A warm breath caressed his neck, its gentle breeze parting his hair, and velvet lips found their way to his skin. Tenderly they nibbled their way to his ear, then to his cheek and all the way down to his shoulder.

Éomer just shrugged his blanket higher, hoping for a few more moments of sleep. But the lips stayed insistent, pressing again against his neck, the breath becoming hotter and moist.

“Go away,” he muttered, refusing to open his eyes and to respond to the touch, which grew even more demanding. The lips moved to the side of his face, leaving a damp trail and coming to rest at his cheekbone. He growled a warning but was met by no compliance. His companion just nudged him playfully in the back and started to pull the blanket from his body.

“Leave me alone,” Éomer commanded and rolled onto his back. The lips were hovering closely above his face now, and then Firefoot snorted, spraying his master’s face with the contents of his large nostrils.

“Bloody horse!”

“So you finally have come to agree with the rest of mankind?”

The stallion brought up his head quickly and turned it, ears flattened into his mane, towards the speaker who leaned from outside the stall over the carved gate.

“Peace, friend,” Aragorn offered the big grey in the soothing language of the elves. “I have no intention of harming your master.”

Firefoot remained unimpressed by the declaration. He bared his big yellow teeth. The flexing of the hard muscles under his shining coat revealed that he was about to charge.

“Back!”

The single word in Rohirric led the stallion to give a disbelieving snort, but with a last warning look shot in the direction of the King of Gondor, he complied, and then he backed up into a corner of his stall.

“I swear,” Aragorn declared, “that he is the only horse I have ever come across who is actually able to glare.”

“I trained him myself,” Éomer murmured, uncoiling from the blankets of his makeshift bed underneath the hay rack and getting up to his feet in one fluid movement. He brushed down a few straws from his loose hanging linen shirt and shoved his fingers through his messed up hair. Finding more straw there, he bent over forward, shaking himself like a wet dog. When he straightened up he saw Aragorn chuckling.

Éomer made a noise which sounded suspiciously like the snort of his stallion. “What?”

“Is there a particular reason why the King of Rohan sleeps in his horse’s stall?”

“Yes, indeed, there is. The King of Gondor has been sleeping in his bed for the past seven days.”

“Why, could it be that I have turned you out?”

“Anything to oblige a friend.” Éomer picked up the blankets and shook them out; making sure Aragorn became shrouded in clouds of dust and flying straw. “Strictly speaking, I did not give up the most comfortable bed in Meduseld for you, but for the comfort of your wife. You are just a beneficiary.”

“And there is, in the whole of Edoras, no bed left for the Lord of the Mark?” Aragorn asked, trying to suppress a cough.

“It may have escaped your attention, dear friend, that at the moment quarters are in rather short supply.”

It would have gotten nearer to the truth to say that there was no quarter left unoccupied in the whole of Edoras. Never, since having being founded by Eorl, and built by Brego, had the capital of Rohan seen such a crowd as now gathered for the funeral of Théoden, the king who had been lured into darkness but who had risen above it in time to lead his people to their final and victorious battle. From all over Middle-earth they had come to pay their respects and to witness Théoden King’s admission into the Eternal Halls of his forebears.

And the Gondorians had come, in the retinue of their newly crowned High King, to show their gratitude towards a man who had fulfilled his forefather’s oath without hesitation, and through this, had saved the White City from devastation and its people from slaughter. Added to that the Elves of Lothlórien and Rivendell joined them to acknowledge this man’s sacrifices as a symbol that the time of the Dominion of Men had dawned and the Elder Kindred would fade or depart.

The Rohirrim had come to attend the burial of their Lord, in whose reign they had seen deepest despair flooding their land and their people. They had come to bid farewell to their King, who had overcome the shackles with which darkness had tied his mind, and had risen from his downfall to lead his people to triumph over evil. But, perhaps even more, they had come to hail their new Lord, the King, whose inauguration symbolized a new beginning: the prospect of renewal and healing. They had come to pledge allegiance to the King who was their hope and their trust in the future.

Said king had folded up his blankets into an untidy bundle and thrown it over the stall’s gate. Now he clasped his hands high above his head and stretched himself like a big, sleek cat, not even trying to conceal his wide yawn.

“Be careful,” his Gondorian counterpart warned, “or your jaw will fall off.”

Éomer gave him one of the unguarded grins he saved for his friends. Then he looked up at one of the half circular windows set high above the partitions of the stalls. The bull’s eyes panes caught the first shafts of light of the rising sun.

“You are up and around early,” he stated.

“As my company will leave today, together with those of Lórien and Rivendell, I thought I would seek you out so we can have a last talk.” Aragorn opened the gate to let the younger man step out of the stall. “You know, Éomer, your habit of not telling anybody most of the time where you are heading, or – in this case - where you plan to spend the night, makes it difficult to track you down.”

“For a ranger?” Éomer said, trying deliberately to sound casual. Somehow he had a bad feeling about what there was to come. “If I had left Edoras somebody would have known.” He felt Aragorn casting him a sidelong glance.

“It would be helpful – and reassuring – if one knew the King’s whereabouts even within the boundaries of the city.”

Éomer thought about it for a short moment. One shoulder rose in a negligent motion.

“Is this going to be a lecture on ‘how to behave as a King’ by somebody who has, oh, so many years of experience?”

He took a couple of apples out of a bucket at his feet and gestured Firefoot to come closer to get them. Aragorn stepped aside and made sure he moved out of reach. The King of Rohan’s steed was the only horse he seemed unable to befriend, and with the big grey, you could never be certain if he would not prefer a chunk of flesh from your body instead of an apple.

“Would you listen to any counsel I may wish to give to you?”

Éomer’s smile took on a thin edge.

“For months and months mountains of well-meant pieces of advice have been deposited over me and they are threatening to smother me.” Before Aragorn could interrupt him, as he obviously intended to, Éomer continued, turning around to prop himself against the gate. “But your counsel will always be the one I am eager to listen to and willing to consider.”

“It is an honour that I am in your confidence.” There was a subliminal hint of irony in Aragorn’s tone

“I am certain this would be the time for me to reply in the same manner but are there really still preliminaries necessary between us?”

“Of course, you are right, brother. There are not any preliminaries necessary; and therefore you will listen to me and not jump out of your skin . . . at least not before I have finished.”

Éomer gave proof that he was capable of groaning and grinding his teeth at the same time, but by a visible effort of will bit back any reply that might have been on the tip of his tongue. These tickings-off, which he had been receiving on a permanent basis over the past months, were shattering his nerves and putting him under additional pressure. Aragorn was indeed the only person left in the whole of Middle-earth that he was willing to listen to, whatever he might have to say.

“Éomer, you have to reform your conduct. You are no longer just a warrior or even a Marshal of the Mark. You are the King and you have to bring your comportment into line with your station.”

Éomer looked down his body, taking in his crinkled shirt and dusty breeches. His friend couldn’t possibly care about his appearance. There had been times when he himself had looked worse.

Aragorn saw where the younger man’s glance went and his mouth curved wryly.

“No, I am not talking about the total lack of importance you attach to your outward appearance.”

“I am much obliged. It is bad enough having Éowyn nagging me about it.”

“I am going to nag you about this bad habit of yours of disappearing without letting anybody know where you are going.”

Éomer pulled a face. “So you have already said.”

“This is not about finding you in a horse stall instead of your bed in Lord Aldhelm’s house. This is about the occurrence three days into our journey from Minas Tirith to Edoras when you just went off for half a day on your own and nobody knew what had happened to you.”

“I needed to think,” Éomer said without hesitation.

“This is about finding your tent empty one morning,” Aragorn continued, “and you having wandered around the woods most the night.”

“I could not sleep.”

“And this is about the day after the burial when you took your horse and disappeared from dawn till dusk and only the guards at the gate had seen you in passing.”

Éomer turned his head to look at his steed.

“I needed to be alone.”

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully.

“Believe me, I understand that very well. I am the first to admit that sometimes running away from duties and demands which threaten to suffocate you, even if it is only for a short while, has quite an appeal. But I also understand why a man like Elfhelm, who usually is calmness itself, suddenly radiates panic because his king vanishes without leaving a word.”

Éomer narrowed his eyes to effectively mask his reaction.

“So my Marshal, or probably all of them, and, of course, my Council have urged you to have this little chat with me?” he asked, not quite succeeding in eliminating the irritability from his voice.

“Yes, indeed. All your Marshals and your Council approached me because they fear you will not listen to them.”

Éomer became aware of a faint, unfamilar staccato sound. He looked down and discovered that he was drumming his fingers against the carved planks of the gate to Firefoot’s stall. With an effort of will he made himself stop, folding his arms across his chest.

“If they talked less I would be willing to listen more.”

“That is beside the point.” Aragorn studied the other man, probably easily recognizing the signs of a slowly slipping temper. He kept his voice even. “Éomer, do I really have to tell you what the consequences would be if something happened to you? If you should die? You are the last of the House of Eorl. Do I have to tell you what it would mean to your people if their ruling house were no more? Since the Éothéod came to Calenardhon, the Rohirrim have known their kings only to be of Eorl’s descent.  There is no other who can claim the throne. This is not Gondor where the Stewards have ruled for centuries. This is Rohan, where everything is focused on the King. Without you there will be no King; without the King there will be no Rohan.”

“I have no intention of an early demise.”

Éomer knew quite well how stupid that statement sounded. Aragorn had the grace to ignore it.

“I have known many men who had no intention of passing away before their time had come and who died too early anyway. You are taking a risk when you go out alone without anybody to back you. We may have won the war; we may have peace; but not all our enemies have perished. You are a very noticeable figure, easily recognisable. You went out onto the plains on your own only the day after we had word from Treebeard that he let Saruman and Wormtongue go. They could be anywhere; they could be out for vengeance.”

Éomer found himself in a mood in which he would have contradicted somebody if they had pronounced the colour of grass to be green.

“They may dream of vengeance, but they would not dare to venture into the vicinity of Edoras. And what could they actually do to me?”

No doubt, Aragorn was also getting close to the end of his patience.

“It appears you do not understand the essential point of this dilemma. No! I take that back! You understand it quite well, but you have decided to ignore it.”

Éomer's eyebrows drew together. "Nonsense," he said with authority. “I do not ignore the problem, I merely judge it differently. And from my judgement I draw conclusions, which decide my actions. That may not always conform to what my Marshals or my Council would like me to do, but the final decision is mine. King’s prerogative,” he added with defiant sarcasm. “There must be some positive thing to be got out of this position.”

Aragorn leant back against the opposite partition and studied the younger man beneath half-lowered lashes. “There are times, Éomer, when I feel you were not slapped enough as a child," he snapped with surprising asperity. 

Éomer looked briefly startled. Then he felt something boil up inside him. Aragorn was the last he had expected to dress him down as if he were an unruly brat. His jaw muscles contracted and his eyes turned a blazing amber. The tethers he kept on his temper threatened to snap. He lowered his gaze to the floor, fighting for control. Fighting not to do or say something he would later regret.

There was nothing in the world he cherished more than Aragorn’s friendship, nobody he held in greater esteem than the King of Gondor. From the very first moment of their acquaintance, the Dúnadan had begun to fill a void in his life he hadn’t even known existed. Without him, the loss of Théodred and his uncle would have been unbearable. He was his friend, his brother, his father. But his words had poured oil onto a fire burning inside him and his self-protection reflexes had kicked in. And that meant his temper flared. Any other he would have probably jumped. But this was Aragorn, and so he battled for control . . . and won.

Éomer raised his eyes from the floor and glanced at his folded arms and then further up, wordlessly meeting his friend’s steady gaze. Aragorn studied him for a long moment. Finally his mouth curved faintly.

“I apologize, Éomer. Those words were uncalled for.”

“You apologize?” Rohan’s King rubbed the back of his neck. “If one behaves like an obstinate child, one has to be treated as such.”

For a while neither of them felt the urge to break the following silence. It was not an awkward one, rather the stillness of contemplation.

Éomer picked up a brush and went back into Firefoot’s stall. He began to curry his steed’s already shining coat.

“You are, of course, right,” he said, his voice seeming to come from a distant place. “I am conscious of the fact of how closely my people’s fate is bound to the House of Eorl. And as I am the last male descendant . . .” He left the rest of the sentence open and squatted down to brush his horse’s forelegs. “This is not Gondor, where several different peoples became united under one ruler. These are the Rohirrim, the Éorlingas. We are one. We are not just riding under one banner, we are true kinsmen. The greatest virtue of the Rohirrim is their loyalty towards the House of Eorl; their greatest weakness their dependence upon it.” He moved to Firefoot’s hind legs, pushing the big steed aside with his shoulder. “Théodred and I . . . there were times when we had to defy the orders of the King. And even though we knew they were not his orders; and even though we knew it was for the best of the land, we felt like traitors; traitors to our King.”

He straightened up and refocused, to find Aragorn watching him closely.

“I have been brought up as a warrior, to be able to defend my people. I will always fight for their well-being, with or without my sword in my hand. I have never feared death. Dying, certainly, but never death. And now I have to comprehend that my death could mean the beginning of the end of Rohan, the end of the ways of the Rohirrim.” Amusement briefly replaced the sombreness in Éomer’s eyes. “That is, should my demise happen before Éowyn produces a son.”

“I do not think your kinsmen expect Éowyn to provide the heir of Rohan.”

“Yes, I know. Elfhelm has reminded me already not to shift the responsibility onto her. She does not respond well to that kind of pressure. I just want her to wed Faramir, to go to Gondor and to be happy. To be able to forget about the last years.” He stifled a small laugh. “Do you remember what Gandalf said at the Houses of Healing at Éowyn’s bedside? That I had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields. It appears that the days of the free fields are over and now I am the one who is going to get locked up in Meduseld.”

“Nobody is going to lock you up anywhere. The King of Rohan is still a Marshal of the Mark. You will continue to ride over the land and see your kinsmen, and more importantly - they will see you. But you do have the Royal Guard. You have made Éothain their Marshal. Those men will go through fire and into death for you. Do not leave them behind. Let them guard you.”

“Hand me the hoof pick.” Éomer pointed a finger at a leather satchel hanging over a hook outside the stall. Aragorn searched it, found the pick and swapped it for the brush the Rohír held out towards him.

“You feel chained down, do you? Deprived of your freedom . . . not only of movement?”

“That feeling is not unfamilar. Only the circumstances have changed.” Éomer slapped gently with the back of his hand against Firefoot’s jowl and the steed raised obligingly his leg. Taking a firm hold around the pastern, his master started picking his hoof. “And this is how you feel, too?”

“In a way we both have to adjust, Éomer. Imrahil and Faramir are a great help to me. But without Arwen . . . without her, it would be infinitely harder.”

Another surprisingly comfortable silence followed. Éomer moved around his horse, picking up and checking all four hoofs thoroughly. Why should the Dúnadan ranger feel any less burdened by his new station than he did? For decades he had roamed the lands freely, had taken on only those responsibilities he chose. Now he dwelled in the White City, surrounded by high walls and people with whom he first had to become acquainted. In that he, Éomer, was more fortunate, living amongst old comrades in arms and friends. Many of them had known him since he moved to Edoras as a young boy. Which, on the other hand, didn’t necessarily make things easier. Some, like Elfhelm, had witnessed a few of the more embarrassing moments in his life - the last one not that long ago.

Suddenly he became conscious of the hidden meaning behind Aragorn’s last words and it gradually dawned on him where they must be heading with this debate.  He growled deeply in frustration whereupon Firefoot, who took that noise personally, looked quite insulted.

“Was that your stomach?” Aragorn asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“No, that was my throat. And in case my Marshals and advisers have been able to persuade you to bring up another point from their list of my misdemeanours and omissions, then let me tell you: this talk comes to a halt right here!”

Éomer swept out of the stall, throwing the hoof pick in the general direction of the open satchel and missing it by at least a foot. Clattering, it fell to the floor, its thrower disappearing inside the fodder store. Sensing his master’s foul mood and guessing the party responsible, Firefoot glared at Aragorn, ears back. Gondor’s King returned the look.

“You two are quite a pair.” He bent down to collect the hoof pick and put it back into the satchel. “I suppose he talks to you most of the time because you usually side with him?”

The stallion gave him the superior look of one who inspires confidence, but then focused his attention on the noises coming from the fodder store. Éomer reappeared carrying a small bucket filled with forage cereal. Ignoring the longing glances of the other horses, including Aragorn’s steed Roheryn, he nudged Firefoot aside and stepped inside his stall once again to fill the manger. The horse dug in with enthusiasm. His master took his leave with a friendly pat on his neck.

Closing the stall gate resolutely from the outside the Rohír turned toward the other man, looking less than friendly.

“Do not throw the bucket at me,” Aragorn pleaded.

Éomer's expression thawed, as yet again his sense of humour came to the rescue. He put the bucket down with deliberate carefulness.

“Believe me, Aragorn; I am aware of the fact that what you are doing here is neither intended to nag nor to annoy me. I know it is out of concern for my safety and the well-being of my people, and I appreciate that very much indeed. I appreciate your friendship and all the support and aid you have already given to Rohan. I can assure you of my intent to change my conduct. I will not leave Edoras any more without a guard at my side and I will leave it to my Marshals – as they have demanded repeatedly – to chase any remaining Orcs and to secure the land. But . . .”

“I knew this speech of yours was too good to get by without reservations,” Aragorn interrupted.

“But I will not be badgered any more into producing an heir at short notice. And that includes any preliminary necessities.”

“Meaning: taking a wife.”

“Someone caught on at last!” Éomer gestured along the wide aisle between the horse stalls towards the richly carved entrance gate. “Shall we go and find us something to eat?”

Éomer started to walk towards the exit and Aragorn fell into step beside him.

“When will you be leaving today?” the younger man asked.

“When I came down from Meduseld I saw that the parties from Rivendell and Lórien had begun to dismantle their tents. As soon as they announce that they are ready for the journey, we will leave.”

It had been a great convenience that the Elves of Rivendell and Lórien had carried with them splendid tents, of an unusual sliver-grey canvas, which they had set up outside the walls of the city in a dale sheltered from the winds by the hill of Edoras.  With the guest houses and Meduseld itself now filled with the nobles of Gondor and dignitaries of the Mark, it would have been a close to impossible undertaking to find appropriate accommodation for even more high-ranking guests.

Without consulting her brother, Éowyn had decided without further ado to put the Royal Bedchambers at the disposal of the Royal couple of Gondor and let Faramir have hers. An interesting arrangement, no doubt, but as long as she kept out of it for the time being, Éomer saw no reason to object. He also hadn’t had any objections to sleeping somewhere else. Having spent uncountable nights on the bare ground wrapped only in a blanket or his cloak, he was able to sleep virtually anywhere in any position.

He only disagreed about his sister’s choice of their short term quarters. On behalf of both of them, she had accepted an invitation from Aldhelm, the head of the Royal Council, and his wife Heregyth to stay at their house which was only a short distance downhill from the Golden Hall. As convenient as the close vicinity to Meduseld was, finding himself in the mornings and the evenings in the path of Aldhelm, was anything but convenient.

The shrewd man had used to be a member of Théoden’s council in the old days. His loyalty had always belonged first and foremost to Rohan and its ruling House. And he had been almost the only of the former advisers who had opposed Wormtongue insistently and without compromise. Soon his integrity had led to his expulsion from Théoden’s council and he had spent the past half dozen years in seclusion. That had given him more than enough time to form very decided opinions on what was for the good of Rohan and how a King had to be. Now he showered his ideas, requests and views without mercy - or the need of a breather from time to time - upon Éomer. His most insistent demand was the one for an heir. That he had escaped any bodily harm so far he owed alone to the fact that his King’s code of honour did not allow him to use force against children, women, the old and small animals.

Trying to avoid Aldhelm, by getting up as early as possible and returning to his temporary quarters very late, hadn’t been granted success and so Éomer had decided to take up Firefoot’s hospitality. The steed had proved himself more than once before to be an agreeable sleeping companion, fulfilling two simple requirements: he did not snore; he did not talk. Perhaps something should be done about his wake-up calls.

The two Kings had reached the wide gate to the stables. Éomer put his hand on the heavy bronze bar, but instead of lifting it he turned around to face Aragorn. His gaze intense, his green and gold eyes locked with the silver-grey of the Dúnadan.

“If anything happens to me, will you take care of my people?”

There was a calm watchfulness in Aragorn’s gaze that Éomer had always found comforting. And his very own smile, that showed more in those clear eyes than it did on his features. He laid the battle-hard hand of a warrior on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Whenever you need me, Éomer, I will be here. But have you already forgotten what the Lady of the Woods has told you? It is you who will take care of your people. Very good care.”

“Bema willing,” Éomer murmured, still not comfortable with what he considered riddles. But then his look became shrewd and his eyes narrowed. “If you are so convinced that what the Lady Galadriel has maintained comes true, why do you insist upon me taking special care with my safety? I mean, with such a kind of prophecy or – as your wife put it – a stated fact, what could actually happen to me?”

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to groan, combined with a heavenward tilt of his eyes. “You are a genuine pain in the neck, Éomer. Get out of here.”

He lifted the heavy bar, pushed open the gate and gave Rohan’s King a not exactly gentle shove that sent him out into the open. Éomer quickly regained his footing but stopped in his tracks at the scene that presented itself to him. It showed the backside of a man, clad only in breeches, bent forward over a drinking trough, dipping his head into the water well up to his broad shoulders.

Aragorn walked up to him. “Who is that?”

“That is the man responsible for my safety and the guarding of the Golden Hall,” Éomer answered straight-faced. “I think you have met Éothain, Marshal of the Royal Guard.”

Even with his head under water Éothain must have heard something. He came up, wheat-coloured hair dripping, and looked at them over his shoulder with blood-shot eyes.

“Greetings, Éothain. Long night, big barrel?” Éomer kept his voice low, knowing that the hearing of his childhood companion tended to be rather sensitive in the mornings after a night with too many spirits.

“Greetings, my Lords.” The man winced at his own voice, which sounded as if his tongue were bloated. He did not straighten up but had to support himself with both arms on the edge of the trough.

“You look awful,” his King informed him.

“You should see the loser.”

“There was a loser?”

Éothain gestured vaguely with his chin in an indeterminable direction.

“Over there . . . somewhere.”

“And who was the loser?”

“Ochadrion.”

“Ochadrion?” Until now Aragorn had followed the exchange with amusement and only mild interest. Now he had the distinctive look of a man who had bad forebodings. “The captain of my guard?”

Éothain gave a very careful nod.

"I suppose the man is expected to leave with you later this morning?" Éomer glanced at Aragorn, who grimaced. He turned back to the Marshal. “Éothain, where is Captain Ochadrion?”

“He fell off the wall behind the great barn. He should be still there.”

“I do not want to know why he fell off the wall, but why did you let him lie there?”

“The wall is just three feet high and the ground is overgrown with moss. The place is as comfortable as any other to sleep on.”

“Perfectly good reason.” Éomer muttered and slanted Gondor’s King a questioning look. “You have the choice. Are you going to get mad or are you going to get a laugh out of this?

“Can that decision wait until after I have seen my captain?” Aragorn didn’t sound mad at all, not even close; merely resigned.

At that moment another man turned around a corner, obviously on his way to the stables. It was Ceorl, Éomer’s standard-bearer. When he saw the two kings he slowed his steps and bowed.

“My Lords.”

“Ceorl! Have you been drinking lately?” Éomer asked the young Rohír instead of a greeting.

“Not overly so, my Lord.” Ceorl answered without any delay or being in the slightest dumbfounded by the question. “I am sober,” he added for clarification.

“Good news indeed.” His king pointed in the direction of the great barn. “Somewhere behind there you will find Captain Ochadrion.”

“Of the Royal Gondorian Guard?”

“The very same. He should be in the same condition as Éothain here. You will retrieve him and have him presentable by the time King Elessar and his company depart from Edoras later today.”

“Ay, my Lord.”

Ceorl walked off to carry out the appointed task.

Éomer turned towards the Marshal of his own Royal Guard.

“From now on you will drink only with men who are not supposed to take on duties the following day.”

"Sorry about that," Éothain said with no visible sign of repentance and dipped his head back into the water.

By now several of the stable lads had arrived to feed the horses and prepare those which would leave today.

“Make certain he does not drown,” Éomer ordered, addressing no-one in particular, waving his hand towards his Marshal.

The Kings of Rohan and Gondor continued their way uphill towards the Golden Hall.

“Now I know why you are so keen on keeping me alive,” Éomer observed. “In case anything should happen to me, you may have to deal with those cork-brains.”

“One of those cork-brains was one of mine anyway,”

“As long as they bond and renew the friendship between their lands we should not feel too much bothered by small troubles like these,” the Rohír declared.

“Well said, Éomer King, but it is not the captain of your guard who is going to ride beside you with a beastly hangover,” Aragorn reminded him dryly.

“Not to mention the reek of spirits.” His younger friend made no attempt to hide his mirth.

“Why do I have this feeling that it was not a coincidence that your Marshal went on a drinking bout with my captain the night before said captain is supposed to take command of my guard on our forthcoming journey?”

“Probably because nothing within ten yards of Éothain has ever been a coincidence,” Éomer explained with the knowledge of long years of experience.

Aragorn absorbed that. “And you are certain that this was about the renewal of friendship and not about embarrassing another man?”

“Quite certain. It is just Éothain’s way of expressing that he has taken a liking to somebody.”

“Indeed?” The Dúnadan raised his brows and after a short pause asked: “Then how does he express the taking of a dislike to somebody?” The only answer he received was a grin. “But you are right, Éomer. We need this renewal of our friendship. Over the years Rohan and Gondor have drifted apart. Hardly any news from the Mark reached Minas Tirith and beyond the White City, in the southern feoffs, they may well have forgotten the existence of the Rohirrim. This is now in the past. We will not slide again into mutual isolation. There shall be a constant exchange, not only between us, you and me, but between every level of our societies. All folk shall bond, and if your riders and my knights begin it by drinking their heads off together, then they have my blessing.”

“My riders already hold you in the highest regard. Tell them that and they will worship you.”

“The strongest symbol of the fresh bond, in which our lands can rejoice, is most certainly the betrothal between Éowyn and Faramir. You have granted my Steward a great treasure.” Aragorn gave the younger man a sidelong glance. “Perhaps you would like to ask for something in return?”

“What more can I ask other than the provisions you have already granted Rohan for the winter,” Éomer answered, blissfully indifferent to the other man’s look of amused resignation. “And my sister a treasure? That remains to be seen. I am not quite certain how Éowyn is going to relate to Gondor, and - more important – how Gondor is going to relate to Éowyn.”

“The future Princess of Ithilien will be greatly admired in her new home.”

“That would be a welcome change from the last union between the House of Eorl and a Gondorian,” Éomer muttered, more to himself.

“You are referring to your grandmother.”

“Indeed, I was thinking about Morwen of Lossarnach.” He frowned in recollection. “You must have known her.”

“Yes, I did. I met the then Queen of the Mark when I rode with Thengel, your grandfather.” Gondor’s King paused as if hesitating to continue. “You know, Éomer, in some respects, you are very much like her.”

Éomer came to a halt as abruptly as if he had been pole-axed. “I beg your pardon?”

Aragorn, too, had stopped and turned to face his friend. “Do not look so affronted. The Lady Morwen may have had many shortcomings, but she was also a formidable woman. Actually, you have her eyes . . . and her cheekbones, I think. And her strong will.” Aragorn received an irritated and incredulous gaze from fierce green-gold eyes and chuckled. “Yes, definitely her eyes.”

“I have been always told I am a reproduction of my father,” Éomer pointed out. He had lived with this comparison all his life . . . well, at least all his life in Edoras. He suspected his Marshals had permanently advised him to be cautious because they always expected him to follow his father’s fate by doing something rash and deadly.

“Often people only see what is on the surface. You have Éomund’s frame.”

“Not to mention his ill temper.”

“Perhaps you have his temper, but you are able to control it. Earlier, in the stables, if I had confronted your father in the way I have confronted you this morning, I would not have escaped unscarred. I have seen eruptions of your temper, but I have never seen you lose it completely, so that you were unable to think or not open for reason.”

Éomer gave the faintest of smiles. “I had the impulse to punch you.”

“I know. I saw it in your eyes. But the flame died down as quickly as it had flared up. If you hit back, you usually do it with words. You like arguments. Sometimes I feel as if we are having one only for the sake of it.”

“Are you telling me I am not just ill-tempered but quarrelsome?”

“In a way. At the risk at getting punched after all: that is a trait which also reminds me of your grandmother.”

“I must be a much more awful person than I had realized,” Éomer observed with a lopsided grin, continuing his way up the path. “Being reminded how many congenital deficiencies we carry thanks to our ancestry,” he mused, “makes me think what our own poor children will have to live with.”

“I am glad to hear you are thinking about children, after all.” Aragorn taunted.

“This not going to leave me alone, is it?” Éomer gave an exaggerated sigh. “Why do not set an example yourself. After all, you already have a wife and also a kingdom in want of an heir.” 

Aragorn murmured something.

Éomer’s gaze swung back to him, his eyes sparkling. “What was that?” he asked.

Gondor’s King looked at him with a surprised frown. “You understand Sindarin?”

“Very little. But I think I understood what you just mumbled.” Éomer’s eyes gleamed with unsuppressed amusement.

Aragorn decided to try and let that pass. “Where did you learn the language of the Elves?”

“From my mother, who learnt it from Morwen. She insisted teaching it to Éowyn and me, but since her death I have not spoken a single word. It is not as if it is of any use in the Riddermark. But when I was at Minas Tirith I found that I can still read it quite well.”

“Are you telling me you spent time in a library?” Aragorn looked at him calculatingly. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“Why? Because a Horselord – one of the Middle-men – is able to understand the language of the First Born?” He deliberately sounded affronted. “Hard to comprehend for a descendant of the Númenóreans?”

“I was right,” Aragorn growled. “You were not slapped enough as a child.”

“I really begin to pity that child you are . . . “

“Éomer! You are not going to repeat aloud what I said.”

“As it involves your wife, of course not! Even I am not that tactless.”

Having reached the high stair of stone leading up to the Golden Hall and hearing his friend’s threatening growl, Éomer took three steps at a time to pull ahead. At the stair’s head he turned and, waiting for Aragorn to reach the paved terrace, he let his gaze roam over the city which spread out below the high platform on which Meduseld stood.

During those years of darkness the people of Edoras had neglected their city as they had been neglected by their King. Every time Éomer had ridden through the gates, something else had been broken down, had been in need of repair or just thrown aside to clutter the yards. Weeds and moss had overgrown the paved path and the steps of hewn stone leading uphill from the city gate to the Golden Hall, which had been the only building, beside the stables, that gave the impression that someone actually attended to it.

In the short months since Saruman had been defeated, much had changed. The view he was looking at now was the city he had known most of his life: well-cared-for houses with freshly painted doors and window-frames and neatly kept yards with flowers and herbs instead of weeds and clutter. And most important: he looked down at a city, where inside its boundaries, people dared to laugh again.

The King of Gondor had decided to ascend the stairs of Meduseld with more dignity. He came to a halt next to the Lord of the Mark. He did not look down over the city but at his friend. Éomer sensed one of those looks which seemed to pierce into his mind. From time to time, when he rather wished to keep his thoughts to himself, they made him uncomfortable. But this was something good to be shared. He smiled.

Aragorn understood. “It is a good feeling to see that it has changed back to what it once was.”

“A very good feeling, indeed.”

When both men turned around towards the hall, the Doorwards guarding the entrance took a step forward and bowed to the Lords of Rohan and Gondor, turning the hilts of their swords towards them in a customary greeting. Both Kings acknowledged them and stepped past the guards into the hall. This early in the morning no artificial light was used. From the east the sun fell through the high set windows with their panes of coloured glass, adorning the long hall with a multitude of rainbow-like reflections.

The remnants of last night’s feast had been removed, the hall cleaned and aired. Doors and shutters had been opened and a breeze blew through, gently moving the tapestries that decorated the walls and the banners of Rohan and Gondor, of Lórien and Rivendell and one especially made for the Shire to honour the Hobbits.

The beautifully carved tables were already laid for the guest’s morning meal, but only a few servants, occupied with some last preparations, inhabited the hall. A middle-aged woman, the quintessential Rohír – tall and lean, with a thick wheat-coloured braid and bright blue eyes – approached them. She bowed her greetings.

“My Lord Kings.”

“Greetings, Ælfgyth,” Éomer replied. “It appears that as an effect of the farewell gathering last night most of our guests are reluctant to leave their beds.”

“So it seems, my Lords. So far I have only seen Prince Imrahil, who is at present in your study. He asked me earlier to take him in a tray of food.”

“Then King Elessar and I will join him. Bring us some food, too.”

“Very well, my Lord.”

Ælfgyth, the unshakeable and inexhaustible housekeeper of the Golden Hall, left them to see to their nourishment.

Éomer led the way to the King’s study, past the Council chamber, to where it was located at the rear of the hall, adjoining the Royal chambers in the western corner tower. He had put it at Aragorn’s disposal for the duration of his visit, so that he would find some privacy for meetings with Imrahil and Faramir or his elven kin.

They found Prince Imrahil standing next to one of the high set windows, both elegant hands wrapped around a mug of steaming tea, looking out towards the north-western foothills of the Ered Nimrais. When the two kings entered the room he turned his head and smiled in greeting.

“This study is a pleasant room but it should be located on the eastern side of the hall so it would gain from the morning sun,” he remarked.

“I thought you preferred the evening sun,” Éomer replied without thinking.

“Do I?” Imrahil raised an eyebrow. He took in the younger man’s rumpled appearance and his lips curved into an amused smile. He was, of course, as always immaculately groomed. “Pray tell, my Liege-lord, where did you find our host?”

“As I predicted, in the stables. Strictly speaking in his horse’s stall.”

Éomer shrugged and walked around his desk, dropping into the chair behind it. “Safest place in the whole of Edoras. Nobody gets past Firefoot.”

“From that I gather it is quite common for you to share with your horse?” Imrahil asked, sounding perhaps a bit disbelieving. No doubt, a horse stall was probably one of the last locations he would consider an agreeable place for the night

“There was a time when I felt much better knowing Firefoot was guarding my sleep.”

The Dúnedain knew he was referring to those years, when in Edoras, Wormtongue had held the reins in his hand. And, if he had seen a chance to get away with it, he would have had Rohan’s heirs murdered without a second thought.

A knock at the door announced Ælfgyth, a cast-iron tea kettle in her hands, followed by two young women, each carrying a tray covered with a napkin. With just a gesture she had one girl place the tray in front of their King, where he sat behind his desk. Aragorn settled down at the table in the centre of the room where Imrahil had eaten his meal. Whilst one servant cleaned away the leftovers, Ælfgyth served tea to the kings and refilled the prince’s mug.

“By the way,” Imrahil addressed her in a friendly tone. “The honey-smoked ham was excellent.”

“You should not be surprised, my Lord,” came the dry answer from the housekeeper, “It is from Gondor.”

She ushered the two other women out of the room and then left herself with a bow of her head.

“Over the past days,” declared Imrahil, “I found that your people are unable to take a non-committal remark simply as it is.”

“True,” Éomer answered, soaking his porridge with thick cream. “Meaningless conversation is not one of their stronger points. And the ham is part of the foodstuff you brought along from Minas Tirith. Without it, the feeding of our guests would have been a very unbalanced and dull affair.”

“Speaking of food.” Imrahil pulled out a parchment from where it stuck in his belt. “I suppose you heard that late last night a messenger from Minas Tirith arrived.”

“I actually saw him handing over several scrolls to Faramir.” Éomer added a generous portion of honey to his porridge. He stirred the glutinous mixture of obscure colour, ignoring Aragorn’s slightly disgusted gaze.

“One of them was a letter from Erchirion,” Imrahil held up the folded parchment, “informing us that a first supply of provisions has been put together at Dol Amroth. Three cogs carrying grain are going to leave the harbour the day after tomorrow and arrive in Harlond about five days later. There it will be reloaded onto wagons, which will take around fifteen days to reach Edoras. Rohan should receive the first winter provisions within a month from now.”

“That is at least half a month faster than I hoped for.”

“As I said before, if Erchirion chooses so, he is quite well organized and efficient,” Imrahil pointed out.

Éomer absently took a mouthful of the glue-like porridge. He took his time to chew and then swallow.

“We will have to take everything west as soon as it arrives. I had a long meeting with Erkenbrand before he left to return to the Hornburg. The reconstruction of the villages proceeds too slowly. Not only do we have still problems with the building materials. One does not work well with an empty stomach, weakened by malnutrition. They are in desperate need of the food supplies.”

“You can send the wagons on as they arrive here,” Aragorn assured him.

“Beyond Helms Deep the Great West Road is only passable for wagons as far as the Fords of the Isen. Anything sent to the land between the Isen and the Adorn must be moved by packhorses. We need to inform Elfhelm. He left for Aldburg the other day. He has to assemble a sufficient number of horses and have them ready when needed.”

“You have a month to make arrangements before the first transport arrives.” Aragorn tasted a bite of the praised ham. “From then on wagons will arrive at short intervals as long as the roads are open. After the winter we will continue until the new harvest has been gathered in.”

Éomer stared at the bowl in front of him. “I will feel much better eating as soon as I know that all my kinsmen can do so as well.”

Sunk in his own thoughts for a moment, he didn’t see the questioning look Imrahil cast his King or Aragorn’s answer, a resigned shrug with his shoulder and an amused grin. The Prince eyed Rohan’s young king with some hesitancy, but when he spoke none of it was betrayed in his voice.

“Éomer, there is something else I would like to discuss with you. Would you mind if we do so while you are eating?”

“Not at all.” Éomer replied amiably as he tucked into his porridge. “What is it about?” he asked and took another mouthful of the hot dish.

“Lothíriel.”

TBC

If his chair had suddenly bitten him on the behind Éomer couldn’t have been more stunned. Everything froze; and even his eyelids stopped blinking whilst he stared at the Prince of Dol Amroth.

He had expected Imrahil to approach him about the quarrel he had provoked with Lothíriel - in the midst of an increasingly interested crowd - demanding an explanation and an apology for his behaviour. He had presumed the Prince would do so the next day, or at the latest, on one of the first days on their journey to Edoras. But nothing had happened. Imrahil had not given any indication that he even recalled that particular incident or placed any importance on it. Éomer had begun to think that Lothíriel had probably misjudged the significance her father had attached to the event, wretched as it may have been; and that he had accepted the explanation she had given to her brothers, who very likely had passed it on to their father.

Éomer tried to collect his thoughts.

The Prince hadn’t mentioned Lothíriel in a single word since the moment he had officially introduced her to him at the welcoming feast in Merethrond. Why had he waited nearly a month to bring up her name again?

Éomer became aware that he had still the lump of porridge in his mouth, and that his throat felt somehow quite tight.  He harboured the suspicion that if he tried to swallow it he would most likely choke on the stuff. But he could hardly spit it back out into the bowl in the presence of a king and a prince. That would have to be considered bad manners. And as long as he had this oat grain mixture between his teeth he couldn’t speak. That would also have to be considered bad manners. Not that he would have known what to say, anyway.

On the other hand, he could hardly sit here this way indefinitely. He had to do something. So he separated a tiny bit from the lump with his tongue and swallowed it as a trial. It worked! He repeated it a couple of times and finally emptied his mouth without having had to go through the coughing fit he had feared.

Aragorn and Imrahil had watched this careful manoeuvre with interest but without commenting on it. Éomer rinsed his mouth by taking a sip of tea. Hopefully his voice would work. He cleared his throat.

"Your daughter?" he finally asked. Unoriginal, but at least it was in a fairly normal tone.

“That is the only Lothíriel I personally know about,” Imrahil remarked absolutely straight-faced, an answer quite worthy of one of his sons.

Éomer opened his mouth to make a reply but couldn’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. He simply needed a few more moments to gather his thoughts. So he closed his mouth again with an audible click of his teeth. At least he had the presence of mind to arch his brows inquisitively, indicating to Imrahil that he wished him to elaborate.

“Much to my regret, you were not given the opportunity to deepen the acquaintance you made with my daughter.” Imrahil's expression gave nothing away. “It would have pleased me if you had gotten to know her better.”

Inside Éomer something went into alarm mode. They were moving into dangerous territory. How much better would the Prince have liked him to have become acquainted with Lothíriel? Not that he could have known how well Éomer actually had become acquainted with the Princess! Or was there some ambiguity behind his words? If anything had come to his ears about what had happened in the Houses of Healing, or even just that his daughter had been thoughtless enough to seek him, Éomer, out in his bedchamber, her father surely would have confronted him right away, without the delay of twenty six days?

No, twenty five days! It had been twenty five days since he had kissed her. It had been in the afternoon, and after they had been caught by Elfhelm and she had left – or rather fled – the treatment chamber, he hadn’t seen her again. She hadn’t been with her family at the feast in the evening, she hadn’t been able to be found when they had collected the herdsmen and he couldn’t make her out among all the healers who had stepped out from their domain onto the street to pay their respects when Théoden’s funeral procession had passed the Houses of Healing on its way from Fen Hallen.

“. . . suit you quite well.”

Éomer came out of his reverie. He must have missed something of what Imrahil had been saying. Suit him? What would suit him? What had his friend been talking about?

It had happened once again. As soon as something triggered thoughts of Lothíriel, those thoughts were pushed into the forefront of his mind and his usually well developed ability to pay attention to various things at the same time and think on several levels at once, suffered from worrying lapses.

“Indeed?” he said politely. What had seemed to him as a sensible, non-committal remark appeared not to be what Imrahil had expected. He looked at Éomer with a certain lack of understanding and a hint of impatience.

“I fear Éomer has not been giving this matter his full attention,” Aragorn interjected helpfully. There was something strange in his tone, something hidden, and something unnervingly amused. Éomer looked up sharply to search the other man’s face for hints of what was going on. ‘What’ had he missed?

“Indeed,” Éomer repeated slowly, getting gradually more suspicious. “I am afraid that is so. I apologize for this lack of courtesy, Imrahil. In what respect do you feel . . . something . . .  suits me well?”

A short glance was exchanged between Aragorn and Imrahil and he could have sworn the shoulders of the former ranger were trembling slightly.

“As I know you do not like to mince words, Éomer,” the Prince said with poorly concealed impatience, “I will sum up my earlier exposition into a single sentence.” He made a short pause, watching the young King sharply. “I feel Lothíriel will make a very suitable wife and consort of a king.”

The first thought that came to Éomer’s mind was a question: was it possible to choke on pure air? The second thought was, that he had actually a pretty good reason to get seriously annoyed . . . to put it mildly. This was a conspiracy, and worse: it was not a conspiracy by an enemy but by his friends; friends who obviously couldn’t accept a decision he had made.

He carefully put the spoon down into the bowl and even more carefully he pushed the bowl back. Hunger or even appetite had flown his presence. An epitome of self-control, he sat back, propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and put the tips of his fingers together.

“If I understand this correctly, you wish me to wed your daughter?” Éomer listened to his voice. He was proud of himself. Nothing in his tone betrayed the utter shock he felt, interspersed with anger because a certain feeling was creeping up on him; the feeling that he was going to have his back up against the wall in this matter.

“Indeed.” Imrahil smiled satisfied, probably relieved that he had finally gotten through.

“Why?” That one word came out sharp and hard.

“Why?” Imrahil now looked genuinely taken aback. “Éomer, did you not hear a single word I said?”

A rather unkingly snort came from Aragorn’s direction, which both other men chose to ignore. Éomer also ignored Imrahil’s inquiry about his lack of attention because suddenly something else seemed more important.

“And what is your daughter’s opinion on this intention of yours?”

“Lothíriel?”

“Well, yes. As I understand, she is the only daughter you have . . . at least officially.” The sarcasm fell heavy as a rock, one which had ore running through it.

Aragorn looked at him obviously baffled by this rudeness and Éomer winced inwardly, surprised by himself, but Imrahil passed over a remark that could clearly have been considered an insult.

“I have not talked to Lothíriel about this yet,” he replied in a tone indicating that that was nothing out of the ordinary.

“What?” Éomer said, the unexpectedness of the statement making his voice loud and forceful. “You plan to bind her to a man without asking her opinion? Should not the final decision be hers?”

“We are talking about Lothíriel here.”

Of course they were talking about Lothíriel! Otherwise they wouldn’t be talking at all and he would have already given into the lure that the doorway held for him. Actually, the door had never looked so good.

“So what?” he asked, his gaze fixed across the room on the dark panel of carved oak.

“There is no point in talking about a prospective husband with Lothíriel,” Imrahil explained, using the same annoying tone of reason that Éomer recognised from his daughter. “I doubt she would be able to recognize the right sort for her if he arrived riding a mûmak.”

“Do you not think the mûmak would be a fairly good indication that she ought to look elsewhere?” he shot back unthinkingly.

At this point Gondor’s King no longer tried to conceal his laughter. Éomer turned his head to look at Aragorn who just cocked a brow when he found himself pinned by a fierce glare.

“Traitor,” Éomer hissed in his own tongue.

“Do not exaggerate,” Aragorn replied with a vexing calmness. “Perhaps you should let Imrahil explain – again! – the reasons why he feels a union between the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth is for the best of all involved.”

A muscle jumping in his cheek, Éomer stared at them alternately. “So we are talking about Rohan and Dol Amroth – which in the end comes down to Gondor. You are talking about a political arrangement. Lothíriel was right; she is just a pledge to you.”

“A pledge?” Imrahil’s expression showed a considerable lack of comprehension.

“She considers herself a pledge for an alliance in favour of Gondor. And I thought she was exaggerating.”

“She is not exaggerating; she is over-simplifying. Éomer,” again this highly annoying reasonable tone of voice, “if I wanted to bring Lothíriel into a political bargain, I would not be talking to you but to one of the southern vassals. Since the war has ended I have received offers for my daughter from two of them.”

Éomer stared at him in disbelief. It was as if something had slammed into his chest. Lothíriel had a couple of suitors? She hadn’t mentioned anything. On the other hand, how had Imrahil put it? ‘He’ had received the offers.

“And how does the Princess feel about those proposals?”

“I have not told her.”

“Of course not! Why should she be interested in hearing that somebody wishes to wed her?” Again his sarcasm bypassed the Prince.

“Those men are not suitable. You see, for them the idea of a woman with a brain and a purpose in life is one that has never occurred to them. Although I find some of my daughter’s aspirations rather peculiar, contrary to her belief, I do not want to see them squashed.”

“And you feel in that respect I am more worthwhile as a husband?”

A change of expression, one that Éomer wasn't sure how to interpret, crossed Imrahil’s face.

“Yes, indeed I do. I have watched you connecting with your sister. I have seen the way you treat her, care for her. A woman of strength, who has a mind of her own, does not bother you. You can accept somebody strong at your side.”

“Strong is not the expression that comes to my mind when I look at your daughter.” Having said that, Éomer just hoped the Prince wouldn’t ask him to elaborate what actually did come into his mind when he looked at Lothíriel.

“Do not underestimate her just because she looks like a fawn. She may not be the quintessential rock to withstand the breakers but she is the reed which in the end will always stand upright.” He took a short pause to reminisce and added, “In any quarrel between my children that I can remember, she was always the last one standing.”

In the small silence that followed Aragorn remarked to no-one in particular: “That definitely holds promise.”

Éomer sent him another glare but Imrahil just ignored it whilst he continued.

“I love my daughter. She is ‘not’ some kind of pawn to me. I want the best for her. You are a good and noble man. You will make her a good and noble husband. I know you have repeatedly announced that, in your opinion, this is not the right time to take a wife. But Rohan needs an heir. And you need somebody at your side while rebuilding your land. One who will support you and be with you as a companion of equal standing. And I am convinced that you will find no other woman in the whole of Middle-earth who will throw herself with so much enthusiasm into such a challenge. She needs a purpose and she will take to the role like a duck to water.”

Éomer was still cocooned by the feeling of being cornered and tired of being on the defensive. He felt like he was being drawn under water without having had a chance to take a breath first. Had Imrahil any idea what this was doing to him? How tempting . . . No! He wouldn’t go there!

Éomer took a slow calming breath. This required some diplomacy, meaning: this was going to be difficult.

“Imrahil, I am truly honoured by your offer,” he began, trying not to feel discouraged by the open irony he saw on his friend’s face. “The Princess is without a doubt . . . she is certainly a . . .” He made himself stop because some fog must have invaded his brain making it difficult to locate suitable words. He frowned as he fought to concentrate.

A desirable woman? No, that was not something you could tell the father of the lady in question. Alluring? Worse! Irresistible? Tempting? Bema! When did he lose the ability to pick out a simple proper word?

“Lovely?” Aragorn offered helpfully.

“Thank you,” Éomer murmured between his teeth.

“You are welcome,” Gondor’s King returned smoothly. He was obviously having a good time.

Éomer eyed the doorway again, asking himself silently what the chances were of passing through it very shortly. He tried another deep breath.

“Lothíriel is a beautiful and intelligent woman, and I certainly would have enjoyed becoming more closely acquainted with her. We might have taken a liking to one another, and perhaps we even would have discussed a possible union between us. But as it is, we hardly know each other and I got the impression that your daughter is very content with her current life and her occupation as a healer.”

There! He was still able to put together complete sentences.

“But she cannot live that life indefinitely. Sooner or later she must wed, and as I explained before, I feel you are the right husband for her.”

Éomer gave the Prince a look of mingled irritation and incredulity.

“Does Lothíriel feel the same? . . . I mean, not about that I may be the right sort of husband. On that she cannot have an opinion, as she has, so far, not been told about the good fortune you intend for her. . . . I mean: does she want to wed at all?”

“Every woman in her right mind must be in want of a husband. But why do you not ask her?”

“It is very unlikely that I shall return to Minas Tirith within the next few months. I may not even be able to attend Éowyn’s wedding.”

“Write her a letter,” Imrahil suggested unmoved.

“A letter?”

“The messenger will return to Minas Tirith tomorrow morning. He will carry your letter.”

“Do you not think your daughter might be slightly surprised if she suddenly receives a letter from a man she barely knows, asking her about her opinion if women in general are in want of a husband?”

“The same messenger will also carry a letter from me, informing her about our agreement,” Imrahil continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“What agreement?” Éomer flexed his fingers around the arms of his chair.

“Éomer, I do not expect you to accept my proposal without giving it considerable thought. Perhaps this is the moment where you would like to take some time to think everything through,” Imrahil advised, his gaze faintly amused, but mainly determined. “We can discuss the details and terms of the eventual settlement later. And now I must take care of some affairs of state.”

Éomer stared at him with outraged disbelief. He began to fear that his command of Westron must have suffered. He didn’t seem to be any longer able to express himself intelligibly. He looked at Aragorn, something close to desperation in his eyes, but his friend only returned his gaze with a steady one of his own.

Imrahil turned to his King.

“I will make sure your correspondence for Minas Tirith is prepared so that you can put your seal on the various letters before you leave later, my Lord.”

Éomer shot up from behind his desk, sending the chair backwards scraping over the floor of paved stone. He didn’t need to think about any of these things. Imrahil could have his answer right away and it wouldn’t be necessary to discuss any settlement. But before he could even open his mouth, Aragorn had gotten to his feet as well, addressing the Prince.

“Thank you, Imrahil. I will be with you shortly.”

“You will find me in the council chamber.” The Prince of Dol Amroth bowed his farewell. “My Liege-lord. Éomer King.”

The only reason Éomer let him go without protest was that Aragorn’s gaze had locked with his, clearly communicating that he wished his Rohirric friend to remain silent. And Éomer complied, gritting his teeth, but only until the door had barely shut behind the retreating Dúnadan.

“That was a bloody ambush,” he growled, “and I cannot believe that you are party to this ridiculous scheme.”

“Éomer, neither was this meeting supposed to be an ambush nor is Imrahil’s proposal ridiculous.” Aragorn declared, all reason and calmness.

“Well, what would you call it then?” The Rohír’s eyes glowed hotly.

“Sensible?” Aragorn’s mouth quirked slightly at one corner. “Will you listen to one last piece of advice that I wish to give you?”

"As if I had any option," Éomer replied disagreeably.

“Indeed. Think about Imrahil’s offer and refuse it if you feel it is not the right thing to do or truly not what you want for yourself. But do not refuse for the wrong reason; do not reject it because you feel ambushed or pressured by the way the offer was made.”

Aragorn laid his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “I will see you before my company departs.” With those words he left the room.

Once alone in his study, Éomer had that sinking sensation, the one that told him that his fate had just been sealed. He let himself fall back into his chair, nearly missing it.

He buried his face in his palms, but somehow that gesture didn’t feel dramatic enough and so he let his head sink down onto his desk, wishing he could stay there that way for the rest of the day - well, if Bema would grant him mercy, the rest of his life and, what’s more, with every single thought banished from his brain.

Of course, this was not the day Bema felt particularly merciful towards him. Within a dozen heart beats the door was slammed open unceremoniously and Éowyn blasted into the room with the force of a small volcano. He had not exaggerated when he had told Faramir that his sister shared quite a few of his traits. She moved with the same aggressive grace, the same unexpected and abrupt momentum that tended to startle and irritate people who were not used to it. Éomer, on the other hand, was used to it and therefore didn’t even flinch or raise his head from its resting position.

“Éomer! Why are you lazing around here? You have to change. Make haste!”

Their blunt mode of expression was another trait they had in common. Éowyn was certainly likely to become a great success in Gondor!

Her brother straightened up and threw an absent-minded glance at the bundle she was carrying under her arm.

“What is that?” he asked without any display of real interest.

“These are your clothes.”

Éowyn held up a tunic made of dark green velvet, golden embroidery adorning the high collar and the cuffs. Getting no obvious reaction, she shook the garment impatiently.

“You have to bid our guests farewell. You cannot do that in a shirt and breeches you have apparently slept in.”

She laid out the several pieces of clothing across his desk: the tunic, a matching shirt and clean breeches. Éomer eyed them without enthusiasm whilst his sister threw a look underneath the desk.

“Could you not at least have found someone to polish your boots?” she sighed with exasperation.

When he showed no intention of getting up from his chair, she slapped the top of the desk with the flat of her hand.

“Move!” she commanded irritably. “Lady Galadriel’s and Lord Celeborn’s company have broken camp. They will be leaving in a short while.”

“Good riddance!”

“Éomer!” She stared at him in disbelief. “What has gotten into you? How can you say such a thing? What is the matter? You have agreed to honour Merry before he leaves with them.”

Éomer just muttered something incomprehensible. Gradually Éowyn’s gaze turned worried and she walked around the desk ending up beside his chair. She placed her palm against his forehead.

“Do you feel ill?”

He swatted at her hand. "Don't be ridiculous," he dismissed her peevishly.

She contemplated him for a moment. Knowing better than to touch him again, "Is everything all right?" she asked

Éomer looked up at his sister. She was the one person whom he had always trusted. She had never had to do anything to gain this trust. It had always been there. It was inbred. He trusted her with his soul, because she was part of his soul. She was part of him. If he couldn’t trust Éowyn, he couldn’t trust himself. If he couldn’t tell Éowyn, there was nothing to tell.

Her next words were like an echo to his thoughts.

“Tell me.”

She hopped onto his desk, folding her hands in her lap. Now his desk was cluttered with not only dishes of uneaten food and various pieces of clothing but also with a very determined sister. Éomer exhaled and cleared his throat.

“Prince Imrahil proposed marriage.”

Éowyn straightened and her eyebrows shot upward as if attempting to make close acquaintance with her hairline. She gave a rather unladylike sort of snort.

“I could have sworn I did not see you drinking last night.”

“His daughter,” Éomer clarified with a hint of impatience to his voice. “He wants me to wed his daughter.”

Somehow it felt good that Éowyn looked at least slightly flabbergasted. That piece of information was something to be absorbed even for her. She swallowed and raised the forefinger of her right hand.

“Just give me a moment to digest that,” she muttered.

Well, if her digestive process needed only half of the time that his was obviously going to take in this case, then he would have to give her more than just a moment. But Éowyn recovered quickly and she shot him a look of mingled amusement and disbelief.

“Is there any particular reason why Prince Imrahil would like to see his daughter bonded to ‘you’?”

"No need to be insulting,” her brother mumbled, but then grinned despite himself. “You mean it should be more than enough that one of his kin will be tied up until his dying day to one of our lot?”

“In comparison to you I am perfectly amiable.”

“But only in comparison to me!”

Having cast those affectionate aspersions upon each other, brother and sister fell silent, both lost in thought. It was Éowyn who broke their reverie.

“Faramir told me about his cousin. It is Lothíriel, is it not?”

Éomer just nodded.

“She is a healer. Faramir mentioned that within the Houses of Healing her title is ignored and that nobody realizes that they are being treated by a Princess of Gondor.”

“True. I had not realized whom I was dealing with.”

“She treated you?”

Again just a nod.

“You have never told me that you were injured.”

“It was not worth mentioning.” He shrugged his shoulder dismissively

“Treat ‘em rough, make ‘em tough!” Éowyn remarked ironically, but otherwise passed over this information.

“I do not think that I ever met her when I stayed at the Houses of Healing. At least I am not aware of it. Those healers do look all very much alike in that ghastly garb.”

“I do not think that garb is meant for adornment,” Éomer pointed out.

Éowyn gave him a bleak look. “Whatsoever! Now tell me! What is she like?”

“I thought your betrothed told you about her,” he attempted to stall.

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed. “But I want to hear what you think of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth,” she demanded.

Her intense scrutiny made him uncomfortable. At times it was highly inconvenient to have a sister who knew him just too well.

“She is vexing.” Éomer said evasively after a hesitant pause. How could he tell her – or anybody else for that matter – what he felt or thought about Lothíriel, if he didn’t know it himself? Vexing was a fitting description, after all. She was a constant and therefore vexing disturbance to his mind.

“Vexing?” Éowyn looked slightly confused. “Neither complimentary nor meaningful, and that is all you have to say about your bride-to-be?”

He gave a self-conscious grimace at this expression. He had yet to agree to Imrahil’s offer, but could he actually refuse it? But if Éowyn wished to know what he had to say about the Prince’s daughter, there were quite a few attributes to be assigned to her.

“Well, she is the most vexing, aggravating and disconcerting woman I have ever encountered.” He growled the words. “She is patronizing, single-minded, headstrong and you never know what she is going to do or say next.”

For a short moment Éowyn appeared thoroughly stunned by this tirade. She cleared her throat.

“That is a meaningful list indeed, though not necessarily complimentary. But it sounds as if this is going to be a match well made,” she added, giving him a sly look.

Éomer confined his reply to a glare accompanied by a snort of chagrin.

“Is there anything nice you have to say about her?” his sister probed.

Anything nice to say? Éomer didn’t even notice his own fleeting smile. There were many nice things to say about Lothíriel, none of which he wished to share with Éowyn. One certainly didn’t tell one’s sister how the body of a woman had felt in one’s arms or what one had wished to do to that body.

But beside the pull she had on him, there was much more to the Princess of Dol Amroth. There was her compassion for others; her sympathy for those who suffered; her sense of responsibility towards her patients which went beyond the simple care for their physical well-being; her desire to be useful and not just some embellishment. She was also full of lively curiosity and had a rather naive faith in the basic goodness of the world.

That was something he was able pass on to Éowyn. “She is very compassionate, caring and empathetic; and always composed”

“That is definitely more revealing,” Éowyn said contentedly. “And?”

“And what?”

Éowyn harrumphed. “Well, what does she look like?”

Éomer folded his hands on the desk and regarded her with a resigned gaze. His sister had always had something about her which reminded him of those tiny nasty burrs which stuck to one indefinitely wherever they got their prickles in.

“She looks like Imrahil . . . and Faramir.”

He picked up the porridge bowl, poking in it with the spoon. The cooled mixture had taken on the consistency of dried loam. Only a starving man would be tempted to eat any of it now, but it reminded him that he wanted to discuss the possibility of using clay bricks for the reconstruction of the villages at the next council meeting. They were not common building material in Rohan, but he had seen them used quite effectively in settlements along the banks of the Anduin.

He came out of his short reverie when Éowyn rapped her knuckles against his forehead.

“Éomer, are you still in there?”

“What?” he demanded crossly.

“I asked you a question.”

“About what?”

“In what way does Lothíriel resemble Faramir?”

“She shares his colouring. The dark hair and the grey eyes.”

“And?”

Éomer ask himself if he would get rid of her if he reminded her why she had come to his study in the first place. But one look at her determined face and he knew there was no way out. He made a sound caught between a hiss of irritation and a groan of disbelief and surrendered with something approaching grace.

“What do you want to know?”

“Is she pretty?”

“No.”

That answer made her lose her thread for a moment.

“Not pretty?” Disbelief echoed in her voice.

“Definitely not pretty.” He enjoyed her flabbergasted expression immensely.

“Oh!” Éowyn was obviously trying to gather her thoughts after this seemingly unexpected revelation. “She cannot be worse than Eormenhild.”

“Who?”

“Eormenhild of the Westfold Vale. Erkenbrand’s daughter.”

“What does one of Erkenbrand’s daughters has to do with this?”

Éowyn slanted him a strange look. “Last night I overheard something at Aldhelm’s.”

“You were eavesdropping on the head of my Council?” Éomer asked mildly, not surprised at all.

“Ehhh . . . yes,” his sister confessed without showing any obvious awkwardness. “You should try that from time to time,” she advised. “You will learn the most interesting things.”

“For example?”

“That Aldhelm feels Eormenhild will make a very fine queen.”

One blow of this kind a day was hard enough to get over, the second, even more brutal one, felt somehow deadly. Éomer once more froze in his chair, watched by his sister who finally said, slightly worried: “Breathe, Éomer!”

He took her advice, but his breath was somehow coming in wheezes.

“Have they all gone mad? Why is everybody suddenly picking out women for me?”

“They are not picking out women,” Éowyn explained patiently. “They are picking out wives!”

“Well, I do not want either,” he stated, ignoring his sister’s rising eyebrows. “And certainly not one of Erkenbrand’s daughters. They all look like their father  . . . except for the beard,” he added. Picture it! Having to go to bed with a spitting image of the Marshal of the Westmark. Bema! Never!

“Poor brother!” Éowyn didn’t look sympathetic at all. “Only ugly ducklings on offer.”

He toyed with the idea of letting that stand, but somehow he simply couldn’t.

“Lothíriel is not an ugly duckling.” He expelled a deep breath. “She is beautiful.”

“But you said . . . “

“I said she is not pretty. That is the wrong word. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes upon.”

For a couple of heartbeats Éowyn look baffled but then she smiled at him sweetly. “Is that so?”

Éomer just knew from experience that this tone of her voice mingled with this sublimely innocent smile should make him highly suspicious about what there was to come. All he could do now was wait and study his fingernails which were in need of a good scrubbing. Grooming your horse did that to your nails.

“So, a beautiful woman and she annoys you?” Éowyn pondered. “Finally one who gets through, hmm? That must be a rather unsettling feeling, especially for a man who values his self-control . . . at least when it comes to women.”

Éomer groaned inwardly. It seemed his sister had become even more efficient in reading him. There were certain benefits in that she would soon be relocating to Gondor.

Unexpectedly Éowyn gave a squeal of pleasure, so high pitched that even her not easily startled brother jumped. When had Éowyn started squealing?

“Oh, brother! You are in love!”

“What?” Éomer’s lashes shot up.

And when had she started talking nonsense?

“No! I am certainly not!” Éomer insisted firmly, suddenly being ambushed by the uneasy feeling that his denial might come close to a lie, but refusing to examine his emotions thoroughly enough to be sure.

“Certainly not?” his sister echoed, scepticism woven around every single letter.

“Certainly not!” Éomer confirmed once more. “Do you not think that I would be the first to know if I were in love with . . . whomsoever?”

Éowyn gave another snort.

“You should not make that a habit,” her brother warned. “I am quite certain that if a female makes that kind of noise, then it is likely to be considered very bad manners in Gondor.”

“Do not try to change the subject.” She smiled indulgently. “And I am quite certain that you would be the very last to know if you were in love.”

“That coming from you . . .” he let his voice trail off into a meaningful silence.

Éowyn sucked in an outraged breath. “Now, who is getting insulting?”

“I do not wish to be insulting; I wish to be left alone. I spent last night in a bloody horse stall instead of a bed in order to avoid having Aldhelm once more go into the subject of the necessity to produce an heir. This morning I was woken by Aragorn who brought up the same matter, admittedly more subtly but not less insistently. Led by him here, to my study like an unsuspecting sheep to the slaughter-house, I found Imrahil, who announced with a cheerfulness I would, under these circumstances, have rather expected from one of his irksome sons, that he feels a bond between his daughter and myself would be an excellent idea. And now you are telling me there is another hopeful to be talked about.”

He ran a weary hand down his face.

“I have enough. I am sickened by the whole matter. Why not line up half a dozen females whom my Council, my friends, my sister or whosoever do approve of? Then blindfold me and I can pick out one at random.”

He slid forward on his chair until his neck came to rest on the upholstered back of it. He stared at the ceiling.

All the teasing gleam in Éowyn’s eyes had vanished, to be replaced by a more sober look.

“Brother, if the thought of taking a wife is at the moment so abhorrent to you, then you have to tell Prince Imrahil.” She batted the air with one hand. “Forget about Eormenhild. That is only the latest of Aldhelm’s mule-headed pursuits. More importantly: how did you answer the Prince?”

“I didn’t. I would not have known what to answer.”

She watched him thoughtfully.

“Do you not want to affront a friend by refusing his offer, or are you considering accepting this proposal?”

Éomer took a deep breath, trying not to think before he answered.

“The last, I am afraid.” He listened to his own words self-consciously and then pulled a face.

Éowyn made an attempt not to laugh.

“Have you ever thought about putting a name to your emotions? Éomer, I know you rarely confide your feelings to others, but I always thought you were bluntly honest with yourself.”

“You can have blunt honesty. I want her as a woman. That I know. And I also know I can only have her as a wife. What I do not know is, if that is right or if it is enough.”

He sat up abruptly and threw her a challenging glance.

“"Well, that was honest enough," Éowyn noted. “So, you do have feelings for her?”

“I suppose, I do” he said succinctly, and then added: “In a way.”

Éowyn tilted her head slightly to the side as she contemplated that information and kept staring at him unwaveringly.

“Éowyn,” he groaned, his tone a mixture of exasperation and resignation. “I have met her only four times.”

He held up a hand, thumb drawn in, four fingers raised. His sister inspected them with a frown.

“You need to scrub your fingernails,” she pointed out.

Her brother curled in his fingers and put the fist back in his lap. “I groomed Firefoot before I came here.”

“And after having met her four times, do you not have the slightest inkling regarding the nature of your emotions?”

“Our encounters were not all thoroughly amiable.” He raised his hand again, fingers bunched into a loose fist. “Once I nearly throttled her.” He extended one finger. “Twice I was highly tempted.” Two more fingers came up. “And at the fourth meeting . . . “

“You throttled her?” Éowyn interrupted with a gasp, and that was probably for the best. Otherwise what should he have told her about his fourth encounter with Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?

“You mean literally?”

“It was a misunderstanding; an accident,” he answered, matching her vexed tone.

“How can one accidentally throttle a princess?” Éowyn asked, eyeing him with disapproval.

“When she treated me at the Houses of Healing, she left the treatment chamber for a short while and I fell asleep. When she returned she startled me, and the next thing I knew was that I had my arm across her throat.”

That definitely was a revised version of the event.

“And she escaped unscarred? I remember you putting black and blue marks on me in a friendly tussle. If you grabbed her seriously in a defence reflex you must have nearly broken her neck.”

Éomer groaned, not happy having to deal again with the self-disgust and mortification he had felt the moment he had realized whom he had in a death grip.

“Bema! Éomer! And she is still willing to become your wife?”

“She does not know anything about her blessed future yet.” He rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “Imrahil has not found it necessary to advise her about his plans.”

“But then it is not your decision alone. She must have her say first.” said Éowyn irritably.

“She once related to me that she was bred for an arranged union in favour of Gondor and that in the end she would accept any choice her father would make for her,” he said, noticing an odd roughness to his voice.

“That is weird,” she declared, outrage in her voice.

“No, that is politics,” Éomer grimaced, “or so I have been told. And we do have our share of arranged bonding here in Rohan. Otherwise we would not have talked about Eormenhild earlier.”

“You are right,” his sister admitted. “But Lothíriel cannot be truly unaffected by such an arrangement.”

“She is not. She does not want anything like this any more than . . . I do not know who. Do not get any romantic notions,” he added dispassionately, studying her changing expression. “She does not want love. She wants to keep on working as a healer.”

It appeared there was nothing else to say

“You mentioned that twice you were tempted to throttle her,” Éowyn said, when the silence had gone on for some time.

“It is quite easy to get into an argument with her. She has decided opinions,” he said without any further elaboration.

She seemed to consider that for a moment, but, for reasons of her own, refrained from asking about the nature of the arguments they had gotten into.

“And what about the fourth time you encountered her?”

In a rather involuntary reflex he folded his arms defensively across his chest.

“We did not argue,” he answered and then added, against his better judgment, “I kissed her.”

He watched Éowyn’s eyes getting bigger and bigger and her pearl-like teeth visible in a wide grin. He pointed a finger at her face.

“No squealing,” he ordered gruffly. “And again: do not get any romantic notions. On that occasion I was told that a tongue in another person’s mouth is something to be considered unappetizing.”

For a couple of heartbeats Éowyn looked taken aback. Then she started to smile. The smile turned into a grin, and then, without warning, she started laughing. She laughed so hard that Éomer considered the fact that she did not fall off the desk a veritable miracle. He watched her trying to wipe off her tears of mirth with the back of her hands, rather unsuccessfully. He reached for the napkin from his food tray and held it out for her.

“There is no mercy in you," he noted, sounding unsurprised.

"None at all," she confirmed cheerfully between hiccups and gasps for air, dabbing her eyes and cheeks with the crinkled cloth.

“I thought you might find that amusing,” he murmured, smiling wryly.

“She must . . . Of course; you must have done something wrong!” Éowyn was still short of breath and giggles erupted from her mouth in irregular intervals.

“Of course! I had done something wrong,” Éomer said with resignation. “Well, this is the point were we will put a halt on this little talk.” He got to his feet. “After all, you came here to make me change.”

Éowyn waved the napkin at him.

“Brother, I am afraid nothing is ever going to change you.” She hopped off the desk. “Not that I think you should . . . at least not too much.” She began to rummage around in one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her wide skirts, finally producing a comb. “But we need to do something with your hair. Sit!” She pointed at the chair he had just vacated. Obediently Éomer moved back into it. It was not the first time she had combed his hair but very likely one of the last.

Gently she began to disentangle the thick strands.

“Éomer, if it is not the woman who is wrong - at least not in principle - why do you put up such a fight against this union?”

He groaned. “You cannot let it go, can you? You are just another dog with a bone.”

“It is such a nice fleshy bone.”

He cast about briefly for the words he needed, but he could not find them. He toyed with the idea of lapsing into another silence. It would have been easier. And when he started to speak he could not be certain what would come out of his mouth.

“I have never made any plans to take a wife. It is not that I have never wanted one. I guess I have always thought it would just happen when the time was right. Not that it seemed as if the time would ever be right as far as I can remember. And suddenly there is such a rush, pressure actually, to wed and beget an heir. And the emphasis is on the heir. This is not about finding a companion to share my life with. This is about putting a mare to her intended use of breeding.”

“Is that assessment not a bit harsh?” Éowyn asked, seemingly focused on his hair.

“Currently I am not overly concerned about the balance of my assessments.” He sighed. “I will do anything for Rohan and our people. There will be an heir, but all in good time. And this is not a good time. I have so many things to consider, so many things to take care of. When I let another human being into my life, do you not think I should have at least the courtesy to share some of that life with her? But at the moment there is nothing left to share. All of what I am is in service to Rohan.”

“Éomer?” There was a great deal of hesitancy in Éowyn’s voice. She separated a strand of his hair and began to braid it out of his face. “Do you feel anger at me because I leave you behind, alone with all these problems?”

“What?” He shot around, his skull nearly colliding with her chin. “What kind of harebrained question is that? There is nothing in the world I want more than your happiness. I wish you could have found it here in the Riddermark. But if it lies in Gondor, so be it.”

“I could defer my wedding for some time,” Éowyn offered, “and stay with you and help you in the rebuilding of Rohan. The burden of responsibility should not weigh upon your shoulders alone.”

Éomer put his hand rather roughly around the back of her neck and pulled her face down to him so he could look directly into her clear blue eyes. Eyes which were so unlike his.

“If you wish to take a weight from my shoulders, then go to Faramir and be happy.” He raised himself slightly and put his lips briefly against her forehead. “And besides, I have given the Steward my word of honour to ship you off to Gondor by early Súlimë.”

Éowyn smiled, caressing his cheek with the back of her fingers. “I love you, Éomer.”

“I should bloody well hope so. That is the least you can do. You have been trouble since the day you were born.”

She shoved him back into his seat and again took on the task of bringing some semblance of neatness to his hair.

“How will you answer Prince Imrahil?”

“I do not know yet,” he said apprehensively. He got up again and went to stand at the windows that looked out west toward the Snowbourn making its way out of Harrowdale. “Even without the devastation of the war, life here in the Riddermark is more austere and rougher than it is in Gondor. Our life is not the one she was brought up to live. She is such an unearthly and delicate kind of woman. She has not been made for Rohan.”

“Why should Prince Imrahil, who certainly knows his daughter better than you do, be determined to give her to you as a wife if he had doubts that she would not be content at your side?”

He just shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes on the landscape outside.

“I advise you to consider that somebody who can aggravate you and whom you describe as headstrong cannot be weak. Somebody who stands up to you and gets into an argument with you is certainly not some shy squeamish girl. Somebody who can take being assaulted by you must have considerable strength. And who says that I have been made for Gondor?”

“But you will go to a man who loves you. And Lothíriel does not deserve less.” He turned his head. “She is unique, Éowyn. She deserves a husband who truly loves her. Not somebody who, whenever he lays eyes upon her, is tempted to throw her into his bed and jump on her.”

With the last words out of his mouth he immediately regretted having spoken them. How could he have confessed something like that to his sister? He groaned in embarrassment and pressed his forehead against the window pane.

Éowyn made no attempt to hide her amusement.

“I would not recommend that if she is indeed such a delicate creature,” she taunted. “You are definitely not a light-weight. Any woman who shares your bed is going to remember the occasion anyway.”

Éomer’s head shot around. His lips twisted into a disbelieving expression. “You do not know what you are talking about! . . .  At least you should not know what you are talking about.” His gaze became suspicious, and then threatening. “But if you indeed do know what you are talking about, then perhaps I had better have a talk with your betrothed?”

“Leave Faramir out of this!” Éowyn folded her arms beneath her breasts and regarded him with belligerent challenge. “Or I may have to talk to him about you kissing his cousin!”

At the moment Éomer was not up to another challenge. “Go away,” he said resignedly.

“Only if you answer me one last question. In comparison to all the other women you have thrown into your bed,” she ignored a pained growl from her brother, “is the feeling the same with Lothíriel, or is it different?”

Éomer came around slowly, clearly mystified by the question.

Different?

Something deep inside himself responded to Lothíriel almost on sight. He reacted to everything about her, from her big grey eyes to her cool clear voice. He had never been touched like this by any other woman, he thought baffled and bemused. He could not seem to wrap his mind around this sensation. It was not just lust. He was old enough and sufficiently experienced to take the effects of lust in stride. There was something else going on here. He’d been trying to ignore it, work around it, deny it, but there was no possibility of avoiding the reality.

Lothíriel was different.

A warm feeling closed in on him. His mouth curved into a smile. He looked directly at his sister.

"Go away," he repeated gently. "You can torment me again later today."

Éowyn had watched the flow of emotions passing over his face. Now she gave him a small smile of satisfaction. “You can depend on that,” she grinned. She gestured towards the desk. “And do not forget to change. And cease shoving your hands through your hair.”

With that she left him on his own.

Once again Éomer looked out of the window, letting his eyes roam across the familiar landscape. As he stood there, a strange sense of satisfaction washed over him.

He wanted Lothíriel. He wanted her desperately. He would not have allowed himself to choose her as a wife. He still felt it was not right to separate her from a life she was so content with and remove her to Rohan, to a life she knew nothing about. He had no idea how his kinsmen would feel about this young princess from Gondor, who would be as foreign to them as they would be foreign to her. And he found it extremely unsettling still not to know exactly what his feelings for her were; only that she was far, far too dangerous for his peace of mind.

He would have liked to have more time.

But fate – or rather her father – had intervened, and now that it looked like he had to marry her . . . well, there didn’t seem much sense in putting up a big fuss. There were worse fates than finding oneself bound to an intelligent beautiful woman whom one happened to lust after.

It appeared he had to consider himself betrothed.

FINI