There was an extensive and pleasant library accommodated in a side wing of the Houses of Healing. An eight-sided room, arranged over two levels around an atrium, vaulted by an airy cupola. Heavy bookcases stood parallel to and against the walls. They were filled with manuscripts and codices hoarding knowledge accumulated by healers and herbalists over many centuries.

For Lothíriel, this library had always been a reservoir of pleasure and strength, and during the months following the great battles, a reminder that there was still order, calmness and continuation in the world. The pleasure it gave to her was of the steady and reliable kind. 

To her the books in here were quiet and constant friends; they were accessible and wise counsellors, and patient teachers. But over the years she had learnt that a library could not only be a place of knowledge but also a place of error, or, as Amrothos had put it once as only Amrothos was able to put it, “Be careful of all those healing books. You may die of a misspelling.”

Lothíriel had settled down at the large round table in the centre of the atrium, where she had spread every single scroll, folio or tome she had been able to find concerning injuries obtained in battle. In front of her lay her own records. Since she had come to the healers to be educated in their art and later began to work as one of their own, she had written down everything she had learnt and made notes on everything she had observed. Now she was comparing the findings she had jotted down in her journal to those which had been recorded by other healers over a period of hundreds of years.

She had hardly found the time to do her quiet private research whilst the Houses of Healing were bursting at the seams with the wounded from the great battles. With the last convalescents gone, the treatment chambers and wards cleaned and their condition returned to their former order, the healers now found the time to care for the gardens and the herbarium. Now there was time to brew fresh potions and cook salves or take some time to indulge themselves in their own interests, just as Lothíriel was doing this afternoon.

She had missed this soothing activity. Never before had she needed so desperately to do something that could settle her soul and her mind, the peace of which had been disturbed. It was totally preposterous, but she had finally come to admit to herself that this unrest in her very core had more to do with a single person – one man - than with all those occurrences and changes that had happened to Middle-Earth, especially over the past year. Her common sense scolded her that this in itself had to be considered preposterous indeed!

Lothíriel had always thought herself able to compose her mind in any situation, if only by avoiding those occasions or people which could disturb her. But Éomer of Rohan had somehow refused to be avoided. No matter how often she pushed any thoughts about him back into the shadow with every ounce of will at her command: the thoughts always resurfaced.

Deep regular breathing and severe concentration usually helped, at least for a while, and so she had been able to copy the drawing of a sliced thigh muscle into her journal to round off her own records.  As she checked her work critically, but also with some satisfaction, she heard the outer door open and swift footsteps approaching. Her disappointed frown at no longer having the library for her own changed to a joyous smile when Lothíriel saw who appeared from between the bookcases.

“Erchirion.”

Her brother returned her welcoming smile with a friendly grin of his own and stepped near to her chair. He took her hand and placed his lips lightly on her knuckles.

“Sister, I have been looking for you all over this place, hoping to find you enjoying the fine weather in the gardens. And where are you? Buried under a pile of scrolls and parchments.” He closed the rather large tome she had been copying from with a thumb. “What are you doing anyway?” He gestured towards her journal.

Lothíriel smiled, her eyes glittering mischievously. Wordlessly she turned her journal around so that Erchirion could have a look at her very detailed drawing. Her brother studied it with a slightly disgusted frown.

“You do have talent,” he said, stating the obvious. “Have you ever thought about drawing something nice? A landscape, for example?”

“To what use?” she dismissed the idea, easing out of her chair. “To hide it in a folder afterwards or hang it in an out of the way room?”

“When was the last time you did something for pure simple pleasure?” Erchirion asked, grinning affectionately.

“This is what I do for pleasure.” She raised her journal and then snapped it shut. “And how are your activities coming along? I have hardly seen you over the past month.”

“So far we have done well. Tomorrow at dawn the first trek of wains will leave Harlond. As instructed, Elphir sent grain from the royal granaries of Belfalas. And Forlong’s successor has pledged Lossarnach’s unrestricted support. A trek from there will pass through the Pelennor in about five day’s time.”

“Who is successor to Lord Forlong?” Lothíriel began to roll up the scrolls, fixing them with silk ribbons. “To my knowledge he had no children of his own.”

Erchirion took one scroll after the other from his sister and put them into protective leather tubes.

“He had a son, Doronion. He was one of Boromir captains. But he died last year during the attack on Osgiliath. Forlong’s successor now is Lord Meldir, a son to a cousin. Meldir fought alongside Forlong at the Pelennor Fields and saw himself what the Rohirrim did for Gondor. As soon as my messenger arrived with the King’s instructions he did what was necessary to ensure that the provisions from Lossarnach started on their way.”

“And what about the other vassals of the southern feoffs? Will they submit themselves to the King’s will?”

Erchirion shrugged nonchalantly, his shoulders moving with careless ease beneath the leather tunic he wore. “They will have no other option but to obey.”

His sister tilted her head slightly. “So, there are not going be any delaying tactics? No political games? No problems at all?”

Erchirion raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Is your interest shifting from the art of healing to domestic affairs?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Lothíriel assured him, stacking several large codices on top of each other.

“Do not worry, Lothíriel. Your former protégés will not run the risk of starvation.” He paused a little before he continued deliberately. “Your King has Elessar’s word.

Lothíriel blinked at this allusion. Usually Erchirion was by far the most subtle of her brothers. It was not like him to drop a broad hint like this from out of nowhere. She looked directly at him and saw him watching her as he had been doing since he found her with Rohan’s King on the terraces of Merethrond: his shrewd gaze carefully overlaid with an air of charming amusement. But she refused to fall for his bait and forced her voice into its usual serene tone, choosing to ignore his words.

“While you are here, big brother, make yourself useful and take those tomes upstairs. They are a bit on the heavy side.”

Her brother’s gaze stayed on her, losing some of its amusement and becoming more scrutinizing. There was something else in his warm brown eyes Lothíriel couldn’t figure out. Was it apprehension?

Watching her watching him, Erchirion’s pleasant grin returned and he took hold of the leather cased tomes.

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel!” He weighted the heavy codices in his arms. “How did you get them down here?” 

“One by one. And no, I neither dislocated my shoulder nor damaged my spine.” At times she really had enough of all the innuendos about her fragile appearance. She was much stronger than most people gave her credit for. But Erchirion only laughed at her irritated tone.

“Where do I put them?”

“You will not be able to miss the gaps in the bookcases. The one with the gold lettering goes in just opposite the head of the stairs, the other five in the bookcases to the right, second aisle.”

Adjusting his heavy load, Erchirion made his way to the spiral staircase hidden behind several rows of bookcases. Lothíriel watched his retreat. She wondered why he had deliberately let slip that remark about her king? Of all her brothers this one didn’t mutter a single syllable without a purpose.

Once more she wondered how long it would take before Éomer’s name or title could be mentioned without her feeling a rush of longing that made her insides tighten and her breath catch in her throat. It had been a month now. And, truth be told, the state of her mind was not improving!

Another of those unsettling little chills of sensual awareness travelled down her spine at the memory of Éomer’s odd coloured eyes and warm, hard body. She had been fascinated by him. She was still having problems coming to terms with the realization that he had been able to affect her so strongly. She had never been so deeply aware of a man in her life. Of course, she reminded herself, she had never known that one could be so deeply aware of a man. Actually, she had never before been aware of men!

And this one had thrown her off balance from the very first moment of their acquaintance. Everything about him had been beyond her experience: the physical appeal and even more so the force of his personality. He did not treat her with the politeness and reserve she was used to. An encounter with Éomer was always direct, challenging and forceful, sometimes downright aggressive, but at the same time he could be tender and considerate.

The man was a contradiction, if ever a contradiction had been able to take human form.

He had come to the Houses of Healing to scold her for thoughtlessly having put her reputation at stake and putting him in an impossible situation. From angry he had gone to teasing, and then he had kissed her, not caring about reputation or compromising positions.

Her father sometimes bestowed a warm, affectionate kiss upon her forehead; her hands had been kissed, but she had never received even the most chaste of kisses on her mouth or even anywhere near her mouth. Éomer had kissed her without forewarning. Those kisses had been neither chaste nor warm. They had been long, deep, white-hot kisses of passion and Lothíriel, in spite of her inexperience, had recognized them for what they were, even without the attributing adjectives.

They had felt glorious, much more than just pleasant. And that had surprised her more than anything else in her life before.

She had given the matter of kissing some thought from time to time, mainly when she came across couples indulging themselves in the pastime. The gardens of the Houses of Healing and the Citadel appeared to be quite popular for this kind of activity. Reflecting upon it, she had asked herself what all the fuss was about. It hadn’t looked like something she would do voluntarily. Éomer had managed to revise that notion within half a dozen heartbeats. She would quite willingly do it again – at least with him. She couldn’t imagine kissing another man.

But he had not only kissed her. He had touched her. Lothíriel had been as unfamiliar with touching as she had been with kissing. And as she hadn’t been able to comprehend the attraction of a kiss, she hadn’t understood the appeal of a touch, the feeling of another warm body against her own. Perhaps she had began to long for the feeling the night they had met, when she had treated his wound and he had given her a hug of comfort. It had been tempting to stay in his arms just to savour his warmth.

And it was this warmth that she was now craving. She hadn’t known that she had been cold, even on a hot day, until he had wrapped her in his arms. This warmth was about far more than just temperature. It had found its way into her core, filled her, and warmed her heart and her soul.

But, of course, her annoying mind had tried to interfere; had tried to regain control; had forced her to make an attempt to rationalize. She couldn’t even recall in detail what she had prattled. Éomer’s angry and passionate response had smothered that patronizing voice of reason and instead provoked her own frightfully fierce reaction. She had only a vague idea where that outburst of passion might have led, but having contemplated that moment again and again, she had to confess to herself that she would have had followed him wherever he might have taken her.

That was a frightening thought. A confusing thought. Highly confusing. That longing and those feelings that had flooded through her, contradicted all the moral values and proprieties she had been brought up to believe in. And so she had done what she always did when she feared she wouldn’t be in control any longer. She removed herself from the source of the disturbance. She had made certain that she wouldn’t see Éomer again before he left Minas Tirith. After all, they had already agreed to avoid each other.

The familiar creak of the outer door of the library took her out of her reverie with a jolt. She had never been a daydreamer. Her cheeks felt unnaturally warm. She covered them with her hands. What was wrong with her? Taking a deep breath she turned her gaze towards the entrance. This time it was Amrothos whom she saw approaching, with his usual cocky smile firmly entrenched on his handsome face.

Hardly ever could one of her brothers be found in a library.  But both of them at the same time in the library of the Houses of Healing? That was most unusual. Lothíriel sighed. She loved her brothers, but she would be an imbecile to believe in coincidences where they were involved, especially Amrothos. She’d better be prepared to be on her guard against whatever there was to come.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asked ironically. “An impromptu family gathering?”

Amrothos ignored her remark, and just grinned with one of his nerve-racking smiles. “I heard you are to be congratulated.”

Lothíriel permitted herself a very unladylike groan. Conversations with Amrothos had the vexing tendency of starting somewhere in the middle. And then you had to work your way from there in both directions, on your lucky days reaching the actual beginning before the conclusion. Lothíriel preferred any of her verbal exchanges in a remotely logical order, so she tried – not for the first time, and again probably not to be crowned by success – to stir her brother to the initial question of whatever he was trying to communicate.

“There is nothing I like more than to be congratulated, though I find the pleasure immeasurably increased when I know what for.”

 Amrothos quirked a brow. “Have you not been informed yet?”

“Informed about what?” Patience was paramount.

“The good news you are to be congratulated for,” her brother replied jovially.

Lothíriel stifled another small groan. “We better call this to a halt right here. Tell me what you believe you know or go away!”

“Such tender words for your favourite brother. I am quite undone.”

“Amrothos!”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Our father has found you a husband.” His voice was very soft . . . and very serious.

Lothíriel stared at him with some dismay, ready to shrug off this claim as one of his frolics, but she recognized something in his eyes that let her world drop away from beneath her feet. Not another prank! The truth! For a heartbeat she was on the verge of a very primitive sense of panic. Her face went pale and she held her breath so long that she became dizzy and covertly gripped the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. She swayed ever so slightly. A firm hand grabbed her on her upper arm, not so much to steady her as to urge her back into her chair. Without her noticing, Erchirion had reappeared at her side.

“Amrothos!” he hissed, all the habitual lightness gone from his voice.  “You have the sensitivities of a rutting warg.”

Ignoring the hollow humming noise in her ears, Lothíriel fought back the panic, ordered herself to be calm and to think. The first clear thought that came to her head was that she must look very pale indeed, because Amrothos had begun fanning her with a large folded parchment. To her great dismay, she realized that it was a very precious manuscript. She shot up from her seat.

“Have you gone mad? That is over a millennium old.” She wrested the parchment as carefully as possible from his hands and laid it down on the table to smooth it out. “That is irreplaceable. Be a bit careful around here.”

Erchirion exchanged an incredulous look with Amrothos who shrugged one of his shoulders.

“If I have the sensitivities of a rutting warg – which reminds me: should you mention the condition of a rut in the presence of our virginal sister? . . . Well, we had better start from the assumption that she still is and there was not some necessity behind father’s sudden decision . . . hmmm? – then how would you describe her sensitivities in the face of this just displayed single-mindedness?”

Erchirion had listened to his brother’s rhetorical eruption with the practised patience of many years. “Amrothos, do you always understand everything you say?” 

“Yes,” the youngest Dol Amroth prince answered without as much as batting an eyelid, “if I listen attentively.”

Lothíriel heard the familiar bickering but it went in one ear and out the other. The distracting moment of annoyance with Amrothos had been ephemeral. Now she watched her hands still smoothing over an already smoothed out parchment. She gave her head a tiny shake to clear out the fog which had settled inside her brain. She had to gain control of herself, to tamp down her confusion by focusing on practicalities.

“Erchirion!” Her brother’s eyes locked instantly with hers at the strange tone of her voice. Lothíriel took one more calming breath. His name had come out more sharply than she had intended. “You knew! Why have you not told me?”

“Yes, I knew, and it was I who was supposed to inform you.” He slanted his brother an accusing glare, but Amrothos was right now studying the construction of the cupola with concentrated interest. “I just did not want to bring it down on you like a battle axe.”

“Father instructed you to do so?”

“I received his letters this morning.”

“Letters? He sent a letter?” she asked, finding her own voice sounding awfully strained. “How can he find me a husband when he is still in Edoras?”

At once she found herself at the cross point of genuinely surprised glances from both her brothers. Lothíriel switched her gaze back and forth between the two, puzzled.

“Indeed, he is in Edoras,” Amrothos said in the tone one used on a particularly dense child when trying to explain something.

She blinked at this remark in non-comprehension. She frowned slightly and then the realization hit her. Her knees gave way and her bottom landed hard on the chair, causing her coccyx to send out an ignored protest. She stared at them wide-eyed.

“Éomer?”

She couldn’t have said with certainty if she had spoken his name out loud or if only her lips had formed it in silence. Her heart hammered in her chest; she could hear it. She was certain her brothers were able to hear it. She could feel her cheeks getting hot. She was just grateful for the healer’s garb which covered her except for face and hands, because she could feel a hot flush running all over her body.

“Lothíriel, I think it is considered rather unhealthy not to breathe.”

Amrothos squatted in front of her and despite his flippant words he was gazing at her face with slightly worried look. He was right, of course. She’d been holding her breath again. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. She opened her mouth and felt a rush of something utterly foreign fill her lungs. It was air, she realized dumbly.

“Very good,” Amrothos commented satisfied. “And now let us try something else. Can you speak?”

Lothíriel swallowed and looked up at Erchirion, who was half sitting on the table, arms crossed, brows raised, watching her with his customary amused countenance.

“A single word would reassure us,” he demanded gently.

How was she supposed to find a single word of some sense in a brain that had gone completely blank? Lothíriel concentrated and somehow this single word formed all by itself.

“Why?”

“Why?” Amrothos echoed. He sat down unceremoniously on the floor at her feet. “Well, that is not the word I would have expected.”

“What would you have expected?” Erchirion asked with only mild interest.

“A little bit more drama, perhaps?”

Both turned with identical raised eyebrows to look at their sister, who, after some struggle, had managed to slip on her mask of composure that was so familiar to them. Only a deeper than usual frown just above the bridge of her nose gave away to those who knew her well enough the inner turmoil she felt.

“I do not think that displaying any drama is part of Lothíriel’s nature,” Erchirion remarked.

“You are right,” his brother acknowledged. “She is not the kind of hysterical female to jump off the Bastion, so we are unlikely to find her bones shattered all over the Pelennor Fields one morning.”

“If I jumped off the Bastion I would not end up on the Pelennor Fields but very likely in the back yard of one of the potters on the third level,” Lothíriel reminded him absent-mindedly.

Amrothos frowned and drew with his forefinger the imaginary line of a falling body through the air. “True,” he said after recalculating. “And your corpse would damage quite a lot of pottery and give the good people a bit of a scare. Not to mention the mess which would have to be cleaned up afterwards.”

Erchirion had closed his eyes in exasperation and shook his head.

“Very well,” he said. “Now that we have established these finer points of geography, perhaps we can get back to Lothíriel’s initial question.” He ducked his head, trying to catch his sister’s gaze with his own. “Dearest, what do you mean? Why . . . what?”

Lothíriel had to think about this. Somehow her brain refused to work with its usual speed. It was as if it had itself shielded from any input. She had to concentrate really hard to remember what she had wanted to know. Finally she accomplished the most basic of questions.

“Why is Father going to make this offer to Éomer King?”

Erchirion sighed. He drew another chair next to his sister’s, settling down on it. He stared at her silently for a moment before he said: “Lothíriel, I fear there is a misunderstanding. Father did not wish me to inform you about any plans he is going to discuss with Éomer King. They have already reached an agreement. Éomer did consent. You are betrothed to him.”

“Oh.” She was unable to shake off the daze she was in.  She seemed to be standing on the outside, looking in on the three of them, without any real interest

“Oh?” Amrothos eyes snapped up. “Lothíriel, are you well? You have just been told you are going to wed the King of Rohan and all you have to say is Oh!?  At least half of the female population of this city would, at such an announcement, turn on their heels and walk straight north all the way to Edoras. And not because he is a King but because he is . . . what he is, I suppose.” He snorted. “I am just glad he is no longer staying here. It is a real nuisance to be always the second in line.”

Erchirion cleared his throat in reprimand, but his brother’s one-shouldered shrug matched his lopsided grin to perfection.

“She is not listening, anyway.” He waved his hand in front of Lothíriel’s face. When she looked at him startled, he said: “Again, little sister, say something.” Not getting an immediate reply he added: “The first words that come to your head.”

“I belong to the second half.”

“Ah, you are listening after all.” Amrothos grinned slyly. “Second half, hmm? Well, you could have fooled me.”

Lothíriel felt her cheeks go warm as Amrothos’s voice trailed off.

“As usual you are talking nonsense,” she dismissed.

“That is better than listening to it.”

Lothíriel let out an irritated breath.

There were days when Amrothos was simply too much to bear. This was one of those days. And there was only one person in the whole of Middle-Earth who was truly able to manage the youngest Dol Amroth prince. And, contrary to what he believed, it was not their father.

“Erchirion, make him go away.”

“You are trying to get rid of me? I am your favourite brother.” He sounded like a kicked puppy.

“Why are you always insisting upon being my favourite brother? You made me eat frogspawn.”

“That is still a criterion?” he retorted. “It was fifteen years ago.”

“I was sick for three days.”

“You also get sick when you eat fish.”

Erchirion decided that this was the time to intervene and put a hold to his brother’s frolics. He had let him prattle because it had helped Lothíriel to get over the initial shock.

“Amrothos, I think it is time to make your grand exit.”

Imrahil’s third son was not by half as insensitive as most people thought, and he also knew when his elder brother was no longer in the mood for jesting. The brothers exchanged a look, Erchirion’s gaze unwavering. Amrothos understood, but he wasn’t one who would just retreat quietly. He clapped a hand over his heart. “The two of you wound me deeply. But where I am not wanted, I will no longer tarry.” He got up from the floor, executed a small, but dramatic bow and walked off, disappearing between the bookcases. His sister and brother waited for the creak of the outer door. Instead Amrothos’s upper body reappeared around the last bookcase, his forefinger pointing at Erchirion.

“Do not forget to give her the love letter.” With that parting shot he was finally gone, the door first opening and then being slammed shut.

“If he did not look so similar to Elphir and me, I would say Father must have found him under a bush,” Erchirion mused affectionately.

He turned towards his sister and watched her observantly. Outwardly her face betrayed none of her feelings, but her grey eyes were the windows to her soul and they were as turbulent as the low clouds that scuttled across a twilight sky. Erchirion sighed and sat forward.

“Lothíriel, I apologize. I wanted to find a more considerate way to bring this news to you. When I received Father’s messages this morning, Amrothos was with me and there was no way to keep it from him. I am certain he did not mean any harm. He was just . . . well, he is Amrothos - as always.”

Carefully he took Lothíriel’s hand from the arm of her chair, apparently uncertain if he should touch her. When she didn’t pull back, he clasped it between both of his. Lothíriel looked down at their entwined fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time Erchirion had touched her hands more than fleetingly. The way they were brought up, physical contact between grown siblings of different gender was not regarded proper behaviour. And yet, having her cold clammy hand between his much bigger, warm ones was as soothing as the gesture was simple.

“And now tell me how you really are,” Erchirion said gently.

Lothíriel snapped back to attention and searched the whirl inside her for something comprehensible.

“I am confused.” She found that that was the most general term to describe her present state of mind.

“A sudden betrothal certainly warrants a state of confusion.”

“I am not confused about the betrothal.”  She frowned, as if puzzled by her own statement. “No, that is not entirely true. I am confused about that as well. But mainly I am confused about my feelings. They are not what I would have expected.” She gave her brother a small, helpless smile. “I am in a state of total bewilderment, and that is confusing indeed. Does that make any sense to you?” She laughed, the sound still a bit unsteady.

Erchirion reflected on that for a moment. “At least it gives me an idea how you feel,” he said eventually.

“I have always told myself that I have accepted that one day our father would choose a husband for me. And I have convinced myself that he would do so considering my . . . considering me.” Lothíriel stopped, irritated at her own inability to articulate herself with her usual precision. “I have always thought he would let me have a say, or at least talk to me before he negotiated and concluded a contract; that he would ask my opinion before everything was settled and not just inform me at a point when it cannot be undone. I am confused because nothing has happened that I should not have expected and that I should not be able to accept. But instead I feel disappointed and betrayed. I am confused because I know our father would not make decisions over my life thoughtlessly and that he wishes to do only what is best for me, but I blame him for determining my fate without having had the courtesy to talk to me.”

Lothíriel felt her hands shaking ever so slightly and she didn’t want Erchirion to become aware of the turbulence inside her. She pulled her hand back from his grasp, but it was too late, anyway. His shrewd look told her, that he had a pretty good idea that her displayed calmness was only a facade, threatening to crack open.

“My feelings are not what they are supposed to be.”

“I doubt feelings are meant to be subjected to rules,” Erchirion pointed out, a sympathetic half-smile on his face. “But I think I understand now. It is not so much the situation but the way Father brought it upon you that troubles you.”

No, he didn’t understand at all. How could he guess that a dozen different battles waged inside her?

True, the way her father arranged this bond for her, and presented her with a fait accompli, made her feel like a pawn on a chessboard. And she still hadn’t been answered on the question as to why he acted this way and why he offered her to Rohan’s King. Why did he choose Éomer as her husband? No, it was not only the way this situation was brought upon her that had plunged her headlong into this whirl of emotions; it was the situation itself.

She was going to wed a man who had made her ache for him, made her long for something she couldn’t even name, but at the same time she knew with absolute certainty that only he was able to give it to her. And she had not the slightest inkling what she meant to this man. He had taunted her; he had scolded her; he had yelled at her. More than once she had been afraid that he might just grab her and shake her. Something about her seemed to make him angry. Instead he had kissed her. And even in his kiss, at least in his last kiss, she had sensed anger. She didn’t understand this man. She did not know what to do to make herself understand him. She was sitting in a library, surrounded by the knowledge and the wisdom of hundreds of centuries, but she doubted that there was anywhere a book or a manuscript that could explain Éomer of Rohan to her. And that was her basic dilemma. She was accustomed to knowing everything she could about a subject before embarking on a new venture, and now she had been thrown into this situation without the slightest prospect of preparing herself for it. There were no books to read and nobody she could question about it or ask for advice.

She looked at her brother. Erchirion had leant his head back against the chair and was watching her quietly, the customary amused gleam in his eyes, waiting patiently for her to eventually resume their conversation. Her brother’s composure was more an inherent phlegmatism than it was an instilled attitude. For a fleeting moment Lothíriel was tempted to challenge it by demanding an explanation from him about the nature of a man’s desire.

No, that was not something she wished to discuss with Erchirion, and certainly it wasn’t something he would wish to discuss with her. She had her doubts that he saw her as a potential object of a man’s desire, and even if he did, he wouldn’t like to think it through or, worse, talk about it. She was his sister, after all. His little sister, ten years his junior. For Amrothos she had been a playfellow, favourite target of his pranks. For Erchirion and Elphir she had been that sweet little doll they doted upon, felt protective about and would have preferred to be secured in a glass cabinet. Four years ago they had objected strongly against their father’s decision to let her relocate to Minas Tirith and to allow her to seek an education as a healer.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Amrothos away after all. If she found the courage to ask for advice, Amrothos might be the only one willing to give answers. Might! Even though he occupied most of his time chasing women – if rumours were true – he definitely made a distinction between those women and his sister. On the other hand: he liked to provoke and to challenge boundaries.

Lothíriel remembered the taunting of his parting words. What letter had he been talking about?

“Erchirion.”

“Ah, finally another word. I have been tempted to take a nap,” Erchirion said with a grin. “What is going on in your pretty head?”

“Nothing you want to know.” Her brother quirked a brow in surprise at her waspish tone. Lothíriel was slightly baffled herself but decided not to give it a thought and not to give her brother the chance to comment on it. “Amrothos mentioned a letter you have to give to me. Is it a letter from Father?”

“No, the letter Father sent was addressed to me, but I do not mind you reading it if you wish. The letter Amrothos referred to is from Éomer.”

Lothíriel straightened her spine. “Éomer wrote to you?”

“No, he wrote to you. The letter is for you.” Erchirion reached into his tunic to pull out two parchments folded into squares. One was still unopened and sealed. He held it out to her.

Another chill went down her spine. She starred at the letter and swallowed. It carried a large, thick seal, the wax of which was a dark, almost blackish red.

When she didn’t take hold of it, Erchirion put it down on the table and pushed it until it lay directly in front of her. Now she could make out the details of the seal. It showed the heads of two horses facing away from each other. Even in this stylized depiction there was an obvious fierceness in their countenance. Beneath them was a multi-shafted sun.

“Lothíriel, would you like to be alone to read the letter?” Erchirion asked quietly.

“This is the Royal Seal of Rohan, is it not?” She looked up, not aware that her eyes betrayed her disappointment. “I have my doubts that even kings close their – as Amrothos called it – love letters with the State Seal.”

“Are you disappointed?” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Did you expect a . . . well, let’s call it due to a lack of another expression, a love letter?

“No. Certainly not.” She forced herself to smile her cool and serene smile. But she felt somehow let down even though she didn’t know what she had expected. She hadn’t even expected a letter at all. But now, having it in front of her she wished it would look less official.

“Perhaps you should just read it,” Erchirion suggested gently. He got up from his chair. “I will leave you to it.” He hesitated, obviously searching for the right words. “I am sorry, Lothíriel. Truly sorry.” She gazed up to him, a bit perplexed at his words and that he looked utterly serious for the first time. “I wished I had known Father’s plans and could have intervened, could have tried to induce him to proceed differently. I know the reasons for what he did. They are both of the political and the personal kind. It is not my right to reveal those reasons to you. That is the prerogative of a father and of the Lord of Dol Amroth, alone. What he did was the best solution, as you will understand when he explains it to you. How he did it . . . for that I ask you to forgive him.”

Once again he picked up one of her cold hands which lay flat on the table, one left and one right of the letter adorned with the Royal Seal of Rohan. He drew it to his lips and kissed her on the knuckles, then laid it back carefully. With a last smile he turned and left the library.

Being on her own Lothíriel let her arduously kept facade crumble. She groaned and slouched deeply into her chair, leaning her head against the back, staring unblinkingly upwards to the cupola. The movement made her veil slip. Impatiently she tore it off and with it her plaits, pinned together at her neck, came down. She ran her hands over her hair. It was so tightly braided that it made her scalp hurt. She shoved all ten fingers into it, massaging her skull. She was getting a headache. She pressed the balls of her thumbs against her temples, into her eye sockets.

What were those men doing to her?

Her father had betrothed her to a man without dropping the slightest hint beforehand. Sweet Elbereth, that man was a king; she was going to become a queen!

Her brother tipped riddles onto her and then just disappeared.

And Éomer? He had kissed her, then dispassionately negotiated their betrothal with her father and finally wrote an impersonal letter.

Lothíriel looked down at the parchment in front of her. She knew she was irrational. She couldn’t know if the contents of this letter were impersonal, even if it was carrying the Royal Seal. But who put a State Seal on a personal letter? Certainly not a Rohír! But perhaps a king who wrote to his betrothed?

She should open it and read it instead of speculating over its contents. But she feared that it was just what she . . . feared it would be.

She took the letter, stroked with her forefinger over the seal. The Royal Seal of Rohan.

Rohan.

A rough land in the North. Home of a rough and hard people. She had taken a liking to those men who had been under her care. She had liked their candour, their bluntness, their simplicity. She had admired their sense of a common bond and their staunch loyalty towards their king.

And now she was supposed to become their queen. How did one become a queen? How did one become a queen of a land one knew very little about? How did one become the wife, or rather the consort of a king who was virtually a stranger?

She would have to leave everything behind. Her family; the home she had made; the Houses of Healing. She was going to be separated from everything she was content with to venture into a life where she did not know what to expect.

Had those men wasted a single thought about what their agreement was going to do to her?

She turned the letter around. Her name was written on it, her name and her royal title: To Her Highness, Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. It suited the State Seal.

There was no reason to put it off any longer. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The first thing that struck her was that his penmanship was quite a bit neater than she would have guessed. Somehow she had difficulties seeing the boy Éomer bent over a desk, practising his flicks. He had a good, legible hand, amazingly fluid for somebody who shouldn’t have had a reason to write much in the past.

Lothíriel frowned. At least, she thought it was his own handwriting and not that of a scribe. She looked at the signature at the bottom of the letter. It had definitely been penned by the same hand.

She took a deep breath and concentrated on the words, which slowly began to make sense. It was a formal letter. For somebody who didn’t care much about formalities, the introduction was very formal. Words like honoured, appreciative and gratified were used. It would have taken her probably half a day to write a letter matching the stiltedness of the tone. If she was induced to answer it, she would make certain she took that time.

When reading over the second half of the letter, it became clear to her that she was indeed expected to give an answer. She stared at the words, not quite certain if she truly understood what was written there.

She laid down the parchment and got up from her chair. Not being aware of what she was doing, she circled the table once, her hands on her hips, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She fought to even her breathing. She had to grant Éomer that he knew how to keep throwing her off balance. How many men could accomplish that with a stiffly formulated letter? She sat back down, taking up the parchment and reading it again, slowly, word for word, making certain that there was no misunderstanding. After all, Westron was not his own tongue. Though remembering their various verbal exchanges she had no reason to believe him unable to say precisely what he intended to.

No, she did not misunderstand its contents. The wording was formal, perhaps even a bit pompous, but the meaning was unequivocal.

This was a proposal.

The King of Rohan asked the Princess of Dol Amroth to be his wife.

His wife. Not his consort. Wife.

He didn‘t consider them betrothed as long as she hadn‘t given him her consent.

Her consent. Not her father’s.

There must be a misunderstanding. Definitely! Either she misunderstood Erchirion; or Erchirion misinterpreted the letter he received from their father; or her father had misunderstood Éomer.

But in all probability it had been Éomer who had not fully comprehended Gondorian customs.

Her father had given her to him. She had no say. But he, Éomer, asked her nevertheless. He wanted her consent. He gave her the chance to say no.

Lothíriel felt as if something had hit her squarely in the chest, and then it began to spread, warm and lovely. She couldn‘t quite explain it; it was almost as if someone had heated her blood. It started in her heart and then slowly swept through her arms, her belly down to the tips of her toes. It made her light-headed. It made her content. It made her whole.

He wanted her to become his wife because she wanted to. Because it was her choice.

She read the lines a third time. This was most certainly not an ardent love letter. But that she didn‘t even want! Truth be told, at this point she would have probably not known how to deal with. But this felt right. Éomer acknowledged her. Her! Not the Princess of Dol Amroth. Not Imrahil‘s daughter. Her!

Perhaps she saw too much in those words. Perhaps she read what she wanted to read. But it felt right. It felt good. She felt good.

She could refuse. Not that her father would let her. But theoretically, she had a choice. And it was Éomer who had thought it right to give her this choice

She pushed her chair back and got up. She looked at the table. Usually she wouldn’t leave such an untidy mess behind. But she didn’t have the time now to sort all those scrolls and codices back into the bookcases and chests. She had to find Amrothos. He had to read this letter. Amrothos was honest; he was brutally honest. He would tell her what he thought about this proposal.

And he was going to answer her a few question about men. If he wished to, or not!

TBC

Lothíriel folded Éomer’s letter and put it into the belt she wore around her waist underneath her tunic.  On leaving the library she thought about where she might find Amrothos at this time of the day. The evening was drawing in and she doubted that her brother had any intention of spending the late hours with a book by the fire. Not that the nights had really turned cool enough to light a fire anyway. The last heat wave had broken but even after sunset the temperatures stayed on the warm side.

When he had left her and Erchirion in the library, he had been still in his riding clothes. Therefore he had probably gone to his chambers in the Citadel to take a bath and change before he ventured off to whatever he tended to do on a usual night.

Lothíriel hastened through the interlocking halls and colonnades of the Houses of Healing. The domain of the healers had been built over a period of several centuries, one wing added onto the other. They were all linked by corridors and open archways. Between the buildings gardens had been laid out, trees and climbers harmonizing the different styles and softening the coldness of the white stone.

For someone unfamiliar with the Houses of Healing, the ground plan might have seemed like a maze; Lothíriel, however, could have found her way blindfolded. She hopped easily off a raised walkway, disregarding the steps ten yards away. Her pace was brisk, partly because she wasn’t used to walking slowly, partly because she wanted to make certain of catching Amrothos before he disappeared from her reach.

Crossing the forecourt toward the ornamental entrance gate of the Houses of Healing, she found the gatekeeper dozing on his bench.

“Arom.”

Even though she had addressed him softly, the old man jolted out of his nap and came to his feet too quickly. He swayed slightly, trying to blink off the sleep.

“Mistress, what may I do for you?”

“In case somebody asks for me, I am going up to the Citadel but will be back for the night.”

“Very well, my Lady.”

Lothíriel felt a brief stirring of irritation. Her station might be ignored most of the time within the domain of the healers; but forgotten it was not.

She let Arom open the gate for her, but hadn’t gone half a dozen steps outside when she stopped abruptly. Amrothos was coming down the paved lane, still in his riding clothes, carrying a rather large hamper.

“As you can see, it is not so easy to get rid of me,” he called out. “I am determined to give a good performance as an attentive brother after all.”

That could be considered a threat. Well, here came the Amrothos everyone loved and feared.

“What will this performance look like?” Lothíriel asked, eyes glinting in amusement.

“Perhaps we could just talk.” He came to a halt in front of her.

Was this thought transference? “Talk about what?”

“Nothing in particular.” He shifted the obviously heavy hamper from his left to his right arm.

“Nothing is not very promising,” Lothíriel pointed out.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.”

“I hope that is not true. I was on my way to the Citadel to look for you. I also want to talk to you. I need some advice.”

“That is convenient.” Amrothos cocked his head. “I am in possession of a great deal of good advice. It is given to me regularly by our father, our brothers and plenty of other people. All for free. I always pass it on generously. It is the only sensible thing to do with it.”

“Then let us hope we will find some answers, within this wealth of wisdom, which fit my questions.”

“I did not say anything about wisdom. Just an accumulation of pieces of advice.” He put the hamper down at his feet. “I have never taken the trouble to organize them in any way.”

“Somehow that does not surprise me,” Lothíriel replied. “What is this?” she asked gesturing at the hamper.

“Food! I thought we could find us a place somewhere in the gardens. Eat; drink; have a nice brother to sister heart-to-heart.”

“And you thought food would be a good addition to such a chat?”

“Indispensable! Whenever you have a serious talk it should involve food. As long as you have something in your mouth, you – as a well bred person - are not compelled to answer right away. That gives you time to think about an evasion.”

Lothíriel sighed silently. This was not going to be easy. Dealing with Amrothos was like trying to sculpt fog. But she had the advantage of surprise on her side; of that she was certain.

“Where would you like to go?” she asked. “Back to the Citadel gardens?”

“Most certainly not!” He gave the hamper a kick with his pointed toe. “This bugger is heavy. I am not hauling it up to the Citadel again. At least not before we have eaten all the stuff inside.”

“Very well. Then come with me. I know just the place.”

She turned to walk back to the gates. Arom was still standing outside, clearly having watched the Princess and the Prince of Dol Amroth with unmistakeable curiosity.

“Me again,” announced Amrothos cheerfully, stating the obvious to the old gatekeeper, who was probably trying to figure out just which of the princes was standing in front of him.

Amrothos gestured Lothíriel to precede him through the gate. “Lead the way. This is your turf.”

She went in front of him, crossing the forecourt again and walking through an arcade. The arcade led down to the outer wall which protected the sixth level of the city. It was more than the double height of a man. There she turned right, following a gravel path running parallel to the wall. Behind her she could hear Amrothos  puffing.

“Wherever you are going? Do you think we will reach it before sunset?”

Lothíriel slanted him a look over her shoulder. “Are you telling me the great Swan Knight is overtaxed by carrying a mere basket? Do you want me to take it?”

Amrothos muttered something under his breath that she wasn’t able to understand; probably a curse he didn’t want her to hear. But the puffing did stop.

Finally they reached the end of the garden, a secluded part Lothíriel particularly loved. Here narrow stone steps led up to the crown of the wall, which was as wide as it was high. From one side the place was shielded by the treetops of the gardens, to the other they had a magnificent view over the lower levels of the city down across the Anduin towards Emyn Arnen.

Amrothos had put down the hamper, letting his eyes roam the landscape.

“Beautiful.” For once there was nothing but appreciation in his voice. But he recovered quickly. “Now let me present the culinary pleasures I lugged to this remote spot by the sweat of my brow.”

He went down on one knee beside his treasures and took out the blanket that he had stuck under the handle. He shook it out and Lothíriel caught the opposite edges. Together they laid it down. He handed his sister a starched table cloth, which she spread above the blanket and he began to pull out dishes of various food: a crusty loaf of white bread, drumsticks roasted in honey, thin sliced cold roast beef, a quarter of a large cheese and ham pie, potted shrimps, smoked salmon, a strong smelling cheese loaf, olives, small date and walnut cakes. The hamper also contained a couple of plates, plus goblets, cutlery and two corked flagons.

Lothíriel viewed the range with raised eyebrows. “Do you expect some more guests to join us?”

“No. It is just you and me.”

“Amrothos, you could feed half a company of starved men with this.” She knelt down on the blanket. “How did you manage to have it all prepared in such a short time?”

“I have established very good relations with the Citadel’s kitchen.” Amrothos poured some wine in one of the goblets.

“Indeed?” Lothíriel said slowly, watching her brother; weighing him up. This might be the chance of an opening. Trying to sound casual, she asked, “Did you seduce a kitchen maid?”

There was a short startled pause. Amrothos blinked in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

Taking a seat, Lothíriel pretended innocence for the moment. She folded her legs elegantly at her side and arranged her skirts. She directed her large, candid eyes towards her bother who glanced at her as if something green had grown out of her nose.

“The relations you established with the kitchen; would they be in the form of a maid you seduced?”

“Excuse me!” he snarled. “I am not in the habit of seducing kitchen maids.”

“No? Why not?” Lothíriel saw his flabbergasted stare, and added, “If not kitchen maids, then whom do you habitually seduce?”

Amrothos plopped down onto his bottom to sit down crossed-legged, looking more than just a little stunned. She could have laughed out loud at the expression on his face.

“Lothíriel, have you taken one of your potions which did not agree with you?” He looked outright worried.

His sister sighed in frustration. That was exactly what she had feared. “Double standards,” she said accusingly, pointing a finger at him.

“What?” He groped for his goblet, raised it and took a gulp of the wine.

“I ask you a question, which - I have no doubts - you would not mind discussing at some length with Erchirion. But because it is me who asks, then you think some substance must have interfered with my brain.”

He took another - very deep - gulp of his wine and sat back, supporting himself on one hand, eyeing her with growing bewilderment. “I can assure you that it is not a subject our brother and I usually discuss at any length.”

“I am certain that is because both of you know everything about it. I do not.”

“You do not need to know anything about it,” he pointed out. Judging by his expression he was himself surprised by the arrogant know-all manner of his tone, truly worth of Elphir.

“But I want to,” Lothíriel declared in all simplicity.

He stared at her as if she had just announced that she wished a warg as a pet. “Why all of a sudden, for the love of the Valar?” he nearly yelled. Somehow it was an unexpectedly satisfying feeling to have Amrothos for once startled out of his lazy imperturbability.

“I need to know how the mind of a man works. – Generally!” she replied, reaching for a plate and a fork.

“What for? I - as a man - would never pretend there is a need to know a female mind. I do not believe it to be necessary.”

“But you . . . deal with women every day,” she pointed out, “therefore you should be in possession of some knowledge about them.” She began loading food on her plate.

Amrothos decided to follow her example, pronging a drumstick.

“I know just the bare necessities about females as such; the simple bare necessities. I know what they look like.”

“That is indeed bare.”

He shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “That is all you need to know about the opposite gender, believe me. You must only be able to identify them,” he stated matter–of-factly.

“I have considerable doubts that that is enough when you are suppose to wed,” Lothíriel observed wryly.

Amrothos let out a bark of laughter at that, surprising his sister “Ah!” He shot her an amused glance. “Now I understand. You do not want to know about the male mind in general, but about Éomer.”

“He is a man, is he not?”

“So, you have noticed?” He gave her a slow smile and raised his eyebrows mockingly.

Lothíriel shoved some bread into her mouth to gain time for a reply, following Amrothos’s earlier advice. She couldn’t let him get the upper hand in this conversation. It was easier to nail a pudding to a wall than to get a sensible answer to anything out of him when he was in his usual state of mind. She nearly groaned. She was so out of her league!

“That cannot be overlooked,” she finally answered, aiming for nonchalance. “I do recognize the difference between the genders. After all, I am a healer.”

“But your knowledge is more of the theoretical kind,” Amrothos grinned, cutting off a generous bite of salmon and forking it into his mouth.

What a dumb presumption! She had treated dozens upon dozens of men over the past months. If that didn’t count as practical experience.

“On the contrary. I can assure you, my knowledge is of the most practical kind.”

Amrothos started to choke. He must have inhaled the whole piece of salmon. His face turned red and his eyes watered. Lothíriel watched him slightly alarmed and was about to put her plate aside and get up to assist him, when he smacked the heel of his fist forcefully against his breastbone, sending a large pinkish lump sailing across the blanket. It narrowly missed his sister’s ear.

Lothíriel frowned. “Really, Amrothos. Could you not have put your other hand over your mouth?”

Amrothos was still coughing violently. Carefully he put down the plate he held in the other hand, slanting his sister a threatening glance.

“It will help if you take a sip of wine,” Lothíriel advised pragmatically.

Her brother took the advice and drained his goblet.

“At the risk of repeating another man’s words,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Do you always understand everything you say?”

Lothíriel just raised her shoulders questioningly.

Amrothos cleared his throat. “Of what practical kind is your experience with men?”

“You do know what I am doing,” she answered impatiently. “I have been treating all those wounded men for months.”

“Ah, yes!” her brother exhaled with what could not be described as other than deep relief. “You were talking about your work as a healer. For a moment I was afraid those practical experiences of yours had something to do with our dear Éomer.”

Without forewarning Lothíriel was ambushed by the mental picture of a certain sleeping warrior in a bath tub – a very pleasant view – and she blushed.

Having watched her closely Amrothos groaned, his just relaxed expression changing into one commonly seen by men with severe toothache. “Lothíriel, please tell me this is another misunderstanding and the bright pink of your face does not mean you have done something . . . I would rather not know about.”

Belatedly catching up with the entire meaning of Amrothos’s inferences, the colour of her cheeks deepened by several shades, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Amrothos!” she strangled out with difficulty. “What makes you think . . .? How can you . . . ?” She was at a loss of words. “I have not done . . . anything.” Her voice trailed off, images resurfacing uninvited: the treatment chamber; a firm mouth; demanding hands; a hard body. Involuntarily honest she added: “Almost.”

“Almost?” Amrothos’s voice was a good half octave higher than usual. He grabbed the wine flagon and filled up his goblet. He downed the contents of the silver drinking vessel in one and then stared into it. “When this is over,” he muttered, “I am most certainly going to be drunk.” He glanced at his sister.

Lothíriel was very much occupied with banishing all those bewildering memories, with their possible connotations, from the fore of her mind when she felt his penetrating gaze. She realized she had wandered into treacherous territory. It would be a wise thing to retreat to safer ground. But newly discovered, decidedly more daring elements of her nature lured her forward. She looked up, her eyes far steadier than her heart, and raised her brows audaciously.

“What,” Amrothos asked after an unnerving pause, “comprises almost?”

“Nothing you would not have done in broad daylight,” she replied promptly.

For a moment stunned again Amrothos searched her eyes, which were looking at him, innocent and provocative at the same time. At last his sense of absurdity won and he grinned.

“And what do you know about what I have done in broad daylight?” he mocked her.

She tried to look brazen, but her cheeks were starting to turn pink again. “Cease treating me as if I were an imbecile. If I am ignorant about certain things in life then it is only because nobody cares to explain them to me.”

“Nobody cares to talk to you about those things because they are of no consequence to you.”

“And who has made the decision on what is of consequence to me and what is not?” Lothíriel demanded, using her fork to point at her brother.

“Do not ask me such complicated questions.” Amrothos groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “Anyway, I am most certainly not the one who will explain anything regarding this subject to you.”

“And who will do it then? Elphir?”

“Elphir?” Amrothos just snorted. “You plan to ask Elphir? Well, good luck. I say he would rather jump off the Bastion than to answer any questions that will offend his sense of propriety, especially regarding you.”

“Precisely!” she pointed out triumphantly. “And therefore you will talk to me now.”

“Well, excuse me! I must have already had too much wine because I cannot follow you. Why should I do such a thing?”

She waved his objection away with an elegant swing of her fork. “Not long ago you said when you find yourself in a certain position, you ask yourself what would Elphir do? And then you do the opposite! So, in this situation - let me ask that as a purely rhetorical question - what would Elphir do?”

“I did say that?” Amrothos sensed his defeat. “Sweet Elbereth,” he muttered, “I think it is about time I took notes about all the nonsense I deliver. It begins to haunt me.”

Lothíriel raised one shoulder in a graceful movement. “So, what is it? Are you going to stay true to your word or are you going to turn into another Elphir?”

“You mean I have the choice between a mountain troll and a cave troll?” he growled. “Is Father aware of the fact that he is handing Rohan a dangerous negotiator?”

“I am flattered,” Lothíriel said wryly. “But no further evasions, if you please.”

Amrothos stuck out his lower lip and blew the strands of his hair from his forehead. Then he chuckled and parted his hands, palms outwards in a gesture of defeat, surrendering to the inevitable

“Very well, what would you like to discuss?”

Lothíriel put her plate aside and reached under her tunic to pull out the letter from her belt. It was thoroughly crumpled.

“Ah, the love letter.” Amrothos picked up his fork, twirling it between his long fingers. Having come to terms with his sister’s determination in this matter, the deliberately provoking look of innocence had returned to his features.

“If this were a love letter I would hardly pass it around to be read.”

“You mean you gave it to somebody else beside your favourite brother?”

“If you want to be re-established in that position you have to behave very, very well this evening.” Amrothos just rolled his eyes and she continued, more seriously, “I want you to read this and tell me what you think; for I am not certain if I have not misinterpreted its contents.”

Her brother stretched out his hand and took the letter from her. But instead of unfolding the parchment he dropped it beside him, reached for the second goblet and filled it with wine. He offered it to Lothíriel.

“Here, drink up,” he ordered.

“Have you got a bad feeling about this? Are trying to get me drunk?”

He looked at Lothíriel, his eyes crinkling at the edges with a suppressed smile. “Not drunk, I mean not rolling drunk. But if I have learnt one thing, then it is that many things in life are much better confronted in a slightly inebriated condition.”

Lothíriel wasn’t sure what to do with this piece of wisdom. “You are not a very good influence on me.”

Amrothos chuckled a little.“I doubt that I am a good influence on anyone. At least that is what I am determined to avoid.”

“And you are not very encouraging,” her mouth twisted ironically.

“You feel you need courage?”

To that Lothíriel knew the answer without first having to think about it. “Yes,” she sighed.

“That came out of the soles of your feet,” Amrothos commented wryly. He took the letter, studying it. “Impressive seal,” he stated, unfolding the parchment and beginning to read.

Lothíriel sipped at her wine, watching him over the rim of her goblet. He couldn’t have read more than half a dozen lines when he snorted.

“And I always thought only our tutors had us practising those abominable idioms. Looks like the royal offspring of Rohan did not escape similar exercises.”

“At first I presumed it might have been written by a scribe.”

“No, it is his own script,” Amrothos said without hesitating or looking up from his reading.

“How do you know that?”

“I once saw a roll written by him.”

“How did you come by a roll written by the King of Rohan?”

“He left it in the Great Library.”

“What were you doing at the Great Library?”

“I followed your dear king.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“What is this? A cross-examination?” Amrothos asked, and they locked eyes for a heartbeat before their laughter overtook them. He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head and continued, “Lothíriel, one day this irresistible urge of yours to ask questions will land you in dire straits.”

“Only if you ask questions will you avoid staying ignorant,” she protested.

“As long as you get the answers.”

“May I remind you that you agreed to give me those answers.”

Amrothos tilted his face heavenward and began moving his lips.

“What are you doing?” Lothíriel asked with a surprised giggle.

“I am pleading to whatever deity may be listening that you will refrain from asking those questions.”

“I am deeply sorry, favourite brother, but I can assure you, those deities are not listening today.” Lothíriel took a gulp of her wine, conjuring an innocent expression, while her brother just snorted in response.

Amrothos let his eyes return to the letter, sighing in dramatic resignation. But then he suggested in a completely normal voice – well, at least normal for Amrothos: “Eat something with the wine, Lothíriel, or I will have to drag not only the hamper out of these gardens.”

She followed this advice, put her goblet aside and helped herself to a piece of pie and some green olives. She popped one into her mouth and followed it by some light, creamy pie.

“So, why did you follow Éomer King into the Great Library?” Lothíriel asked through a mouthful of food, for once disregarding all good manners.

Amrothos ignored her, keeping his eyes on the parchment, finishing his reading. The contents seemed to be fascinating, because he had his brows drawn together in contemplation. Finally he put it down beside him. A gentle breeze was caressing the crown of the wall. To prevent the parchment from being blown away he secured it by placing the earthen dish with the potted shrimps on it.

As if he had all time in the world he broke a piece from the loaf of bread and selected some more food to put onto his plate. Lothíriel watched him with growing impatience. But if Amrothos chose to play the little game of ‘how to drive your sister crazy’ there was no point in letting herself fall for the bait. It would only play into his hands.

He poured himself some more wine, his eyes searching for another dish he might fancy. They came to rest on the small bowl of olives in front of Lothíriel.

“Do you intend to keep them all for yourself?”

She wanted to pass them on wordlessly but just couldn’t restrain herself any longer.

“Well?”

Amrothos pronged a slice of roast beef, put it into his mouth and took his time to finish chewing it, all the while looking innocently at his sister. After taking a couple of sips of his wine he said, “During the preliminaries to Elessar’s coronation, whilst we were all lazing around here in the city, one day I saw dear Éomer ambling towards the Great Library.”

Lothíriel stifled a sigh. Of course she had asked him about his earlier remark, but right now she wasn’t really interested in an explanation. She rather wished he would tell her what he thought about the letter. But there was point in trying to stir him towards that matter. It would only lead him to hum and haw about it.

Amrothos selected an olive with care, popped it into his mouth and chewed thoroughly. Only after having it swallowed he carried on.

“I thought he might have got lost and – good-hearted as I am - intended to offer my assistance to return to the right path. I mean, why should he seek out the library? After all, he does not appear to be the studious type or a secret lover of poetry. And I was right. He was looking for some plans or descriptions of the construction and later repair of the Súthburg, or Hornburg as it is now called. He jotted down what he required and left it with the archivist.”

“And you read it?”

“Of course. The roll was just lying around there. That is how I came to be able to identify his script. So, yes, this letter was written by your King himself.”

He tapped with a finger on the parchment beside him. When his knuckles came in contact with the small bowl he had placed there earlier he looked down.

“Ah, the shrimps. I knew I had seen some.”

He replaced the dish with a small knife as a paperweight. He dug into the bowl with his fork, fishing out a single shrimp. Slanting his sister one of his more serious glances he said pensively, “I think you have understood the contents of this letter quite well. This is an official proposal, thought-out and adorned with the State Seal. You are expected to consent or to refuse.”

He gave the shrimp on the tip of his fork his full attention, whilst continuing. “If you refuse his proposal, no matter what his agreements with Father, he will not hold you to it. He will not insist upon a union. He will refuse a union without your consent. He is giving you the choice and this choice is now yours alone.” 

He put the shrimp into his mouth, savouring its taste. Slowly his expression turned into one of pure mirthful malice. “You can cause a lot of trouble,” he stressed, happily contemplating that possibility.

Lothíriel couldn’t help laughing at the mere tone of his voice.

“And you would love to stand by watching me causing trouble.” Her expression turned sober. She tossed the fork onto her plate with a clatter and then she said something she would have never thought she dared to voice, “He would deserve it.”

“Father?” Amrothos put the shrimps down, eyeing his sister with a look of mingled sympathy and amusement. “Lothíriel, we have a loving but ruthless father. He is used to getting what he wants, and he is not always particular about the way he chooses to reach what he aims for. But when it comes to his children you have to grant him, that as a rule, he has the best of intentions. Of course, it would be preferable if he asked those children from time to time what their wishes are.”

Below the ironical tone Lothíriel sensed a hint of bitterness, and nothing could have surprised her more. Her brother was supposed to have a skin as hard as mithril. Nothing ever got under it. She had always assumed behind this armour Amrothos lived a careless and deliberately feckless life. Before she had the chance to ponder about this rare insight into his true nature, her brother continued.

“But this is not about what Father deserves – or what trouble I would like you to cause him – this is about your wishes.”

Her wishes. She had wanted to have a choice. That had been given to her by Éomer. Now she had to make it, truly make it. When she had read the letter first, she had seen Éomer’s proposal as a graceful gesture, rather a mere formality with which he wished to express that she mattered. But Amrothos was right. He had given her a genuine choice. If she refused not even Imrahil of Dol Amroth would be able to induce Éomer to wed her. Now she had to decide what she wanted. Now she had to be honest with herself.

Amrothos watched her over the rim of his goblet.

“You are not indifferent to him.” It was not a question. Lothíriel shook her head, looking down at her own empty vessel.

“Would you mind being confronted by a purely hypothetical question?” Amrothos asked incidentally and went on without a pause in a rather chatty tone. “Could it be that you have fallen in love with Éomer?”

A stunned silence descended. Lothíriel’s first reaction was a vehement denial but she realised at the same moment that it would probably be the first time ever that she had lied to herself. But what was the truth? Not necessarily the opposite. The truth was . . . .

“I do not know.”

She thought she saw scepticism in Amrothos’s gaze.

“I do not know,” she repeated. “I do not know how it should feel to be in love.” She wrinkled her nose. “My frame of reference is somewhat limited.”

The corner of Amrothos’s mouth curved slightly at her suddenly surprisingly wry tone. He glanced at his sister. “That is reassuring to know.”

“Amrothos, could it be that you are just another hypocrite?”

“Probably, but I am certainly not worse than the rest of our society.”

He uncorked the second flagon and refilled Lothíriel’s goblet. She watched him, asking herself if she really should have more wine. But Amrothos might be right after all. Perhaps certain questions should be decided best in a state of mild inebriety. Thoughts appeared to form themselves much more clearly.

“How am I supposed to know what my wishes are, if I do not know why he wishes me to be his wife? I mean other than Father having somehow forced him to consent” she added, averting her eyes and playing absentmindedly with a piece of bread.

Amrothos smiled and raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Ah! Now we finally come to the question of how a man’s mind works.” He paused for a moment and took another sip from his own refilled goblet. Putting it down, he raised his hand. He ticked off points on his fingers. “First and foremost I doubt very much that there is a man in the whole of Middle-Earth who is able to force Éomer King into doing something he is opposed to. And secondly, regarding the question of why he should want to wed you; well, let it put me this way.” He took another meaningful pause before he continued, lips twitching. “If I see a cat watching a bird then I know what the cat wants to do with that bird.”

His grin widened when he saw the bewildered expression on Lothíriel’s face.

“That night during the welcoming feast at Merethrond, after Erchirion rescued you from the terrace - I wondered how he managed to have a remotely intelligent conversation with Father and King Elessar. He was hardly able to keep his eyes off you. It is surprising enough that the food found its way to his mouth via the fork.”

His words seemed to remind him of his own cutlery and he took up his plate and fork and devoted himself to his food again, which did not prevent him from continuing.

“And Erchirion and I were not the only ones who noticed. Father did as well. He interrogated us the next morning even before giving the sun the chance to rise. I would say that that was the day he formed the idea that dear Éomer would make an ideal husband.”

At his words Lothíriel’s hand stopped on its way to her plate. Instead she took up her goblet. “What did you tell Father?”

A wicked glint appeared in Amrothos’s eyes. “The truth.” He watched her speculatively. “That is if we are allowed to assume that Erchirion and I were not subject to some invented story when you explained where and under what circumstances you met your king.”

Lothíriel felt her face grow warm, remembering those circumstances. That night she had blushed, and that had been a first in a very long time, but since then it had become a rather annoying and not suppressible habit. “I did not lie to you,” she stressed, hiding her face behind the goblet.

Amrothos let out a low chuckle. “No, you did not lie; you did revise.”

“If you felt I had not given you a full summary, why haven’t you said anything?” she challenged.

“You mean me; or Father; or Erchirion? Or all three of us?” Amrothos had perfected his innocent look long ago. She should take lessons.

“Anybody. All of you.”

“Well, Erchirion probably thought it best to just leave it,” he mused. “Father probably thought it didn’t matter, because he was planning to wed you to him anyway. And I thought that your king has probably applied to himself the same rules as I have.”

“Cease calling him my king. And what rules are you talking about?”

“General rules about women.”

Men applied to themselves generally acknowledged rules about women?

“What are those rules?”

He barely managed to suppress a groan. “They are of no consequence to you in detail. Let us just say that you belong to the sort of females that a man without serious intentions had better give a wide berth or he might get into trouble – especially,” Amrothos raised his forefinger for emphasis, “when three brothers and a not to be underestimated father are involved.”

“What you are trying to tell me is that I am not the sort of woman a man usually finds ....”  She struggled with herself to use this particular word. It was hard to admit it even to herself but that was what she wanted to be – to Éomer. “. . . desirable.” She got it out on a cushion of her breath.

“That is not a question you should ask your brother.” Amrothos said with one of his crooked half-smiles. “But I think you were not listening to me carefully when I mentioned the cat and the bird.”

The cat and the bird? She wasn’t certain she wanted to be caught, chewed and swallowed – not to mention digested.

He had paused for a moment, seemingly trying to carefully word what he was about to say. Finally, he decided to be blunt. “I should not be saying this, but . . . oh, bugger.” He threw up both hands dramatically. “Éomer wants you. And you are the sort of woman one has to wed before one can have. So if he is willing to make you his wife in order to get you, then he must want you very badly.”

That was certainly a claim she had to think about. She reached for the wine flagon and was slightly quicker than Amrothos who watched her with a mixture of mirth and concern when she refilled her goblet once again.

“What comprises this ‘want’?”

“Lothíriel, do not force me to spell it out, or I may start blushing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a look on his face that could mean he was going to burst out in tears or in a fit of laughter at any moment. It was the last. It was one of his very own self-mocking giggles. He had one eye closed when he looked at her.

“For the love of the Valar, you must have an idea what happens between a man and a woman.”

“Well, I have a fairly good idea what happens, but where my imagination fails is the how.”

The why had also mystified her in the past but had gotten its explanation when she had found herself pressed between a wall and a hard body. She took a gulp of her wine.

“And at this point we let your imagination fail until your husband illuminates it.”

“That is not fair. Why should men know everything while women are just left ignorant?” she asked sulkily. Sweet Elbereth, she never sulked.

Amrothos’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

“Lothíriel, when was the last time you had that much wine to drink?”

“I usually do not drink any wine at all.”

“That is what I was afraid of. Eat some more.” He gestured towards the still plentifully available food. “If Father ever learns about this lovely get-together, he is most certainly going to tar and feather me,” he muttered.

Obediently Lothíriel took up her plate.

“But I suppose the lady you are involved with is not ignorant.”

“What do you know about . . . How do you know about my involvements?”

Lothíriel just raised her fork and pointed it at her right ear.

“You are listening to gossip?”

“If you are not deaf it sometimes cannot be avoided.”  She pondered if she should ask him about one more piece of gossip she had overheard and which had not necessarily bothered her but had made her curious. “They say that this certain lady, before she became involved with you, had been involved with Éomer.”

Her brother gazed at her thoughtfully, searching her large, guileless eyes. He shook his head. “That does not mean anything. It is not of your concern.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how many things are not of my concern or are of no consequence to me, not even a lady who was romantically involved with the man I am supposed to wed.”

Amrothos snorted. “There was no romantic involvement. It was a liaison.”

“What is the difference?”

“A liaison is not about romance.”

“But . . . ?”

“Pardon?”

“If it is not about romance, what is it about?”

Amrothos pulled a face, probably wishing he were right now rather with his liaison than with a sister who suffered from a misdirected thirst for knowledge, and an unaccustomed thirst for wine. The combination of the two was proving quite troublesome. But he wouldn’t have been Amrothos if his quirky sense of humour hadn’t won the upper hand and he searched his vocabulary for a proper, non-offensive answer to her question.

“Carnal gratification,” he finally enlightened her.

“Oh,” said Lothíriel, as she thought about it. She frowned. If she understood these reluctantly given explanations correctly, then a man’s desire was not necessarily only for one woman, but rather some urge that men felt for women in general.

“I do not like this ‘Oh’. Whenever you use this ‘Oh’ you have come to a conclusion, but not necessarily the right one.”

“Oh?”

He gazed at her in a most amused manner. “I did not want to give the impression with my wording that Éomer indiscriminately goes after any female.”

“As you do?”

He looked slightly taken aback. “Well, excuse me. Even I have my standards. Nevertheless, what I am trying to say is that your future husband does not chase women. He does not have to. Somehow he reminds me of Aunt Ivriniel’s carnivorous plants.”

Lothíriel gave him a faintly bemused look. “Aunt Ivriniel keeps carnivorous plants?”

“Yes. In her hothouses.”

“Does Father know that?”

“I do not know.” His expression settled into a frown. “I rather suppose not. He never goes into the hothouses. He does not like the boa.”

“I am not surprised. She gives me the creeps.”

“He.”

“Pardon?”

“He. The boa is a ‘he’. His name is Denethor.”

“I am not surprised,” Lothíriel said again. “Aunt Ivriniel never made a secret out of her dislike for her sister’s husband.”

The siblings looked at each other, afflicted by the same uneasy memories about an uncle they both had not particularly liked. In her years at the Houses of Healing Lothíriel had met the then Steward of Gondor less than a dozen times. Her aunt wasn’t that far off. His cold eyes had reminded her of a reptile.

Aunt Ivriniel and her weird menagerie. Carnivorous plants seemed rather harmless in comparison to some of the other members of it.

Lothíriel sighed, looking at the smoke drifting lazily up from a chimney of one of the houses on the level below. There was something else she had wanted to ask. The wine no longer cleared her thoughts but had somehow dulled them. What had she wanted to know? Right, Amrothos’s peculiar comparison. 

“Why does Éomer reminds you of a meat eating plant?”

“They are not precisely meat eating,” he pointed out. “I mean you do not have to feed them mice or chicks. Actually, they are quite beautiful. They just sit there in their pots and wait for a smitten fly to come close and then . . . snap.”

“Do I have to understand that metaphor?” Lothíriel asked indulgently.

Amrothos remained silent for a moment, studying her with an unnerving glint in his eyes. When he spoke he did so deliberately slowly and comprehensibly. 

“What I am trying to explain to you is that Éomer does not have to take great pains when it comes to women. They come to him and he can pick out whoever he fancies.” He pointed with his chin at his sister. “You have fallen for the very same appeal. Unsurprisingly, as you are just a woman after all. Or surprisingly, as you have gone through the first 20 years of your life being blissfully unaware of the opposite gender.” He frowned mockingly.  “Well, at least I think so.” Picking up some crumbs from his sleeve he went on. “What is even more surprising is that your . . . that in return the King of Rohan has fallen for you. And if I am still able to interpret the clues that I get from a fellow human male correctly, then it has caught him totally unawares.” He shot her a wide, waggish grin. “You can meet on equal terms. You are confused; he is bewildered. Hence, you make the perfect couple.”

Lothíriel was undecided if she should take offence at Amrothos’s assessment that the biggest surprise in the whole affair was that Rohan’s King might have been affected by her. Fallen for her, as he had phrased it. In that case Éomer’s unrestrained kisses had to be regarded as an indicator that he wanted her; even desired her? She sighed. She was still confused. This conversation with Amrothos had given her only a few useful answers but brought up many more questions. That was very dissatisfying.

But what she knew with certainty was that she wanted to consent to the proposal; she wanted to become Éomer’s wife. She wanted those feelings back. The ones she had been captured by when he had held her in his arms. Even that frightfully disorientating feeling of passion. And she wanted to know where it would take her . . . them.

Belatedly, she realized that Amrothos had resumed talking.

“. . . your annoying obstinacy and his well-known temper will be quite an interesting combination. You are not only going to be partners in life, you are going to be sparring partners.” He grinned like a little boy who had just been promised unrestricted access to all the sweets in Middle-earth.

“The future will be far from being dull.”

TBC

The morning after the picnic she had shared with Amrothos on the crown of the city wall Lothíriel woke up early. She woke with a headache; not a severe headache – after all, she had drunk only wine – but a recognizable one nonetheless. In addition her stomach felt slightly queasy. Therefore she came to the conclusion that whilst a certain inebriety might widen the capacity of thought for a short while, it was not enough to justify this lingering indisposition the morning after.

She hadn’t had slept well. First her thoughts had refused to cease spinning around in her head like an overplayed child’s coloured top, and when sleep had finally claimed her, weird and muddled dreams had stopped her from falling into a deep, restful slumber. She couldn’t remember much of those fragmented images flashing up from her subconscious, but she thought there had been a burping flower and an amber furred cat picking feathers out of its fangs.

Lothíriel had to force herself to go through her morning routines. Well, not the teeth cleaning. That actually was the first thing she did when she got up from the narrow bed in her chamber at the Houses of Healing. She had an awful acid taste on her tongue. Despite the mild nausea she felt she couldn’t help grinning - as the action of using her finger to move the wool ball over her teeth evoked memories of a month ago. The sight of a coughing and retching Éomer had been quite comical, and the fact that he had been wearing only his breeches, a more pleasant than embarrassing surprise. Before she had addressed him she had allowed herself to revel briefly in the sight of his half naked body. He had a beautiful back, almost sculptural. She wasn’t quite sure if beautiful was the right word to describe the appearance of a battle-hardened warrior. The use of that adjective had always implied something soft and feminine, but there was definitely nothing soft or feminine about Éomer of Rohan. She wouldn’t however, have known what other word to assign to him. He had, without a doubt, very beautiful eyes and a beautiful mouth and beautiful hair. His bearing, though, was less beautiful. That she would describe rather . . .  as interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Combing her hair came close to an ordeal. Last night she had just undone her plaits and then loosely braided it again into the single one she commonly wore for the night. She had been too tired to comb it, and now it was thoroughly tangled. Every single brush stroke hurting her scalp, just as if someone pressed a pin-cushion against it – one with lots of needles in it. She decided against the torture of braiding it tightly back from her temples to get it out of her face. A single plait from the nape of her neck would have to do for today. After all, it was not as if there was a specific instruction to the healers on how to wear their hair. But she had always found it convenient to have it arranged in a style which prevented any strands from escaping from underneath the veil.

Lothíriel selected a clean gown and tunic from the chest and laid them out on her bed. She undid the drawstring around the neck of her chemise, removed the night time garment and put it into the basket next to the door. One of the washerwomen would collect any dirty clothing later.

That reminded her of a remark Amrothos had made the evening before, when she had accompanied him back to the gate. They had found the old gatekeeper in conversation with a young washerwoman who worked in the Houses of Healing. The serving wench was well known - even famous - for being very, very well endowed. Lothíriel had to admit that the extraordinary bust measurement was hard to miss but that was certainly not an excuse for Amrothos to stare so shamelessly. She had nudged her elbow under his ribs. But her brother had only given her a not in the least embarrassed grin and declared that he couldn’t help noticing - as he was simply not blind. And anyway, as she wished to understand the working of the male mind, she had to accept that a man cherished the sight of a healthy bosom.

Healthy? That had to be disputed. Lothíriel knew for certain that the poor woman suffered from constant back aches and from all the unwanted attention. But Amrothos had just laughed when she explained that to him.

Taking the grey linen gown from her bed she looked down her own nude front with a sigh. It would require a great deal of imagination to describe her bosom as healthy. She wasn’t built like a boy, but she had considerable doubts that she possessed attributes that would cause a man to look twice in the area directly below her neck. At least Éomer couldn’t delude himself. He should have a fairly good idea about her size.

Her stomach muscles tensed as not only her mind but her body remembered the intimate touch. Who would have guessed that such a bold caress would carve itself on her memory so indelibly. And that the memory wouldn’t make her uneasy but made her whole body tingle and crave for more, especially at night. And neither her own hands nor a tightly hugged pillow were an adequate substitute for what her body yearned for; definitely not a substitute for rough palms and for hard muscles under warm skin.

Coming out of her reverie and being slightly flustered by finding herself standing nude in the middle of her chambers, reminiscing, she quickly slipped on her gown and laced the side fastening. She wished she had remembered to ask Amrothos why he thought Éomer had – for the lack of a better word – fallen for her. Something must have caught his attention. She knew her features were quite appealing; she had a looking glass, after all. But the rest was rather . . . well, there was not much. What she hadn’t told Amrothos was that she had not only heard the gossip about his liaison but actually had seen him in the company of that certain female just a few days ago. The lady in question was the widow of a minor noble, very likely a few years older than Amrothos but undoubtedly gorgeous; the voluptuous type. Whichever deity had created her must have thought round at that very moment.

If that lady was visually the kind of woman Éomer would pick out from what was offered to him – Lothíriel couldn’t prevent herself from giving a disgusted snort; somehow that had an overtone of a cattle market – why should she, Lothíriel, have caught his eye? And if it weren’t her looks, could it have been something about her character? Her sweet nature? She gave another snort. Unlikely! If she remembered correctly – and she did remember correctly – then most of the time they had been at odds; quarrelling and arguing.

Looking at the whole affair objectively she couldn’t make out a sensible reason why Éomer should have found himself attracted to her. She should have had asked Amrothos what those clues had been that he had believed himself to have detected coming from Éomer. Probably some typical male thing she wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. If she had learnt one thing from her conversation with her brother, it was that women and men were not overly compatible in their way of thinking and feeling.

Putting on the tunic and leaving the veil off for today she stepped out of her chamber into an open archway. Usually she would have gone to the dining hall for the early meal but she doubted that her stomach would agree with having to accept any kind of food. Besides, she was not in the mood for company. Her mind was in far too reflective a mood to make polite conversation with her fellow healers. She found her way to the chamber where the dried herbs were stored. She selected some seeds from the milk thistle, dried mugwort and lavender and put them into an earthen mug. She carried these to the next treatment chamber, where a fire had already been lit in the small hearth. A cast-iron kettle was set on the hearth, from the spout of which was rising a steady trickle of steam. Picking up the kettle and wrapping a leather oven cloth around its handle she poured the hot water over the herbs. Now she had to let it draw for a while. The herbal tea would settle her stomach and ease her headache.

Lothíriel left the treatment chamber and sat down outside on the knee-high wall edging the open walkway. She leant her back against a pillar and put her feet up. Balancing the mug on her bent knees, she thought about how she would proceed in dealing with Éomer’s proposal. She would formulate her answer and send it to Edoras before her father had returned from Rohan. It had nothing to do with him. This was between her and Éomer.

She only had to find a way to have the letter delivered to Éomer. Messengers were sent out regularly to Rohan with correspondence for King Elessar and his Steward. They could take her answer. Erchirion would know to whom she had to hand it. Or perhaps it would be better if she asked Amrothos first. Sometimes Erchirion fell victim to reason and might possibly ask her to wait with her answer until their father returned.

This evening she would sit down in the library and phrase her reply to the proposal. That thought reminded her of the mess she left behind yesterday when she had rushed out to find Amrothos. Before she began her day’s work she had better go back and return the codices and scrolls to the places where they were usually kept. The Houses of Healing did not employ a librarian. The healers were expected to take care of their store of knowledge themselves. The Warden was known to get very angry if somebody did not treat those tomes and scriptures with uttermost care.

Lothíriel took a sip of her tea. The taste left quite a bit to be desired but the herbal brew would help her to quickly recover her usual well-being.

Swift, slightly shuffling footsteps were to be heard. Lothíriel turned her head to look over her shoulder to see who was approaching. At this time of the morning she had expected all the other healers to be in the wing housing the refectory. In the wards there were fewer than a dozen patients, none of them seriously sick. After all those months of working the whole day round the sudden slow pace was not just soothing but rather drowsy. But it was a welcome change for the healers to be able to sit down again for regular meals.

The person appearing from around the next corner was Ioreth, the oldest of the healers, a wise, capable and garrulous woman. Lothíriel sighed. She really liked Ioreth who had taught her so much, but her solitude was now definitely over.

Mistress Ioreth came to a halt directly next to her so that Lothíriel didn’t have a chance to get up courteously to great her. But the face of the old woman wasn’t that far above hers because Ioreth was short even for a female. Amrothos called her the cube, insisting that she had the same measurements in all directions.

“Well, well, well! Look who is sitting here all on her own. Our runt.”

Lothíriel frowned. Perhaps she didn’t like the old tittle-tattler that much after all.

With arms akimbo, Ioreth took a sniff of the herbal aroma rising from the mug in the younger healer’s hands.

“Milk thistle; mugwort; lavender. Well, well, well! Somebody has got a hangover. What did that pretty brother of yours pour into you?”

Despite her annoyance Lothíriel couldn’t help a short laugh. Being called pretty wouldn’t be to Amrothos’s liking at all. “He did not force the wine into me. I drank it all of my own free will.”

Without being asked – Ioreth considered herself too old to be inclined to being polite – she sat down across from Lothíriel and patted her knee, so that the younger woman had trouble saving her tea from being spilled. She put her feet quickly down on the floor.

“How do you know it was one of my brothers who provided the wine?” she asked.

“My dear child! How many years have you been living inside the walls of our domain? By now you should be aware that everything Arom knows everybody else knows.” Ioreth folded her chubby hands in her lap. “What he does not know, and what I would like to know, is why you felt the intake of too much wine necessary?”

Lothíriel’s eyebrows made a graceful arc. “You feel I drank for a specific reason?”

“I know none who does not, though the reasons are of a great variety.”

“But you will always find a few who say they do it for pure enjoyment,” the younger woman pointed out.

“They are those who either will not acknowledge their reason because they know themselves too well, or cannot acknowledge it because they do not know themselves at all.”

“And to which sort do I belong?”

“That depends entirely on your answer.”

Why should she answer the old chatterbox at all? Lothíriel sighed. On the other hand as the head of the healers Ioreth had a right to know why one of them was nursing a hangover that might interfere with her performance. Best to give her an honest reply. She was certainly garrulous, but she was not a gossip.

“I drank the wine because my brother advised me that certain situations in life are much better confronted under a mild influence of spirits.”

“What a stupid thing to say, especially because he knows it is stupid.” Ioreth crossed her arms under her ample breasts. “So, tell me! What certain situation made you wish to be inebriated – ever so slightly?” Seeing Lothíriel’s irritated expression she shrugged her shoulder dismissively. “Oh, I am nosey; I am unabashed; that is what everybody expects me to be. Now tell me your secret!”

“It is not a secret. Or better said: it is not supposed to be kept a secret. I would have to tell the Warden and you soon anyway. But the news came up only yesterday. I will have to leave the Houses of Healing. My father has betrothed me.”

“That was to be expected, now that the war is over,” the old healer stated matter-of-factly.

Lothíriel blinked in surprise. That reply was certainly much more indifferent than she would have assumed it to be. “Yes, I had to expect it. I just hoped my father was too occupied with other more important issues and the whole business would be delayed for a while.”

“What can be more important for a father than the future of his daughter?”

“In this case I wish he would have devoted less attention to said daughter,” Lothíriel replied in a wry tone.

The old woman tilted her head, her gaze becoming shrewd. “What are you wailing over? You are the daughter of the most powerful vassal of our King, a princess of the Realm of Gondor. Your journey through life was predetermined the day you were born. You have always known that.”

“I am not wailing,” Lothíriel insisted, suddenly putting a defensive note in her voice

“Well I hope not,” Ioreth replied unsympathetically. “You have no reason to. Your father is a good man who has always done everything to accommodate your wishes. When you went back to your coastal home after the death of your mother and said you would ask your father to let you return to the Houses of Healing to be educated in our art, I never thought that the Lord of Dol Amroth would give his only daughter his permission. But he did. You became a healer; a very good one. And you did a very fine job in all those months of darkness. But it is over now. Now you have to go and do your duty to your family and to your land. – Whom are you betrothed to, by the way?”

“The King of Rohan.”

“And you are complaining? You are fortunate indeed, child.” Ioreth declared. “When I first saw that man sitting at his sister’s bedside I thought that washed and polished he would make quite a sight. And when I saw him washed and polished later, I wished I were thirty years younger – better make that forty years.”

Lothíriel had to suppress a smile at that. “I am not complaining about being betrothed.” She paused a moment, wrestling with herself, before she continued. “I am not complaining about the man I am betrothed to. If I am complaining at all then it is about my father leaving me completely in the dark about his plans.”

“Child, you are a noblewoman. That brings many privileges and a few disadvantages. Do not tell me you would like to trade one for the other. That would be an insult to all those who do not have any privileges and many more disadvantages in life. I can spare no forbearance for those who complain they have to eat from golden plates,” the old woman added callously. She chuckled at the look of annoyance that crossed the young healer’s face despite her best efforts. “I have always considered you are practical and pragmatic, and you do know that certain things in life simply have to be accepted as facts.”

“I told you I am not complaining,” Lothíriel reminded her, “and I can accept facts where I see them. I am just upset about the way my father administered this affair.”

“Do you know his reason?”

“As he is still away from our city with King Elessar I have not had the chance to talk to him. He informed me, or rather my brother, about my betrothal by letter.”

“Then wait until he returns,” the old healer advised. “Do not judge and condemn him before you know his reasons.”

“He will tell me he did it in my best interests,” Lothíriel said, resentment in her voice.

“And you doubt that?” Ioreth looked at her questioningly.

“No, of course not, but . . . “

“You do not mind being betrothed to the King of Rohan; you know your father will always strive to do what is best for you. What is your problem, child?” Impatience dripped from the old woman’s voice.

Lothíriel sighed with exasperation. She was sighing much too often recently. “I have a voice of my own. I have a mind of my own. I wish to have a say in my affairs.”

“So it is a matter of principle?”

“Indeed,” Lothíriel admitted.

"Rubbish," came the brisk reply. “So much has been suffered and been brought down because of principles. Do not persist on principles. Better use your common sense. Has anything happened you are truly opposed to?”

She got to her feet without waiting for an answer and patted Lothíriel on her head like an obstinate dog. It didn’t help her headache and she had the feeling Ioreth knew that.

“Finish that herbal brew and clear your head. I’m going to talk to the Warden and tell him that you will not be on duty today. You have worked hard over the past months. Harder than many of the others. You are owed some time for yourself. And if your stomach has settled, eat an apple or two before trying any other food.”

With those words she shuffled away.

Wonderful! If she had understood Ioreth’s words correctly she had just been pronounced spoiled, ungrateful and unreasonable. And she had been given a free day to put at her own disposal. Lothíriel emptied her mug in three long gulps, and rose to her feet to return the earthen cup to the treatment chamber. Cleaning and drying it she put it back onto a shelf.

Was she spoiled? The life that she had known had provided many privileges indeed. She had lived in a beautiful castle above the sea, loved by her parents and three elder brothers, as well as being taken care of by uncountable servants. She was well aware that at an age when the children of the fishermen, the peasants and the craftsmen had already had to work to contribute to their family’s income, she had played with her dolls and pets and had received a thorough education from carefully chosen tutors. She had lived in a well padded world.

That world had changed when her mother had fallen ill, when she had to witness those awful choking fits which became worse and worse with every passing month. She had felt helpless and useless, not being able to do anything to relieve her mother’s suffering. When she had watched the healers, whose knowledge and art at least meant that they had been able to ease the pain and the agony, she had known what she wanted to do in her life. And yes, it had been a surprise that the Prince of Dol Amroth had permitted his daughter to seek an education from the healers. She acknowledged that she was grateful to her father for giving in to her deepest wish despite the many voices raised in concern and disapproval. But was she unreasonable when she expected to become involved in the decisions regarding her own future? Did the love and solicitousness her father had, without a single doubt, always bestowed upon her mean that she had to follow any scheme of his without a murmur, without a right to express her own opinion or objections? Did love come at a price? Had it to be rewarded?

If it had not been Éomer of Rohan or his proposal that granted her a will of her own, she most certainly would have had a whole bundle of objections. If it had not been Éomer of Rohan she would have loved to accommodate Amrothos’s wish and cause a lot of trouble.

Unfortunately her father had found her a husband she actually wished to wed so she could hardly refuse him just to teach the Lord of Dol Amroth a lesson.

Without having truly realized where she was heading Lothíriel found herself outside the library. She opened the door to enter and pulled a face at the high pitched creaking sound. It was time somebody oiled the hinges. Perhaps she would do it herself later today, after she had cleared away the codices and parchments and after she had finished answering the letter from Éomer. It would take some time to write it because she planned to phrase it quite carefully.

As much as she had appreciated the contents of his proposal, the tone should have been a little bit more personal and warm. She would make certain that her answer would be penned in a similar manner to his.

TBC

It was nearly midday. Lothíriel had spent the entire morning with a fellow healer preparing a potion made from the seed of poppies. It was administered as a potent pain reliever and they had run out of stock whilst treating the many warriors that were severely wounded in the great battles. It was a complicated brew, and wrongly prepared it could become a deadly poison instead of a medicine. Only two healers together were allowed to start the process. It also required a high level of concentration, something Lothíriel had welcomed because it kept her thoughts from the forthcoming confrontation with her father.

The night before, long after dusk had fallen, King Elessar and his Queen had returned to Minas Tirith, accompanied by the Princes of Ithilien and Dol Amroth and their entourages. As every other man and woman in the city, Lothíriel had been immediately aware of the occurrence.  The tones of the silver trumpets, which had announced from the White Tower of Ecthelion the arrival of the Royal Party, had been loud enough, not only to wake every  slumbering soul on all seven levels of the city, but also the very last bark beetle in the woods of Ithilien.

It had to be expected that her father would summon her in the course of the day. She could have gone up to the Citadel to join him for the first meal of the day. She knew his daily routine fairly well. Imrahil wouldn’t deviate from it, not just because he had arrived late after a whole day in the saddle.

But this was a matter of principle. He had something to say to her; therefore he had to send for her first. Perhaps this attitude was childish, but the past eleven days had done nothing to soothe her ruffled feathers. She held the hope that this time she would defy her father and not back down as she usually did. In the past, something about his bearing had always her made feel that she was overreacting whenever they had been on different sides of an argument.

“We have finished,” Saerwen, the other healer declared, as she took the cauldron from the hearth. “Whilst the potion cools let us prepare the new phials the glassblower delivered this morning.”

Lothíriel just nodded her agreement. She was about to begin to take the phials out of the tub where they had been soaking them, when there was a resounding knock at the door. Saerwen opened it and found a boy of thirteen or fourteen years of age outside, wearing the velvet tunic denoting that he was one of the Royal pages.

“Pardon me, Mistress! I was told I would find the Lady Lothíriel here. I have a message from the Prince of Dol Amroth for her.”

“I am the Lady in question.” Lothíriel stepped closer, drying her hands with a cloth.

The page gazed at her dubiously, but after a look at Saerwen, who showed no inclination to contradict her, he handed her the small folded and sealed parchment he had in his hand with only a hint of reluctance. Lothíriel broke the well known seal and threw a glance at it.

“Thank you,” she addressed the boy. “There will be no answer.”

After he had left she read the short note. Her father expected her for a midday meal in his private chambers at the Citadel.

“Saerwen, my father has summoned me. Are you agreeable to that? Can I leave you to finish our work alone?”

“Of course. If your father wishes to speak to you, you have to go at once, my Lady.”

It took Lothíriel some effort not to grind her teeth. If the mention of her father’s name could cause a fellow healer to address her with her title instead of her name, what would happen when her betrothal to the King of Rohan was made public knowledge?

She thanked the other woman for her understanding and hurried through the corridors of the healer’s domain to her chamber to change her garb for a presentable gown. Long ago her father had emphasized particularly that he did not wish to see her wearing her healer’s garb when she socialized with her family at the Citadel, even in their private chambers. Lothíriel thought it better to submit to his wishes in this case. There were limits to everything, and she did not wish to appear to be in an infantile mood – even if she was.

Beside her healer’s garb, Lothíriel did not keep many of her clothes in her small room at the Houses of Healing. Like her brothers, she had her own chamber in the Citadel which she rarely used, in fact only to store her personal belongings. There was no other choice today but to wear a simply cut silk gown of palest lavender. The only accessories she had were a matching belt and ankle laced slippers. It took her just a few moments to change her clothing and another few to unbraid her hair and comb it. As the only headdress she had in her chest was too conspicuous for the day, she arranged it in a net decorated with pearls and held by a headband.

Before she left, she pulled Éomer’s letter from under a stack of folded tunics and secured it in her belt. Then she headed for the Citadel, setting a brisk pace. It must have taken the page a while to find her because it was getting late. Her father expected her at midday and it was not her way to keep anybody waiting. She had walked the street up to the Citadel uncountable times, but today, due to her haste, she emerged from the tunnel onto the Great Court of the Fountain unusually breathless. She had to catch her breath yet again when she passed the guards outside the main gate to the palace. Inside the entrance hall she paused for a moment. She could use the great staircase and all the public halls and corridors, or she could use the servants’ stairs which would lead her much more quickly to her destination. The palace was reminiscent of a rabbit warren, but she was well acquainted with all its twists and turns.

On her way up the back stairs and passageways she met only a couple of servants who greeted her respectfully and without any real surprise. Over the past four years they had become accustomed to the sight of the Princess of Dol Amroth walking their hallways.

Having reached the west wing where her father’s private chambers and his study were situated, Lothíriel pulled a heavy curtain aside and stepped out onto a wide corridor  - and nearly into the arms of her father and King Elessar. The two men were standing outside Prince Imrahil’s study, absorbed in their conversation. The King in a burgundy velvet tunic, her father, as usual, perfectly combed and groomed in dark blue suede. The former ranger must have sensed her movement and turned swiftly to face her. Lothíriel saw him lift his eyebrows before she sank into a curtsey.

“My Liege-lord,” she greeted, rising. She looked at her father and could have sworn she saw him roll his eyes. “Father.”

“Lady Lothíriel. What a pleasure to see you,” Elessar said, the smile evident in his voice. “A pleasure you have shown a rare talent for withholding from us.”

“I was not aware, my Lord King, that you had a desire for my company,” Lothíriel answered in a quiet voice, schooled for occasions like this. “Therefore I have to beg your forgiveness for my absence as well as for my ignorance.”

The King’s smile deepened. “It will be easily forgiven if you grace the Queen’s and my table tonight. You will find it an intimate affair with your father and your cousin as the only other attendants.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I am honoured,” she replied automatically. Who had just received an invitation? Lothíriel of Dol Amroth or the betrothed of the King of Rohan; Elessar’s friend and brother-in-arms? “I will have to inform the Warden of the Houses of Healing of my absence from his domain tonight,” she added unthinkingly.

“A page will be sent to inform the Warden,” said Imrahil, in what was, unmistakeably, not a suggestion.

“Of course, Father. Thank you,” Lothíriel replied, feeling her spine go stiff and then added without altering the tone of her voice, “As long as the Warden will be informed.” Moving her eyes to meet her father’s in an unflinching glare, she was surprised to have it returned by one of Imrahil’s that showed as much amusement as it showed irritation.

“As you have not seen each other for so many sennights, I will leave father and daughter to their reunion and make my farewell.”

Lothíriel’s gaze swung back to the King, whose eyes were friendly and somehow assessing, as if he had just seen her for the first time.

“I am looking forward to seeing you tonight, Lady Lothíriel. Imrahil.” The King nodded and turned to walk away, almost noiseless, although he was wearing heavy riding boots.

When he was certain that his liege was out of earshot Imrahil addressed his daughter in exaggerated patience.

“Lothíriel, is there a particular reason why you use the servants’ hallways?”

“Yes, Father, there is. I was late and the back stairs are a significant shortcut. . . . And the servants do not mind,” she added.

He contemplated her in silence for a while, her calm countenance, her serene tone. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I think there are a few issues we have to discuss.”

“That I will not dispute,” Lothíriel heard herself say.

Imrahil let it pass and gestured her to go first. Lothíriel led the way to her father’s withdrawing room, a familiar place where the family had often gathered during the past years. On the table in front of the open window servants had laid out a simple meal of various cheeses, cold meats and salads.

“As we will feast with the King and the Queen tonight I thought a more frugal midday meal would be reasonable. And we will not be disturbed by servants.” Imrahil held the chair for his daughter. Lothíriel settled down and automatically took the napkin and laid it across her lap. The prince sat down across from her.

“Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you. I will have some spelt water, if there is some.”

Imrahil filled their goblets. He took his and leant back against his chair.

“Very well, my dear. Out with it.”

Lothíriel looked straight at her father, seeing nothing she hadn’t expected. His face was unreadable. There had always been this quality of stillness about him, this air of superiority that made her doubtful of her own convictions. As if they were not thought-out thoroughly and were questionable. She decided to get to the heart of her matter of concern with one straight sentence.

“I am upset.”

“I have noticed,” Imrahil replied simply. “And I have expected it.”

“I am upset because I despise the fact that my future life relies on a decision that I had no control over, that it depends completely on my father’s will. I am not talking about customs and laws, or that it is a father’s right to do what you did. I am talking about you and me, Father. I always thought you considered me a person of intelligence and sense and not as some object that the law has given the right for you to dispose of as you wish.”

Lothíriel realized, with a sense of amazement, that she was actually getting more than just upset with her father. She was getting furiously angry. That had never happened before. It was deeply unsettling and she quickly suppressed the sensation.

Her father’s intent gaze gave her no doubt that he had recognized the emotions whirling behind her carefully kept façade. It had always been hard to conceal anything from him. After all, he had known her before she had mastered the art of self-control.

“Lothíriel, you should know that when I left Minas Tirith to accompany the cortege of Théoden King to Edoras, I had not made the decision to make an offer to Éomer.”

Lothíriel blinked. That statement made her lose her thread. Was he telling her that his dealings had to be excused because she simply had not been available to discuss them?

“Erchirion said you had reasons of the political and the personal kind to proceed as you did. Are you saying those only arose after you left Minas Tirith?” She tapped with her middle finger hard on the table, emphasising every word. “Excuse me, Father, but that does not sound very likely.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, the political reason why I wish to have you bond to Éomer arose some time ago and I was searching for a solution when a certain incident – or shall I say a chain of incidents - presented unexpectedly a resolve, which promised to be satisfying on a very personal level.”

Lothíriel let out an irritated breath. “I am afraid I cannot follow you. You present an equation with too many unknowns. Please, let us start from the beginning. What is your political reasoning?”

The Prince took a sip from his wine and then set his goblet on the table. “Would you like something to eat, my dear?”

Tapping her foot, Lothíriel asked in a voice barely concealing her impatience, “Have you given Amrothos lessons in how to delay a discussion?”

“I do not know what you are referring to,” Imrahil said, with his first genuine smile, “but let me assure you that your brother does not need to take any lessons from anyone, whatever about.”

“But your delaying tactics are very similarly annoying.” Although she didn’t feel like eating she accepted her father serving her some fennel salad with apple and grated cheese.

“Does this indicate that you have had a serious conversation with your brother lately?” Imrahil’s smile seemed somehow pained. “Probably about the same subject we are about to discuss?”

“In a way.”

“Should I be worried?”

“It was eye-opening . . . in a way.”

“Now I am very worried, indeed,” Imrahil muttered, helping himself to a healthy portion of honey-smoked ham.

“You would not have to be worried about anything, Father, if you had just . . . “

“. . . initiated you in my devious plans?” he interrupted genially.

“. . . handled the affair less secretively,” Lothíriel completed her own sentence.

“There was nothing secretive about what I did, as I was trying to explain before we became side-tracked.”

“I knew nothing about what you were doing, even though it involved me, therefore it was secretive.”

Father and daughter looked at each other. Imrahil sighed, reaching for the bread.

“I agree that proper terminology is important in general, but do we have to dwell on semantics right now?”

“Not on my part,” she replied pointedly. “I am much more interested in learning – at last – about your reasons.”

Imrahil continued to look at her thoughtfully across the table, and she returned his gaze levelly.

“I am afraid, Daughter, you have the disadvantage a being a young noblewoman who has an aspiration to more than just becoming a wife and living a spoiled and carefree life. You are from the most noble bloodline in Gondor, your dowry is large enough to maybe tempt the more ambitious into a passage of arms and you have grown quite beautiful.”

His utterance was totally unexpected and Lothíriel looked at her father dumbfounded, for once at a loss of words.

“Do you know why I permitted you to seek an education as a healer here in Minas Tirith?”

It had never been spoken between them but Lothíriel had always assumed her father had somehow tried to compensate for the loss of her mother; hoped to create a diversion so that her soul wouldn’t fall into bottomless sorrow; wanted her mind occupied with a useful task. And it would not be spoken between them.

“I have always thought you believed me safer in Minas Tirith with the growing unrest along the coast and the threat from the corsairs of Umbar.”

“Indeed, I believed you safer here but not in a military sense. In that case I would have been proven wrong, would I not?” He raised his goblet to Lothíriel and took a sip from his wine. “I wanted you out of the picture for the time being. I wanted certain people to forget that I had a marriageable daughter. Or, at least, I did not want them reminded of it constantly. Here at the Houses of Healing, as an apprentice to the healers, you move outside certain social circles.”

Lothíriel had listened to her father’s words and for once forgot to school her features. Incomprehension stood clearly written on them.

“Do I understand you correctly: you sent me to the healers to separate me from potential suitors, so that you would not receive any proposals?”

“That is so. At sixteen I thought you much too young for such a union, although it is generally considered the proper age.”

Lothíriel shook her head slightly in disbelief. “But Father, if you had not wished me to wed so young, you simply could have refused any suitor.”

“Indeed, I could – and would – have refused any proposal, but I could have done that only so many times without provoking displeasure. As I said before, you are quite a prize. Rejected suitors might have turned to the Steward to enforce their claim. And I regret having to say this, but Denethor would have thought only about any domestic advantages or disadvantages. Very likely he would have supported that suit of which he could have taken most advantage.”

Lothíriel reflected on that for a moment. “Could he have forced you to give me to one of any potential suitors?”

“No, not even the Stewards or Kings of Gondor have any rights over those of a father.” Imrahil stated, and continued, uncharacteristically hesitant, “I wanted to avoid you becoming an obstacle of domestic politics. Whilst under the threat of Mordor we did not need an additional contentious issue putting strain needlessly on the unity of the Steward and the vassals.”

“So far I believed me only a pledge but certainly not an obstacle.” She squeezed her hands into small fists.

Sighing, Imrahil sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. “Please, Lothíriel. I thought we agreed not to quibble over terminology.”

She didn’t respond to that. “You were nothing but foresighted,” she told her father in a painfully neutral voice.

The Prince drummed his fingers on the table, just a couple of times. “Not that much, I am afraid.” Seeing Lothíriel’s confused look, he said, “Do you remember meeting Herion of Linhir at Elphir’s wedding?”

“Elphir’s brother-in-law?” She tried to remember. “I cannot recall his face, or even if I have been introduced to him.”

Shortly before their mother had passed away, her eldest brother had wed Oraineth of Linhir. He had chosen her because he felt that one day she would make the perfect wife for the ruler of Dol Amroth. If she had any other virtues beside that and being reasonably attractive, Lothíriel couldn’t have said. She hardly knew her sister-in-law. Erchirion refused to say anything that could imply a judgement; Amrothos insisted that he always suffered from frostbite after he had been in the same room with his brother’s wife.

“You may have overlooked him, but he certainly became aware of you. A short time after the wedding celebrations I received a proposal from him for you which I refused on the grounds that you were too young and that your mother was terminally ill.”

“And after Mother’s death you let me relocate to the Houses of Healing, hoping you would not have to refuse other suitors?”

“Well, it worked,” Imrahil said in a rather placating sort of voice, but then added, “At least, until now. To be precise until a few days after Elessar’s coronation. Lord Herion renewed his proposal.”

“But I was not present at the coronation. Therefore it could not have been seeing me that led him to approach you again.”

“True. For some reason you avoided attending our King’s coronation.” His voice had acquired a tone of dry speculation. “The question why - let us say - it is at the moment irrelevant.”

Lothíriel kept her mask of composure in place with willpower alone. She had found a convenient excuse because she didn’t want to risk being spotted – or worse – introduced to the warrior she had treated and who had turned out to be the new King of Rohan.

“One of my patients had a very serious bout of fever.” Strictly speaking, it had been the patient of one of her fellow healers, one who desperately wanted to attend the coronation. So she had offered to stay behind in her place.

He waved her statement away with an elegant hand. “So you said before. And as I said, this is now irrelevant.” He took up his fork as if he was going to begin to eat but then put it down again, unused.

“Herion did not have to see you to remember your existence. All those years he kept you in his pocket – so to speak. After all, his sister is married to your brother. And I am afraid, because of her; he is pretty well informed about the size of your dowry. And he needs this dowry rather badly. You see, Herion inherited the Lordship over Linhir at a very young age and proved not to be an overly far-sighted ruler. He neglected, among other things, the reinforcement of the defences of Linhir with nearly devastating consequences for the city when the corsairs attacked. Now he is under royal order to make up for this neglect within a limited time frame. For that he needs money; your dowry.”

“But you have refused him again?”

“Yes, I have,” he confirmed evenly. “His proposal, and that of another, one from a man of no consequence, I received the day before I left with the Rohirrim for Edoras.”

“What can they do after you have refused them? Unlike our uncle, King Elessar will not listen to any complaints from suitors who have been turned down by you.” Lothíriel paused, frowning slightly as though trying to sort out her thoughts. “There are certainly more important issues to be taken care of.”

“Lord Herion is a troublemaker. If he wants to repay me for refusing him and consequently withholding the money he needs, he will do it in a way that not only is going to hurt me but also, as I am known to be our new King’s supporter and adviser, he can create quite some unrest amongst the southern vassals. Some who are not in the least happy that they are no longer left to themselves but have now to answer to a strong central authority here in Minas Tirith.”

“So now I have become an obstacle indeed.”

Amusement briefly replaced the earnestness in Imrahil’s eyes. “Let us take a note that it is you who insists upon referring to yourself as an object.” But he continued in a more sober tone. “I spoke to Elessar about my fears that my personal concerns might trigger political complications. He did not see that this unfortunate matter should influence our dealings with each other in any way  - and he did not expect me to respond preventively in any way.”

“What would you call my betrothal to Éomer King if not a preventive measure?”

“Actually I spoke to Elessar on the day the Rohirrim had left Minas Tirith for their ride home. At that point it did not come to my mind that Éomer could be the solution for our problem. That dawned on me only after he had returned to escort his uncle’s body back to the Mark; during that welcoming feast Elessar and the Queen gave in his honour. You remember that feast? The one I nearly had to drag you to? You had about half a dozen good reasons why you should not go. That was the feast where my daughter chose to start a quarrel with the King of Rohan.”

She had known sooner or later this subject would arise. She braced herself.

“I did not start that quarrel,” she said much too defensively. “That was your friend from Rohan.”

Her father gave her a wry look. “And you were so engrossed in it that you did not even realize what a spectacle you were making.”

“And you thought because we were quarrelling so amiably he would make an ideal husband?”

Both amusement and a little irritation were palpable in Imrahil’s reply. “To my knowledge he was the first man you have ever cared to take notice of. And a father takes notice when a man looks at his daughter as if he would like to throttle her.”

“And you gave him permission to accompany me out to the terrace?” Her voice climbed in spite of her best efforts.

Imrahil gave a chuckle. “It seemed to be the safer option at that moment.”

“People tend to wonder how you could have produced a son like Amrothos. I feel no amazement at all.”

To Lothíriel’s surprise her father laughed out loud. “To which of the two of us is this statement to be meant a compliment and to whom as an insult?” he asked, subduing his laughter to a wide grin. “I doubt there are half a dozen men in Middle-Earth who can hold themselves against Éomer King. But I do not believe him to be dangerous. He would never cause any harm to a woman, certainly not one of your standing. And if I were not certain of that,” he let a meaningful pause spread between them before he continued, “I would have had to ask you – both of you – long ago, what you, Lothíriel, had been doing in his bedchamber early one morning?

It took Lothíriel’s brain a few heartbeats to register the meaning of her father’s words. Only with an effort was her mind able to wrap itself around what he had just said. But when she finally grasped the significance, she first went cold and then hot, and the heat showed in the colour of her cheeks. She closed her eyes with mortification. Blast this blushing. She made a strangled sort of sound that finally converted into a couple of incoherent words.

“What . . . ? How . . . ?”

“What am I talking about? Or how do I know?” Imrahil inquired in a genial tone of voice as if he had just announced the day to be sunny.

The amusement in his voice gave her the courage to open her eyes. After three deep breaths she had herself under control again. At this point it would have been foolish to deny or to play stupid.

“How do you know?” she repeated one of the offered questions carefully.

“Lothíriel!” Imrahil said with a hint of impatience. “This palace is swarming with servants. Of course you could not enter the King of Rohan’s bedchamber without being detected.  Just because the domestics are accustomed to seeing you using their stairs and corridors and you believe yourself somehow invisible in your healer’s garb, does not mean they do not know perfectly well what you are up to most of the time. Someone saw you . . . sneaking into Éomer’s chamber; that someone told my squire, who told me.”

“I did not sneak in. I knocked,” Lothíriel found it important to point out.

“Well, I am so glad you do remember your manners when you pay foreign rulers unexpected and not entirely proper visits in their bedchambers,” Imrahil said magnanimously and continued with his former train of thought. “At first, I was admittedly slightly confused by yours and Éomer’s behaviour during those days. Firstly providing the entertainment for an evening and - following from that - the gossip for at least a sennight. Both of you carried on acting peculiarly over the next day. It did not make sense until I learnt about that absence of consideration by you on that particular morning. And also that the King of Rohan had gone to meet with his kinsmen at the Houses of Healing in the afternoon, where he -  in all likelihood - had seen you again. And after every one of your – presumed – encounters one or both of you behaved somehow  . . . oddly.”

Imrahil reached for the small pot with the mustard and put some of it over his ham. As if he had all time in the world he began to cut the smoked meat into bite-sized pieces.

Lothíriel felt . . . stupid. There was unfortunately no other word to describe it. Downright stupid. She had sought out Éomer at an inconvenient time, at an improper location, to come to an agreement with him about how to avoid making her father suspicious. Looking back at it she had to admit that it would have been a true surprise if nobody had spotted her. Calculated risk indeed. Of course the servants gossiped. And of course her father’s servants would pass on to him everything of what came to their ears regarding his family. Instead of keeping him from becoming suspicious she had just added grist to the mill.

And she really wasn’t certain if she wanted to know what he suspected about her encounter with Éomer on the afternoon of the same day; that encounter that had turned her approach towards quite a few things in life upside down. Her father couldn’t really know what had occurred in the treatment chamber. He may have made an educated guess that there had been another clash between her and Éomer, but she had the distinct feeling that if he knew the truth, he wouldn’t be viewing the affair with this annoyingly calm amusement, but would be packing her up and sending her directly to Rohan.

With two kingdoms counting the months until Rohan’s heir would be born.

Lothíriel was absolutely unable to stifle a groan or avoid the next heat wave colouring her cheeks.

Imrahil looked up from his plate and then laid down his cutlery. He leant back in his chair, his gaze becoming scrutinizing.

“Until today I failed to notice that you have a tendency to blush,” he observed. He continued in a tone of heavily used patience, “Please tell me, Lothíriel, that there is no reason why this betrothal should be shortened to very few sennights.”

Lothíriel felt caught; she felt guilty . . . although there was no real reason to be; and that reaction made her angry with herself and, of course, with her father.

“Your way of thinking is very similar to Amrothos’s, Father,” she accused him through gritted teeth. She reached for her goblet to take a few sip of her spelt water . . . and to hide her face behind the large drinking vessel.

Imrahil’s expression was speculative for a moment before it faded back into one of lingering amusement. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Amrothos asked you something of that sort?” He took up his fork again and turned his attention back to his meal. He put a piece of ham into his mouth and chewed it reflectively for a moment.

“I had assumed that nothing truly inappropriate had happened,” he said casually after he had swallowed. “Otherwise – I am quite certain of that – Éomer would have forestalled my offer with a proposal of his own. He may be hot-headed and stubborn, but he also has a great integrity and is governed by his own strict code of honour.”

That was now an interesting question. What would her father consider as truly inappropriate? She sipped her water and gazed out of the window into the lush green of the garden. She could feel his gaze on her profile.

“Lothíriel, I do not want to know all the details of what happened between you and Éomer that night when you treated him at the Houses of Healing. Although I do not believe that his fierce reaction when meeting you again at the welcoming feast was due alone to the fact that he had been kept in the dark about your identity. I do not want to know why you felt you had to see him in his bedchamber – even though I may have a fairly good idea. And I do not want to know what occurred that same afternoon at the Houses of Healing that led you to rudely ignore an invitation from our King and Queen in the evening and caused you to perform some kind of disappearing act over the following days. Days when Éomer looked distinctly uncomfortable for quite some time and acted as if he expected some sort of final judgement.”

Imrahil’s mouth twisted into a wry smile at his daughter’s uneasy expression.

“One of Éomer’s more amiable shortcomings is his inability to lie or to pretend. That does not make a consummate politician out of him but, more importantly, it does make a trustworthy and admirable friend.”

Without a doubt Imrahil had addressed a fundamental fact. With Éomer there were no pretences, no games. He was what he was; direct, focused and aggressive - a warrior. But also totally unpredictable - at least for her. Somehow she had always failed to forecast his actions. And his feelings for her – if there were any – she couldn’t even guess their nature. She had agreed to wed a man who was a riddle to her.

Belatedly, Lothíriel realized that her father was waiting for a response. Pulling her composure around her like a protective cloak, she said in a steady voice, that she was actually surprised to hear coming from her, “Father, you are a shrewd man and I know you see more than most do. You have witnessed a few dealings between Éomer and myself and you have heard servants’ gossip and know some tales second hand. From that you draw your conclusions. But perhaps you presume too much.”

“Do I?” Imrahil asked simply. He scanned the food on offer thoughtfully and finally decided on some courgette salad with a raspberry vinaigrette. He refilled his goblet before continuing. 

“There is a spark between the two of you. I have noticed it and so have others.” He gave her a faintly impatient glance. “Well, one would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to. But for some reason you and Éomer would rather prefer to deny it – most fervently to yourselves. Yet as soon as the name of one is mentioned in the presence of the other you jump as if pricked by a needle. Over the past couple of years I have hardly ever seen you lose your composure – and certainly not blush. And Éomer . . .” He cut a slice of courgette into quarters. “As I said before; pretence does not come naturally to him.”

Lothíriel watched her father eating calmly and with a healthy appetite. There was a certain smug air about him which she did not appreciate. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was well on the way to besting one of his children once again – and he knew it. And yet, the raging flame of anger that she had initially felt towards her father had dulled to a flickering glow. Common sense asserted itself. She understood his motivation, comprehended his intentions, even his actions, although she could not condone them.

“Have you ever thought that I may feel like a pawn in a game of chess who happens to be in the way of the King and therefore gets removed from the chess board? How convenient that you have detected that spark between me and a man, so you can hand me just over to him. Problem solved!”

At her words Imrahil had halted eating and glanced up, giving her a long, considering look. “Now you are being deliberately obstinate,” he said in a calm voice that gave no indication if his mood had been changed by her accusations. “Is it truly necessary that I assure you of my deep affection for all of my children? You are not a pawn; you are not a pledge; you are not an obstacle. You are my daughter. Your concerns are always of the greatest importance to me and I will never do anything regarding you without having given the matter the most thorough thought.”

“That I do not dispute, but I am perfectly capable of minding my own affairs.” Lothíriel interjected, crossing her arms stubbornly. In a way he was right. She was deliberately obstinate because she simply couldn’t just give in. It was a matter of principle – never mind what Ioreth had said about principles. “Is it too much to be asked if I wish to play a part when you make decisions regarding my future. Why did you not advise me beforehand about your intention to make an offer to Éomer?”

“As I explained to you, when I left Minas Tirith for Edoras, I had not made a decision to discuss a union with Éomer.” Imrahil regarded his daughter with the utmost patience. “And had it only been for those emotions that had obviously flared up between you, I would not have thought about talking to him. Human emotions are not very reliable. They are subject to too many influences and insinuations. They always threaten to die down as quickly as they have flared up. But I feel you will match well - beside this spark. – I begin to wish I had chosen some other term.”

Lothíriel wanted to interrupt, but her father gestured her silent with a graceful wave of his hand.

“I met Éomer on the battlefield and could not do any different but acknowledge him to be a great warrior and an honourable man. Since then he has also proven to be a very capable leader of his people who understands duty, responsibility and dedication towards his land. He may be hot-headed, proud and wilful, yet he is also compassionate, caring and empathetic. You possess all those qualities as well. . . . Well, perhaps you are not so hot-headed. You have learnt to keep your temper hidden – most of the time.”

He paused, watching her closely as she struggled with the ambivalence inside her, with all those contradictory feelings, thoughts and wishes.

“None of the men of Gondor are your match,” he said gently but firmly. “You need someone who is your equal. Éomer is a good and noble man. He will make a good and noble husband. He will honour and respect you as his wife and as his consort and hold you in esteem for what you are. He will not attempt to form you. At his side you can be the woman you truly are and not the woman someone else thinks you should be.”

For a moment Lothíriel was not able to say anything. She bent her head to stare at her hands clasped before her. How could she go against him when all what he had just said made sense? When nothing he had done contradicted her own wishes in any way?

Imrahil’s gaze became reminiscent. “I know you are still the girl who loves to argue a position that she does not necessarily believe in, simply for the sake of arguing; or because she wishes to be presented by a counterargument that will convince her without the shadow of a doubt that what she secretly desires is the right thing to do.”

He got up and walked to her chair to stand behind her. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he squeezed gently.

“We do not have to argue about this. It is the right thing to do, my dear. If you cannot agree with the way I handled the affair, do not let that prevent you from doing what you feel you wish to do. But if the very idea of being bonded to Éomer is abhorrent to you for whatever reason, I do not think he will insist upon the betrothal.”

“By now Éomer should know how I feel about your agreement,” Lothíriel announced in a deliberately neutral voice.

Imrahil stopped short. He stepped to the side so that he could see her face again. Looking down at her he asked with a slight frown: “How come?”

Now she was behaving in a truly infantile way, but she had heard for a first time a hint of uncertainty in her father’s voice and she wanted to make the most of it. Just for once she wanted Imrahil of Dol Amroth to fidget.

“The messenger who delivered your letter to Erchirion had also a letter for me . . . from Éomer.”

“Indeed?” Imrahil walked back to his chair, sitting down in it in careless grace. “So he did write a letter to you after all.”

“You talked to each other about this letter,” Lothíriel inquired, becoming uncertain in her own right.

“I suggested that he might consider writing to you as there would hardly be another possibility to get in touch.”

“Oh!” Did she have to understand her father’s remark to mean that Éomer hadn’t written this letter on his own initiative, but because he had been urged to do so?  That would change her entire perspective towards the whole affair. In that case it would have no value. All she had thought she had read there would mean nothing. “You persuaded him to write this letter?” Lothíriel asked hollowly.

Imrahil’s frown deepened. He appeared puzzled by her sombre response. “Persuaded? I certainly did not have to persuade him. As I said, at one point I suggested that he should write to you, and that was even before he agreed to my offer.”

“So you do not know what the contents of this letter are?”

“I did not know until you mentioned it just now that he had written after all.” He watched her for a moment thoughtfully, tapping a finger on his chin.

“Lothíriel, I will not withhold from you that Éomer did not plan to take a wife as long as his land is in such a state of devastation. He felt he had to devote himself entirely to the rebuilding of Rohan and that it would be an unreasonable demand on a woman to share such a life. Actually, when I first made my offer he put up quite a fight.” He gave an appeasing smile when he recognized the nearly horrified expression in his daughter’s eyes. “Do not worry. I did not have to put the thumbscrews on him to change his mind.”

“Father!” she groaned. Her emotions were really forced into one somersault after the other. “You are truly unbelievable.”

“It may be of some interest to you,” he said soothingly, keeping his eyes on hers, “that any objections he had and all his considerations were on your behalf. And I do not think he was even conscious of that fact.”

“But there is no getting away from the fact that he was originally averse to your offer,” Lothíriel pointed out with a trace of bitterness. “What did you have to do to persuade him?”

“Surprisingly enough, nothing,” Imrahil replied, studying her with amused sympathy. “I left him early in the morning to think about my offer and expected another discussion to occur between us later. I admit, I had my arguments prepared and was rather baffled when he approached me before midday to announce that he was accepting. Just like that. No conditions, no reservations. Not even any question about the settlement – as any proper Gondorian suitor would have done.”

A pained expression flitted over Imrahil’s features.

“Actually, when I tried to talk to him about your dowry I fell victim to a truly remarkable fit of temper. I rather not repeat what he advised me to do with the money. After he had calmed down, he suggested I take it and pay for the provisions given to Rohan. A few days ago, on our journey back, I approached Elessar about this matter, but he also refused me, declaring it was up to Gondor to pay its debts to the Rohirrim. Now I am in the highly unusual position of a father who is sitting – so to speak - on his daughter’s dowry and nobody is willing to take it.” He heaved a sigh quite worthy of Amrothos. “Kings can be truly difficult.”

“Do not expect me to pity you,” Lothíriel snapped, ignoring the upward movement of her father’s eyebrows. “I feel as if the ground has been cut from under my feet. Can you not understand how it is to be degraded to a faceless, exchangeable object others can do with as they like?”

“You cannot truly believe you are faceless or exchangeable for either Éomer or me.” Imrahil tapped his apparently mounting irritation out against the edge of the goblet before him with his fork. “You mentioned the letter. What does it say?”

Lothíriel pulled the folded parchment from her belt. It had suffered since Erchirion had handed it to her. Being carried around stuck to her waist had left it thoroughly crumpled and unfortunately Amrothos had dropped a shrimp on it, so that now a large grease spot decorated it together with the State Seal of Rohan. Rather for those reasons she hesitated to hand it over.

“It is a proposal.” She watched her father for any reaction, but Imrahil just leant back against his chair and gestured her to continue. “Éomer asked me for my consent and made it perfectly clear that without it he would not consider any agreement reached between you and him as binding.”

Absorbing that information Imrahil slowly began to smile. “So he sent a proposal. Somehow I am not surprised” he added, more for himself. “And have you given him an answer?”

“I sent my answer the day after his letter arrived. The messenger must have passed you half way to Edoras.”

“It did not take you long. And may I ask what that answer was?”

“I did consent.”

“Why?”

For a moment Lothíriel stared at her father in incomprehension. Then slowly the complexity of this superficially simple question hit her. Why had she consented indeed?

Because she felt drawn to this man, body and soul. Although the answer she had given Amrothos still stood. She did not know if it were love that she felt for Rohan’s King. But deep inside her she knew her father was right; she had even known it before Imrahil had given her his reasons. Éomer and she would suit each other well. With the warrior she had treated, she had found herself sharing the same values, the same sense of right and wrong. The King she had come to know was entirely dedicated to his people, to their well-being. They would always come before his own person. That was something she could easily relate to.

And Éomer accepted people for what they were. No pretences. He would never expect her to bend.

What she would probably never have with him was harmony; not if harmony was supposed to mean a subdued existence side by side without any contradiction or dispute. And what she would never have to fear was indifference. It was impossible to feel indifferent towards Éomer, and it appeared highly unlikely that a man with his temper and his passion would ever face anything or anyone, indifferently.

And he was a caring man. He would take care of her as she would of him. And together, as King and Queen, they would take care of Rohan. Her father had not only betrothed her to a man, but to his land and to his people. He had pledged her to a task, a duty. And amazingly enough that did not make her afraid. She felt relieved. She had feared nothing more than that being bonded to a man would mean a life without any significance. Hollow; idle; futile. As the wife of a Gondorian noble that would, in all likelihood, have come true. But not as the wife of the King of Rohan.

She became aware that her father was still waiting for her answer.

“Because it is the right thing to do,” she said simply.

“Indeed, it is,” Imrahil answered with the same simplicity. “And Lothíriel, in regard of something else which is of great importance between a woman and a man who will spend their life together, I can only give you the same piece of advice my mother once gave me in the same situation: if you wish to be loved, love.”

FINI