do what is best for us.”

Éomer turned around to his kinsman who had given the last comment.

“What kind of force has she been using?”

“Well, forcing may not be the right word,” the man admitted, “but it is really hard to refuse to do something if she insists upon it.”

That certainly was an insight not to be disputed. Éomer recalled quite well ending up in a big tub with hot water even though he had not wanted to take a bath. At least not in a treatment chamber of the Houses of Healing. And that particular bath could have easily ended in a disaster. He was rather certain that Lothíriel did not have the slightest idea how close she had really come to having her neck snapped. A single movement of his hand and she would have been dead.

He searched the basket for another apple, and found to his delight, some carrots at the bottom. He picked them out to pocket them. Ealric saw him.

“Firefoot, my Lord?”

“Yes, indeed. I plan to see him later to make sure that he has not injured anybody seriously and that his stall is still keeping up with him.”

“A fine steed. As big and strong as a good horse should be. And devoted to his master.”

“I wish he were a bit less devoted to his master and a bit more gentle to others,” Elfhelm interjected, rubbing his upper arm in memory of a bite he had received from the grey stallion: just because he had been careless enough to approach Éomer from behind. That big beast guarded his master’s back as fiercely as a watchdog.

“He is not supposed to be gentle to anyone. He is a war horse, for Bema’s sake.” Éomer had trained his stallion himself since he had been a yearling. He loved his rugged companion who had taken to his master even though he seemed to despise the rest of mankind.

“How are the herds, my Lord?” Ealric asked.

“Not any worse than last autumn. But we cannot keep them in the Eastfold any longer. They have to be moved back across the Entwash onto the grazing land of the East-Emnet.”

“Will they be safe there?”

“The organized raids from Mordor have ceased, of course. But there are still many Orcs hiding in the Emyn Muil and we have to be on constant watch.”

“Do we have enough men to guard the herds?”

“Marshal Elfhelm will send an éored from the Eastfold as reinforcement for the herdsmen. That is all we can spare at the moment.”

“How is the Mark, my Lord?”

“You will find the Eastmark hardly any different from the time when you followed Théoden King to Mundburg. The destruction of the Westmark is devastating. There is no settlement in the far West not burnt to the ground. This autumn there will be no harvest. But the loss of life is not as great as we first feared. Most peasants have returned from their sanctuaries.”

“But if there is no harvest, my Lord, what will happen in the winter?”

“King Elessar has agreed to aid us. Gondor will send provisions. Nobody will starve. The reconstruction of housing now has priority. Women and children have to be given adequate shelter for the winter. For the years to come, hard work awaits all of us.”

“There is not going to be anything useful we are able to do,” stated one of the herdsmen, sounding self-mocking and resigned. There were some inarticulate noises from other men, probably made to underline that they shared the speaker’s view.

“So you are going to sit on your asses instead and let others do the work?”

Nobody had ever claimed that Éomer was the personification of sensitiveness, but this statement was rather harsh even for him. But he went with his instincts. He had no idea what he would want to hear if he were in the place of these men, but he had a fairly good idea what he wouldn’t want to hear. He wouldn’t want to be told that he was useless and a burden to others.

After a short moment of shocked silence Ealric extended his right leg towards him.

“And what else can I do other than sit on my ass with this?”

Éomer looked at the leg. Where once had been a foot was now a bandaged lump.

“Have you lost your brain together with your arm and your foot?” He looked into the eyes of the herdsman. There was no hurt or shock, but speechlessness.

“Have you lost your ability to assess a horse? Have you lost all your knowledge and all your experience?”

He let his gaze wander from one man to the other. They looked uncertain and he couldn’t tell if they didn’t know what to say or if they didn’t dare to speak their mind in front of their king. Elfhelm had a rather baffled impression himself about Éomer’s rough approach to the matter but he nodded encouragingly.

“Do you know who is tending the herds nowadays? Lads of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years. Your sons! The sons of the men buried here on Pelennor Field. Soon they will have learnt to do the work of a man . . . physically. But they will not be able to catch up on the years and years of your experience in just a few months. After you have returned to the plains, you will have to guide them, to teach them. Only with the strength of their bodies and with your knowledge and experience together will we be able to provide the best of care for our herds.”

He gestured towards Ealric’s maimed leg.

“You are not expected to mount a horse, to go out and guard the herds yourself. But you are expected to go on and use your knowledge as you have always done. You will choose the horses for training and you will separate those for breeding. If you cannot go out to the horses to assess them, then the horses will have to be brought to you. You have to figure out the best way to do it. I am just telling you what is going to be your task. How you proceed is up to you.”

With a sweeping gesture of his arm he included all the men sitting around him.

“That goes for all of you. We have lost too many of our kinsmen over the last year. I cannot and I will not allow any of you to back out of his obligation towards our people. You have already sacrificed much, but others sacrificed even more when they gave their lives. Their families have been left behind and must be taken care of. Everybody has to do his bit to ensure the future of our people. I will make sure that you get anything necessary, anything within reason you ask for when you have returned to the Mark. But do not forget to ask yourself what you have to give.”

Had he been alone Éomer would have probably puffed out his cheeks, exhaled and just sagged after his last words. He had never been very keen on giving these kind of speeches. He had never been in the habit of marshalling his words ahead. He would just say what felt right at the moment. Usually it had worked in preparing his riders for battle against the forces of Isengard. If it had worked to encourage these men to take on the life that lay before them, he did not know. He had to wait to see what was going to happen.

For a long moment there was silence on the patio. They had been given some heavy fare to digest and the one who fed it to them began asking himself if he would have been better serving it in smaller portions. But then the first started to speak, not to all of them in general, but to his kinsman next to him. Soon there was a hesitant murmur, the men talking amongst themselves. The voices were getting louder, more confident, acknowledging the truth in the words of the King, the sense behind them. It didn’t take too long before a discussion arose on what had to be done to adapt to the life lying before them. There was still despondency, still doubt if it was possible to live a life on the plains as maimed as they were, but at least they were talking about it and taking it into consideration. This would not be the last time he would speak to them, that Éomer knew. As he had told Lothíriel, there would be plenty of time on the journey back to Rohan.

He sought out Elfhelm who had been standing at the periphery of the group. He walked over to his Marshal.

“Well, you do have your way of forcing a bitter potion down a throat,” Elfhelm said quietly.

“Any better idea, my Lord Marshal?” Éomer retorted.

“What made you say those things?”

“I just followed my instinct and said what felt right at that moment.”

“It was the right thing to say, Éomer . . .King.”

The two men grinned, somehow both relieved to have this first step behind them. Letting his gaze wander around, Éomer did a quick count.

“Were there not about sixty men still in the keeping of the healers? These are not even half of them.”

“The ones who are able bodied were allowed to leave the Houses of Healing for the day to go down into the White City to find some amusement.”

Éomer snorted. “Let us hope they only drink their heads off.”

Two healers approached them. As Lothíriel had done they had made concession to the heat and were wearing neither tunic nor veil. Both were in their middle ages, their dark hair already streaked by grey. They were tall, lean and strong, much more suited for the strenuous work of a healer than the delicate Princess of Dol Amroth.

“My Lords,” one of them addressed them, “the men have to return to the wards for various treatments before it is time for their late meal to be provided.”

“Of course, Mistress. Please carry out your duties.”

The women went to their patients and gave some instructions, and one by one, those who were able to, got up and made their way slowly inside after bidding their farewells to their King and their Marshal. Only the two men strapped to their chairs remained behind.

“Soon somebody will come to take you back to your ward,” one of the healers assured the men.

Elfhelm stepped forward. “Can we be of help, Mistress?”

The women looked at each other hesitantly, but then one gestured towards the waiting men.

“Will you carry them, my Lords?”

“Of course.”

After the healers had opened the belts, King and Marshal each swept one of their kinsmen up without any difficulties. Their long suffering had cost the men a lot of weight.

The man Éomer was carrying looked somehow awkward but then grinned. “Well, I never thought I would see the day when my King carried me like a sack of grain.”

“Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder?” Éomer offered.

“I do not think the Mistress Healer will agree.”

They followed the women to one of the sick wards where already some of the others had arrived. After being shown the assigned bed, Éomer laid his load down. The man was totally shattered, without any control over his limbs. Grey-blue eyes out of a gaunt face looked up at him.

“And you think I am still useful, my Lord?”

Nothing had prepared him for situations like this; nothing could ever have done so. Éomer gave the man a grim smile.

“You know the life of a herdsman better than I do. Think about what your contribution can be, what your abilities are. And then we will talk again when we are on our way back home.”

With a nod he left the bedside.

Éomer and Elfhelm left the ward, returning to the patio where several domestics had begun gathering the chairs and leftovers from the light meal.

“I cannot help wondering,” Elfhelm said thoughtfully, “if it would have been less cruel if those two men had been granted a merciful death.”

“You had better not say that within earshot of the Princess or she might disembowel you on the spot.” Remembering last night’s conversation with Lothíriel, he laughed. “No, she will not draw blood. She will feed you hemlock.”

When he saw the lack of understanding in Elfhelm’s eyes, he explained: “That is what she threatened me with.”

His Marshal raised his eyebrows.

“I suppose she had a valid reason.”

Éomer chose not to answer that. He looked around.

“Now, where is the Great Courtyard?”

Elfhelm groaned. “Do you really think it a good idea to seek out the Princess?”

That earned him a frown from his King.

“I told you I am not going to kill her. But there are a couple of things I have to settle. Well, you have been here before quite often. Therefore you must know where the so-called Great Courtyard is located.”

The last conclusion was easily translated into a request. The Marshal didn’t look comfortable but pointed towards an archway opening to a covered walk.

“That will take you directly to the courtyard.”

The King of Rohan bade him farewell, leaving his Marshal behind. Just before he was about to walk through the archway, Elfhelm called after him.

“My Lord Éomer, remember: the healers prefer it quiet and peaceful within their domain.”

The so addressed looked back over his shoulder.

“And you feel you have to mention that to me: why?”

Without waiting for a reply he continued his way along the walk. The Great Courtyard turned out to be a large square lawn with a tall tree in its centre. Around the edges stone benches invited the passer-by to rest, and the walls of the surrounding buildings were overgrown by ivy and wisteria. Despite the heat and the blazing sun that must have lain on the yard most of the day, all the plants were fresh and green. They had obviously been watered regularly. Éomer could easily understand why the Princess felt more comfortable here than in the Royal Palace, where even the lush gardens had a much more formal setting.

But where was she? There were eight carved doors, two on each side, leading into the buildings. One was half open and behind it Éomer could hear a chopping noise. He walked up to the door and quietly pushed it wide open. It was indeed Lothíriel, standing at a workbench on the opposite wall, her back turned to him. He couldn’t make out what she was doing. Only that her right forearm moved up and down rapidly in time with the noise he had heard. On her left lay a heap of chopped, bright orange blossoms.

“Why are you mutilating those poor flowers?”

It said a lot about her that she did not jump and shriek, just stopped her chopping and after a couple of breaths turned and glared at him. It was such an unfitting and unexpected expression that Éomer couldn’t help laughing.

“Éomer King!”

"Correct identification!”

“You may find this amusing, my Lord.” She raised the index finger of her left hand. “But I nearly cut off my finger.” Indeed, in her right hand she held an impressive knife, the size of a dagger.

“I regret startling you, my Lady. It was not my intention.”

Lothíriel looked unimpressed by this apology.

“I would not have expected somebody as large as you, my Lord, to be able to move so stealthily.”

“I was not overly quiet, but you made a lot of noise shredding those blossoms. What have they done to you to deserve such treatment?”

Without invitation he crossed the room to stand beside her, eyeing the workbench.

“They are marigolds and I need them for a salve,” Lothíriel explained. She gestured behind her, where on a small hearth an oily substance was simmering in a double boiler.

Éomer took some of the chopped petals with his fingers, holding them to his nose.

“A salve made of mutilated blossoms. What is that suppose to be good for?”

“It is good for leaking or infected wounds such as the one you had and for which I used it.”

She had swung the knife around, directing it towards the area of his former wound, the point of it just a finger’s width from his rib cage.

Éomer looked down at the razor sharp instrument and then back up straight into Lothíriel’s eyes. He smiled slowly.

“Tempting, is it not?” he asked in a low voice.

“No! Not at all,” she answered. She seemed slightly upset by her own action and put the knife a bit too forcefully down on the workbench.

“Your meeting with your kinsmen went well, my Lord?” she asked politely.

“That depends presumably on the point of view of the respective beholder.”

There was a short silence.

“No further inquiries, my Lady?” Éomer finally asked.

“No, it is not necessary.” When he raised his eyebrows in mocking surprise, she added in a smug tone: “Your kinsmen will tell me everything tonight.”

Before Éomer had the chance to digest that, she went on, perhaps a bit rushed: “You wished a word, my Lord. May I ask what about?”

She must be expecting the worst, because she looked somehow wary, as if trying to brace herself against attack. She had good reason.

“I came for an answer to the question I asked you yesterday.”

His pleasant tone seemed to make her even more suspicious but he had to admit in her favour that she truly looked as if she had no idea what he was getting at.

“You had several questions, and as far as I remember I gave you answers.”

“Except to the last. All you said was that I would not want to know the answer.”

Apprehension was showing in her eyes. “My father spoke to you.”

“I spent most of the day in company of your father, but no, that subject did not come up.”

“Then why do you come back to that particular question?”

“Lothíriel,” he hissed, irritated; only peripherally noticing that he had used neither her royal nor her healer’s title. “Are you so reckless or just naive?”

Obviously she didn’t like either of the descriptions referring to her character. One of her small frowns settled between her eyebrows, but before she could reply Éomer went on, trying his best not to let his temper slip.

“Last night – and I really cannot comprehend why only then – you must have finally become aware that your father, if he learns that you have behaved with a lack of demureness or are found in a compromising situation, would not just simply send you back to Dol Amroth, but force you into a bond with the man, whoever it may be, who was involved in that breach of propriety.”

He didn’t give her the time to disentangle this sentence.

“Now just tell me,” he ordered finally exasperated, “what made you do something so brainless as to come to my bedchamber this morning?”

“As I told you, I felt I needed to speak to you before you met with my father. And I didn’t want to do it somewhere in the corridors, risking being seen in your company and therefore provoking more inquiries into our dealings with each other.”

It was somehow frustrating that she always managed to keep this reasonable tone of hers, even when she was trying to explain her highly unreasonable behaviour.

“So you rather took the risk of being seen in my bedchamber – or even just entering my bedchamber.” Incredulity coloured Éomer's voice.

“It was what Amrothos calls a calculated risk.”

He heard something very strange and realized it was the sound of his teeth grinding together.

“My Lady, the very last person in the known world from whom you should take wisdoms of life is your brother Amrothos.”

“He is . . .  a good brother,” Lothíriel said, obviously thinking she ought at least to try to come to her brother’s defence.

“That is definitely debatable,” he snapped, “but does not matter at the moment anyway, because this morning you made a miscalculation. You were seen by Lord Elfhelm.”

“He is your Marshal. Certainly you can explain to him why I was in your chamber.”

“You want me to tell Elfhelm that we are trying to hide something from your father?”

“It is not within my discretion to tell you how to deal with your Marshal.”

“But once again your behaviour forces me to twist the truth. Or shall we say peel the layers of the truth down to its basics?”

“And I thought this shambles emerged mainly because of your disproportionately bad behaviour of last night!” she returned sharply.

He gazed down at her. Press her too hard – accuse her unfairly – and she would fight back. He loved to bring her out of her shell of poise and sobriety. There was something more hiding behind her facade and that gleam in her beautiful eyes held promise.

“Are you aware, my Lady,” he asked with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to get her attention, “that it could easily have been your father instead of Lord Elfhelm, to whom we might have had to give an explanation?”

His words made him remember what Elfhelm had said earlier that morning, and with a deep frown he repeated them, more to himself: “. . . the explanation was cordially noted.” His voice trailed off and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Lothíriel had watched him, slightly irritated by his mental leap.

“Why should my father come to the guest wing?” she asked dismissively. “He has his chambers on the opposite side of the palace. He prefers the evening sun,” she added in clarification.

“He was coming to make sure I had not overslept after that glittering feast, and had Elfhelm not met him on his way and offered to come himself, then it would have been your father knocking on my door!”

"Oh," she said after a pause in a voice as small as he had ever heard it from her.

“Yes, oh, indeed.”

He watched her. Her eyes had settled somewhere on his chest, unseeing. There was the tiny frown again, precisely above the bridge of her nose and she was gnawing the inside of her lower lip, a rather childlike habit. He could almost see her thoughts travelling to and fro behind her forehead. Eventually they came to a conclusion. Her tongue soothed over her nibbled lip and she looked up seeking his eyes.

“My Lord, I think it would be better if we avoided each other from now on. That should not be too difficult, as you are leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Éomer answered promptly, but at the same moment feeling an unwelcome emptiness, as if he had been denied something elemental.

“It would have even been wise for you not to have come this afternoon to confront me. After all, we are once more on our own in a room.”

“Indeed, but at least I left the door wide open,” Éomer pointed out, feeling a bit at a loss. There was, he realized dimly, something deflating about her willingness to evade him from now on without any obvious regret.

“I could hardly have left the door to your bedchamber open,” Lothíriel reasoned, leaving him with the distinct impression that she still hadn’t gotten the essential point of their dilemma.

“My Lady, I think you have to . . . “

He was interrupted by a sizzle from the direction of the hearth.

Lothíriel whirled around.

“My salve!”

She hastened over to the hearth, grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring the contents of the pot. Then she took a plate and spooned some of the substance on it. After it had cooled down a bit she rubbed it with a finger, testing its texture.

“Still too solid,” she murmured.

Éomer got the feeling that she had almost immediately forgotten his presence. She was now totally focused on her work. But he didn’t mind at all. He just stepped back to watch her . . . he enjoyed watching her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have this opportunity again. There was precision and economy in her movements, and her very own grace, which had appealed to him from the moment she had led him across the lawn towards the treatment chamber.

She poured oil from a dark flask into the pot, stirred again and repeated the testing. She was still dissatisfied and mumbled something under her breath he couldn’t understand. She bent down to search for something on the shelves underneath the workbench. The heat of the day and the heat from the hearth combined must have left her covered with a fine film of sweat under her gown. Obviously with not even a chemise underneath, it stuck to her back, her hips and her buttocks, leaving Éomer with an exceedingly pleasing view and a serious stirring in his groin.

Lothíriel had succeeded with her search and she emerged with another flask struggling to pull out the cork. As much as she tugged and twisted, it wouldn’t give way. Probably her fingers were slightly sweaty as well. Watching her battle he tried his hardest to maintain a straight face, but when she looked at him finally, she caught his amusement.

“I highly suggest you do not laugh,” she hissed, and then, instead of asking for his help as she had surely intended to, she doubled her efforts.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Éomer offered, proud of himself: his voice didn’t even hint at his mirth. He took a step towards her and at that very moment, when he tried to take hold of the flask, the cork came off, followed by a fountain of oil spraying Lothíriel’s face.

She gave a strangled noise, leaning right forward to keep the oil from dripping on her gown, her arms spread out to the sides, one hand holding the flask, the other the cork. In whatever positions he had seen her in his imagination, this was certainly not one of them. It looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Do not dare laugh,” she fumed.

“I am not laughing!” He was just glad that, given her posture, she was not able to look into his face. Not only the ridiculousness of the situation but also Lothíriel of Dol Amroth grinding her teeth in an effort to save what was left of her composure was a sight to behold.

“Hand me a cloth . . . please.” She gestured with the cork, hand towards one of the corners, where there was a stove with a cauldron, similar to the one in the chamber where she had treated him. On the mantelpiece Éomer found a neatly folded stack of cloths. He grabbed a couple and handed one to Lothíriel after having retrieved the flask and cork from her grasp.

He watched wordlessly as she pressed the cloth to her face, trying to dab off the oil. He had an inkling that this was one of those moments that no matter what he said, it would be the wrong thing. Therefore he just waited until she reappeared from behind the cloth. Finally she gathered herself, drew a deep breath and lowered it. Again she surprised him. Instead of anger or her customary mask of serenity, as he had expected, there was a hint of embarrassment in her eyes and a good portion of self-mockery.

“At least it was marigold oil. That is good for the skin.”

Only now Éomer allowed the grin, which had threatened to invade his features to break free. There must have been something infectious about his smile, because she answered it with such a wide un-ladylike grin of her own, one he had never guessed she possessed, and he had to quash firmly the sudden desire to kiss her. Being honest, he had to admit it was not a sudden but a constant desire. Perhaps this was the right moment to take his leave.

Lothíriel had watched his grin fade whilst his eyes were locked on her face. She – thankfully – misunderstood his changing expression.

“Is something wrong with my face?”

He couldn’t help laughing at that phrasing.

“No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your face, except,” he added in Rohirric, “that it is much too beautiful for my peace of mind.”

Hearing the foreign words her gaze turned suspicious.

“What is it?” she demanded emphatically.

“Well,” he diverted, “there is still some oil around your nose and in your eyebrows.”

When she started to search the cloth in her hand for some unsoiled parts to try and clean the rest of the oil off, Éomer unfolded the other one in his hand and said without thinking, “Let me.”

He took her chin between two of his fingers and his thumb and tilted her face upwards. Lothíriel blinked in surprise when he began to dab off the remains of the oil from around her nose and then gently wiped it out of her eyebrows. He kept his eyes on what he was doing, avoiding her gaze. She had been right. The oil was good for the skin. It looked smooth and soft like velvet.

Having finished his task, he simply couldn’t let her go. He lowered the cloth but kept her chin between his fingers. For a moment he did nothing but look at her. He just looked at her, memorizing the way her eyebrows arched into delicate wings and took in the large eyes growing even wider. Perhaps he wouldn’t see her again, at least not for some time. This might be the last time he could study this face, the one he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind.

His eyes wouldn’t leave her features. His gaze captured hers and held it. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her face. His fingers trailed along her cheek, and all by itself, suddenly became a hand that cupped the back of her head. And then he couldn’t help it.

He kissed her

TBC

Éomer took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. She gasped at the first contact and he took advantage of her parted lips by sliding his tongue between them. He had wanted to taste her from the very first moment, . . . or at least from the moment she had cut his shirt off him. And now he found her sweet and salty and warm.

She stiffened slightly, but it seemed more to do with surprise than anything else, and so Éomer allowed one of his hands to slide down the length of her spine until it rested on the small of her back, pulling her closer against him. In response her arms slowly edged up, hesitantly gripping his tunic in the area of his hips. Encouraged he deepened his kiss, letting his tongue smooth its way along her palate, and then he heard a tiny moan forming in her throat, its faint breeze caressing the cavity of his mouth.

This was insane. They were standing in a treatment chamber, ten feet from an open door through which at any moment somebody might enter. And yet, despite their previous conversation, and the possible consequences they had discussed, he couldn’t care less. Having her wrapped in his arms and pressed against his body felt even better than he had imagined.

He slowly pulled back from her; just enough so that he could touch her chin again and tilt her face up towards him. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that were dazed, certainly no longer cool and composed. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips still lightly parted and swollen from his kiss.

It took a moment before her gaze focused on his face and for once she had no comment ready. Éomer waited for whatever was to come, but she only looked at him and blinked; not just twice but again and again. She lifted a hand to her mouth, her fore, middle, and ring fingers just barely touching her lips. Finally she had managed to assemble enough air in her lung to expel a baffled “Oh!”

“Oh?” Éomer echoed, making this one syllable an unmistakeable request for clarification. He saw her swallow . . . and blink again.

“That was not what I would have expected,” she said with a voice filled with surprise.

“What would you have expected?” Knowing her well enough by now he almost dreaded her reply. And he had good reason.

“I always thought having another person’s tongue in my mouth would be rather disgusting.”

It was Éomer’s turn to stand with his mouth falling open ever so slightly. He must have lost his touch! That observation certainly was more prosaic than anything any other women ever had remarked after being kissed by him. But then he saw her eyes being drawn to his mouth.

“It was . . . pleasant. Amazingly pleasant,” she added.

Éomer fought the bubble of mirth rising from his throat. This was definitely not the time to laugh, but Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was indeed a strange and unearthly creature. Soul-stirringly beautiful, utterly desirable and completely unpredictable.

“I am relieved that you think so,” he murmured, waiting for her gaze to return to his eyes, “because I am going to kiss you again.”

And he leant towards her to do just that. Once hadn’t been enough. Twice wouldn’t be enough.

He wrapped one arm around her back, pulling her more deeply into his embrace. And she was melting against him. He could feel her, the entire length of her. He had held her in his arms before, the night she had treated him, but this time it had nothing to do with comfort. This time he allowed himself to explore. Her breasts pressed against him, separated from his chest only by the thin fabrics of their clothes. They were not lush and soft, as he had usually sought them out, but firm and well defined. Her whole body felt so different. He let his other hand slide down to cup her bottom. Her hips did not flare, but curved gently. He spread his fingers, letting them bite slightly into her derriere. It was just perfect.

Her hands had moved up to his shoulders to steady herself and then they were around his neck, one buried deeply into his thick hair. She was kissing him back. Innocent and inexperienced without a doubt, but she was definitely kissing him back. It made him feel like nothing ever before.

He growled softly and his kiss became fiercer. He could hardly believe it. She wanted him. She might not understand it, she might not know what to do with it, but she wanted him. And he wanted her so much that it should have terrified him.

He pulled her even closer into him. Somewhere along the way it had ceased to matter that this was not right; that this was not proper; that she was Imrahil’s daughter, whom he shouldn’t be groping in a place open to anyone, being on the verge of losing himself completely. All that mattered was his unprecedented hunger for her.

But soon a tiny devious voice whispering in the back of his mind was growing louder. And then he could understand what it was saying:

Mistake!

He was making a grave mistake.

Before his body could react to this voice of reason he suddenly felt Lothíriel’s hands planted on his chest bracing herself against him. Where her mouth had been soft and welcoming, now it was pressed into a firm line with her chin dropping down to her collarbone. Éomer’s lips trailed over her face, not quite ready to give up the contact, but when she pushed more insistently he let her go, all whilst he felt light-headed, even dizzy, as if he had held his breath for too long.

He watched her taking a couple of steps back, distancing herself from him. Her hands, with fingers spread, kept in front of her: obviously prepared to fend him off. For the moment she was staring at the floor and her breath came uneven and flat as if she had been running. Finally she raised her eyes, and he didn’t see confusion in them as he would have expected, but rather bafflement, as if something had utterly surprised her.

“That was . . . stupid,” she said, and there was the same surprise in her voice as was in her eyes.

And even though he had the feeling that stupid had not been the description she had intended to choose, he had to admit that a truer word had hardly ever been spoken! Of all the ill-advised foolishnesses he let himself be carried away with when it came to the Princess of Dol Amroth, this had beaten everything for stupidity.

Éomer inhaled deeply: trying to calm his own breathing. Never before had he been in a situation like this and he had not the slightest inkling how to handle it sensibly. Especially as sensibility wasn’t one of his stronger points, even under the best of circumstances.

“I apologize. I should not have done that.”

Not exactly an epitome of eloquence, but then he had never had to apologize for a kiss before; he had never kissed anybody to whom an apology might be necessary.

“No, we should not have done that,” she agreed, including herself into the misdemeanour as if it were only natural. Probably her sense of responsibility. She looked towards the door leading into the garden. “Even with the door open, I think that was the most compromising position so far.”

Did she just say so far? That choice of words indicated continuation and . . .

“Do you expect an extension, or perhaps improvement?” Éomer asked with heavy-handed sarcasm.

She blinked, obviously not understanding what he was getting at. But she picked up his change of mood and with her usual sincerity she hit back quite effectively.

“Are you angry with me again?”

“I am not angry with you.”

“Then you are angry with yourself which usually leads to you trying to bite my head off.”

“I can assure you at the moment I am not thinking of bringing any harm to your body.”

Not even Lothíriel could miss the lewdness of that remark.

“Why did you kiss me?” Dealing with her brothers had probably taught her that attack was the best means of defence.

“Why did you let me?” Not that defence tactics were something foreign to him.

“It took me by surprise.”

“Me kissing you, or you finding it amazingly pleasant?”

She looked as if she were seriously considering that question.

“Both, I think,” she answered after a short while.

She was probably the only woman in the whole of Middle-earth who would give an honest answer to such an impudent question.

“And it was really educational,” she added after another pause

“Educational?” he repeated, staring at her in disbelief. And she had accused him ofhaving the ability to disconcert her! “I have heard kissing described in many different words. So far educational had not been amongst them.”

“It is just . . . Finally the various pieces of my observations seem to reconcile.”

Éomer blinked. The bloody habit was contagious! Only with some difficulty did he manage to strangle out the next three words.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Virtually everybody seems to be so very keen on doing it. . . . The kissing, I mean,” she clarified. “Sometimes I have the feeling Amrothos is thinking of nothing else.”

“I doubt he is only thinking about the kissing,” Éomer murmured.

She didn’t take any notice of his interjection but went on as if giving a lecture on salve cooking. “It never added up. If you really think about it then it is rather unappetizing. I was always curious why people should find something like it worth striving for. Now I know it can be pleasant.”

“Curiosity about virtually anything appears to be part of your nature.” He didn’t even try not to let it sound like an accusation or to cut down on the sarcasm.

“You seem to consider it a bad trait. In my opinion it is a desirable one.” For a moment she looked as if she were tempted to substantiate her thesis. But all she finally said was: “Thank you!”

“What for?”

“For showing me what it is all about.”

Éomer went still. She talked about those kisses as if they had been done as some kind of research and thanked him for lending a helping hand.

This couldn’t be true. She simply couldn’t be that detached. When he had kissed her he had felt her desire. She hadn’t been untouched by it. The kiss hadn’t just satisfied some kind of obscure curiosity. She had felt the same passion, the same hunger, the same lust as he had. Perhaps she hadn’t really understood it, but it had been definitely there.

Éomer’s quick anger surfaced. She was not going to fool him or herself. He was going to prove that he was not the only one overcome by desire and longing.

“Perhaps I can satisfy your curiosity some more,” Éomer said, capturing her attention with his suddenly soft and seductive tone, “and educate you even further on this subject.”

And then, before she even had a chance to utter a word, before she even had a chance to draw a breath, he crashed her against him and his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hungry searing kiss. He was none of the things he should have been with an innocent like her. He wasn’t gentle; he wasn’t seductive; he wasn’t teasing. He just kissed her with everything he had.

For a moment her body became rigid as a statue but then he felt her arms going around his neck and holding on for all she was worth. She wanted him! Whatever explanation she might come up with about kissing him back and not even making an attempt to stop him, he wouldn’t believe it. Now he definitely knew better, and he was sure, innocent and inexperienced or not, she knew as well. He had just proved it to her.

His heart pounded harder and his body began to tighten. Somehow they were against a wall and he could barely breathe as his hands crept up and around, skimming over her ribs. He let them come to rest just beneath her breast. He felt her heart racing against his palm.

At the same time he let his mouth break from hers, dipping to taste the line of her jaw and the base of her throat. He flattened his tongue against the hollow and could feel her rapid pulse behind her silky, salty-tasting skin. She made a soft moaning sound, the sort that came from the very bottom of one’s throat. He loved that sound of her voice: hoarse and uncontrolled with desire. Now he was certain that hidden behind this cool and composed facade, overruled by her incessantly working mind, lay a deep and rare sensuality to be explored.

He found her mouth again and let his hands slip upwards, cupping her breasts and squeezing them gently. He could feel her nipples harden against his palms even through the fabric of her garb. She arched against his body. It took everything in him, every last ounce of restraint, not to reach around to the back of her gown and slowly pull open the laces to seek the feel of her skin.

He eased his lips off hers, just enough to whisper her name into her mouth.

“Lothíriel.”

Right here, right now, in this moment her name was perfect; she was perfect.  She was everything he could think of, everything he desired. He kissed her again, pressing her back against the wall with the pressure of his mouth and his hands on her breasts.

“My Lord!”

In the past he had been less stunned by Orcs suddenly jumping out of hiding and attacking. His brain refused to fit Elfhelm’s voice into his present state of mind. He hardly managed to separate his lips from Lothíriel’s and let his hands slide lower to her waist. Her arms loosened from around his neck and fell from his shoulders. But he couldn’t let her go.

“Éomer!” There was a warning in his Marshal’s voice and his tone reminded him very much of that of his Captain when he reprimanded a certain young rider for his ruthlessness.

He braced his palms against the wall and pushed himself back from her body. Still breathing hard he looked down searching for Lothíriel’s eyes. They were well hidden by her long lashes, but she was obviously fighting for her composure . . . and she was losing the battle. Never had he seen her blush so deeply. Her cheeks had turned bright pink. She was without a doubt mortified by having been caught in the worse of compromising positions. And unlike Éomer she didn’t know the Marshal of Rohan very well and therefore didn’t know what to expect. Not that Éomer was quite certain what there was to come.

He turned towards the other man making sure that his body hid Lothíriel from Elfhelm’s view. Not an exactly difficult endeavour taking into consideration their very different build. The other Rohír looked like the personification of a thunderstorm. But if there was something Éomer never had problems with, then it was confronting somebody who could be considered his equal.

“Marshal Elfhelm.”

Their eyes met. Whatever there was to be said, they wouldn’t be saying it in the presence of the Princess.

“My Lord, a herald came from the Citadel.” Elfhelm kept his voice painfully neutral. “You must have forgotten to inform anyone where you were heading after you left the council. It took the messenger a while to find your whereabouts. King Elessar wishes to invite you to a more intimate feast tonight.”

“Meaning only three hundred instead of five hundred guests?” Éomer couldn’t help asking. His Marshal shot him a decidedly frosty look

“As I understood it, there will only be Queen Arwen and her kin, Gandalf, the Hobbits, Master Gimli, the Princes Faramir and Legolas and the Prince of Dol Amroth and his kin. I have been invited, too.”

When Elfhelm mentioned her father Éomer could sense the Princess stiffening behind his back. But then she moved and stepped around him. She had finally succeeded in regaining her mask of composure. He had seen her doing that before and it had struck him as a quite impressive ability. Though this time the effect was rather spoilt by the sight of her mouth. Her lips were flushed and swollen and the tender skin around them reddened from the contact with his beard. This was all but the right time to make her aware of it.

“My Lords, you must excuse me.” She had to be admired. Her voice bore hardly a hint of the mortification she must be feeling in Elfhelm’s presence. “There are still patients to be looked after. My Lords!”

With a terse nod she disappeared quickly though the door leading inside the building. It was not the first time she had done that: extracted herself from a situation she could no longer control, retreating to retrieve her dignity of which she had been stripped by his doings.

Swallowing against the acidic taste of guilt that flooded his mouth, Éomer stared at the space she had occupied. Only the oil-stained cloths, with which they had earlier cleaned her face were now lying on the floor. He fought the impulse to go after her, but he doubted that she would appreciate it right now. And he doubted very much that Elfhelm would let him.

“Do I have permission to speak as a friend to a friend rather than a marshal to his king?” the other man demanded in a stiff, measured tone.

“Do you lately require permission to speak your mind?” he asked back, just barely managing to draw his eyes from the door through which Lothíriel had vanished from his sight.

“Do I have permission?”

“Elfhelm!” he barked.

“You must have gone mad!” his Marshal barked back.

In view of his abominable behaviour and lack of self-control just moments ago there was nothing he could have said to dispute this observation. Therefore he decided to remain silent and waited for whatever Elfhelm was going to say.

And his friend had quite a few words to say.

“This morning when you and the Princess came stumbling out of your bedchamber I thought it a rather harmless embarrassment and saw the humour in the situation. But this,” he pointed towards the wall, “lack of control, of prudence and of decency is beyond anything I would have expected from you."

His voice was hoarse in his outrage and Éomer felt thoroughly stunned by his friend’s angry tirade. It had been quite some time since he had been dressed down in such a manner. And the feeling that he was just getting what he deserved was growing stronger and stronger. With Lothíriel out of sight his sense of judgement was returning.

“She is not only an innocent, which on its own should be enough for you to keep your hands off her, but she is also Prince Imrahil’s daughter. Your friend’s daughter! And this is not the way you treat friendship. This is a betrayal of friendship! What consequences will there be for the Mark in the current situation if you lost the friendship and the respect of the Prince? I cannot believe you are risking that. Forgive me if I begin to question your sanity.”

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am beginning to question it myself.”

Elfhelm threw his King a sharp look and found however that this had not been meant to be some flippant remark.

“I do not understand, Éomer,” the Marshal said in a milder tone of voice. “It is not your way to force yourself upon a woman who does not know what she is herself getting into.”

At these words Éomer winced inwardly.

“There is nothing you just said that I have not told myself. Believe me; I never had the intention of dallying with the Princess.”

“One would be hard pressed to deduce that based on your recent behaviour.” Sarcasm rarely found its way into Elfhelm’s speech, but here it was virtually dripping from his voice.

A short silence followed. Torturing his brain Éomer found that there was nothing fairly sensible he could have said to explain himself. Everything just sounded like a lame excuse.

“Whenever I meet her something spins out of control.” Well, if there ever had been a lame excuse . . .

“If you feel that is not going to change, then you have two options: avoid her for the rest of your stay here at Mundburg or, if you want her so badly that you cannot even think straight, then go to her father and ask him to give her to you as your wife.”

Why was everybody throwing the word wife at him lately . . . today?

“I cannot make her my wife,” Éomer uttered, sensing something close to panic behind this statement.

“And why not?”

Simple question; complicated answer! An answer he hadn’t thought about because until now it hadn’t come to his mind that there was a question.

“There are several reasons,” he tried stalling.

“I am listening.”

“I cannot drag her to Edoras even if she agreed, which is rather doubtful anyway. Under the best of circumstances life in Rohan is much different from what she is used to. I cannot put her down in Meduseld and then just let her be. Somebody must look after her, and I do not have the time. And I do not want to imagine what she would be able to do if she was left without proper supervision. Besides: one does not choose a queen for your land and people because one is lusting after her.”

“Apart from my humble opinion that this particular woman you are lusting after would make a perfectly fine queen, are you certain this is only about lust?”

Éomer pinched again the bridge of his nose in what Elfhelm was coming to recognize as a stalling tactic.

“What else can it be? Before last night I had seen her only once.”

His Marshal gave no answer, just looked at him steadily.

“That is just what it is.” Éomer insisted, his tone was irritable and insecurity leaked through, but he was not inclined to examine the reasons why.

Elfhelm made a sharp sound of impatience. "Self-delusion is a wonderful thing.”

Éomer's mouth thinned. “What are you getting at?”

His Marshal did not answer this directly but returned a question of his own.

“What are your requirements for your queen?”

“My queen?”

“Yes, your queen. You are a king therefore your wife would be a queen. What are your requirements for her?”

Being a king made life complicated!

“I have not thought about it.”

“That is what I thought.”

“I have not had the time,” Éomer stated impatiently. “Until recently I have not been expected to provide a Queen for the Riddermark.”

“Now it is not only expected, but it is necessary. You need an heir and therefore a queen!”

“Have you spoken to Aldhelm or Erkenbrand lately?” Éomer asked viciously, referring to the head of the Royal Council and the Marshal of the Westmark. “Since I have returned from Minas Tirith after Aragorn’s coronation every second word I hear from them is heir.”

“You know that for most part I am reluctant to agree with Aldhelm on anything without having given the subject consideration in great detail. But in this case he is simply right. The Riddermark needs an heir. And as the last of the House of Eorl you are the one who has to provide him.”

“Éowyn’s children . . . “

“Your sister is not even officially betrothed. And do not shift the responsibility onto her. It is yours. And in this case sequence is essential.  Therefore first you need a wife. ”

Éomer gave him a look of exasperation, fighting not to howl in frustration.

“Yes, for Bema’s sake! But not now! And certainly not some wraithlike princess from Gondor, who will probably be blown from the steps of Meduseld the first time she dares to venture outside. And may I remind you that the last queen from Gondor is, after more than forty years, still loathed by many of the Rohirrim. Meaning by all who have known her?” Éomer’s grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, was still a legend amongst the Rohirrim, but the memories of her were everything but fond. “No, whoever I make Queen of the Riddermark; it will not be the Princess of Dol Amroth.” Éomer stated, his firm tone giving no hint of his inner doubts, which somehow had started creeping up on him insistently.

“Then keep away from her. If you need a woman there are plenty of females readily available. Last time I looked you were in the enviable position of having a wide assortment to choose from, my Lord King!” For today, it would seem that Elfhelm and sarcasm had become good friends.

Éomer suddenly felt so hollow that he couldn’t even imagine that there were still words inside him. It rather surprised him when some came out of his mouth.

“A woman who is readily available is not necessarily worth having.”

Then his brain registered what he had said and he looked up at Elfhelm, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a mocking salute.

“My felicitations. You finally got it. There is a time in the life of every man to acknowledge that. Just remember: the Princess of Dol Amroth is a woman you can have only as a wife.”

FINI