It hurt.

To be precise: it hurt everywhere.

Lothíriel had, long ago, given up trying to distinguish the different body parts that hurt most. It would have been much easier anyway - and less time-consuming - to name the few which felt fit and healthy. Her nose, for example, seemed to be doing quite well; also her earlobes. Anything else . . . She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt more uncomfortable.

This was the tenth day on horseback; travelling 30 to 35 miles each day. They broke camp every morning at dawn, made a halt around midday and then continued their journey until the sun touched the western horizon.

It wasn’t only the physical strain - which should really not have come as a big surprise; for although she had been a fairly good rider as a child, she hadn’t been in the saddle for nearly seven years – it was also the inconveniences any travel had the misfortune to involve. A tent was a tent and a cot was a cot and neither were good substitutes for a warm and quiet room and a comfortable bed. As tired as she was every evening, she simply couldn’t find a deep restful sleep.

That was not an unknown phenomenon to her. The more exhausted she was, the harder she found rest. She had discovered that a year ago, after the great battles. She, and all the other healers, had worked themselves into a stupor whilst trying desperately to care for all those wounded brought to the Houses of Healing.

But then at least her muscles hadn’t hurt so badly. Her bottom and the inside of her legs hadn’t felt as if they had been worked on with some coarse-grained sandpaper. And never had her legs felt so . . . bendy. Every time she dismounted she had the impression that it took her legs longer to straighten and she feared, one day, they would just stay sickle-shaped.

She was on her way to Edoras. Not on her own, of course. Besides an honour guard of 25 Swan Knights and a swarm of servants she hadn’t taken the trouble to count, she was accompanied by her father and all three of her brothers. Also, King Elessar had bestowed an exceptional honour upon her – probably rather upon her father and Éomer - by having joined the wedding procession – together with 50 knights of the Royal Gondorian Guard.

Yet her father had announced that the wedding would be a subdued affair, due to the fact that Rohan was far from having recovered from the after-effects of the war. The Rohirrim still depended greatly on the food aid from Gondor. Last year’s planting had been more or less entirely destroyed by Isengard and it would be later this year before the new crops were ready to harvest.

This restraint was just fine with Lothíriel. The last months had been bad enough. Her life had begun to change the moment her betrothal to the King of Rohan had been made public knowledge. The morning after the official announcement the Warden had sought her out instead of summoning her, as he would have done with any of the other healers. He had explained that it would be an awkward situation for her fellow healers to work side by side with the betrothed of a king. The difference in rank could no longer be ignored and, as there wasn’t that much work at present, it would be for the best if she left the Houses of Healing without any delay.

Although she had assumed that she would have to give up her work as a healer at some point, being unceremoniously booted out had come as a shock. From one moment to the other the central purpose of her life, as she had known it for over four years, had been taken away from her. She had sat in her chamber at the citadel, her mind numb. Unable to think about what to do next. Since she had been with the healers, her hours had been filled with study and work – and suddenly there was only emptiness. The first reaction she had felt, had been resentment; resentment against her father as well as against Éomer, whose doings had pushed her into this gaping void. For the first time in her life she had stayed passive and had waited for somebody to tell her what to do next.

She had spent the better part of two days starring out of the window, westwards across the Pelennor towards the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay her new life. A new life that had not yet started even though her old life had already come to a halt. Her common sense had been overwhelmed by the irrational, but nonetheless overpowering wish, that something . . . anything would happen, so that her life would be what it had been before.

But somewhere in her darkened mind there was a tiny little flame. It was more than just hope, more than just belief. There was the conviction that something special was waiting for her, something more than she had had before. She only needed to hold out and get through the next few months.

Presumably she would have sat spiritlessly on her window seat for quite some time longer had not Arwen summoned her and forced her out of her languor. Gondor’s elf queen had very rigid ideas how Lothíriel should occupy her time. She had been supposed to learn how to become a queen: more precisely, to become the Queen of the Riddermark. To her shame she had had to admit that she had been so occupied by the events, which had come thick and fast, and her somersaulting emotions about them, that she had somehow closed her eyes to the fact that she would not simply become a wife but the wife of a king. She was expected to fulfil her obligations from the very first day.

At first she had accompanied Arwen on her daily routine, which – to Lothíriel’s surprise - had not just consisted of amusement and idle ways of passing the time. The Queen of Gondor kept herself well informed about all political events, although she was very cautious about expressing her opinions in public. It would take some time for the Gondorians to become used to the idea that they had a King again, let alone becoming comfortable, not only with having an elf as their queen, but also with a queen who had an influence on politics.

It had to be expected that the Rohirrim would react similarly to a queen from Gondor. Therefore it had been a valuable experience for Lothíriel to watch Arwen navigating the cliffs of political sensitivities. But she had been assured by the elf that domestic politics in Rohan were a less complicated affair, as the Rohirrim had the tendency to state their opinions and raise their objections about anything at any time in a rather blunt manner. Dealing with them would require less tact and a thick skin. That prospect did not bother Lothíriel at all. She had felt very comfortable in her dealings with the wounded riders from Rohan who had been in her care for several months. She couldn’t believe that their kinsmen would turn out to be that much different.

She had learnt a lot from them. They had talked about their home and described their land and their customs. She had listened to their songs and ballads sung in their guttural language. Some who had mastered Westron well enough had translated the words for her. They were of battle and honour, of heroism and sacrifice, but also of love and joy . . . and of horses, of course.

Lothíriel had decided to write down everything she remembered from the tales of the Rohirrim and then go to the Great Library to complete her knowledge. Unfortunately she found that her tried and tested approach to a subject was not much of a success in this case. There was simply not enough written down about the Rohirrim.

There had been piles of old maps. Records from the time when Cirion, Steward of Gondor, had ceded the province of Calenardhon to the Eothéod as reward for their help against the Balchoth were filed on the shelves. The wording of the Oath of Eorl could be found, together with descriptions of some political events, invasions, battles. There was also a list of all kings of the Mark up to Thengel, Éomer’s grandfather, who had lived for many years in Gondor and had wed a Gondorian noblewoman, somehow kin to the Princes of Dol Amroth.

But nowhere could she find anything written on the way of life of the Rohirrim and their customs and traditions. It would appear that those were of no significance to the Gondorians. Their interest in the Horselords was only in their capacity as a military ally. And all that had been written down had the unpleasant taste of superciliousness.

To her surprise she had found a large tome in the language of the Mark. Not that finding it had taken her any further. Neither did she understand the Rohirric tongue, nor was she able to read this particular form of Cirth. Even the archivists of the Great Library hadn’t been able to decipher the runic characters. One of them had mentioned that the mound over the grave of Théoden King’s horse bore an inscription in the language of the Mark. A few weeks later she had gone out to the Pelennor with Amrothos to have a look at it. A mound for a horse, as such, was a rather strange concept for any Gondorian.

After her failure at the Great Library Lothíriel had first felt at a loss. She had shied away from writing to Éomer. After her letter, in which she had conveyed her consent, she had received another from him – or rather a short note, brusquely acknowledging that they now had to be considered betrothed. Perhaps she should have worded her reply to his proposal in a way that was less subdued and pretentious. It seemed he hadn’t taken it very well, although he had set the original tone. Since then, he hadn’t written to her directly, and had only sent his compliments with the frequent letters to her father. She, in return, had asked him to return those greetings on her behalf, with his replies. Imrahil had refrained from inquiring about the perceptible silence between them.

After she had pondered about her possibilities for some days, not wanting to discuss her dilemma with either the Queen or any member of her family, she had finally decided to ask Lord Elfhelm for advice. Although she felt still highly embarrassed about the situation the Marshal of the Eastmark had discovered her in, she believed him to be judicious and now – as she was betrothed to the other party of that indiscretion – hopefully understanding. Messengers left regularly for Edoras, and the next to do so had taken her letter. To her great delight – and relief - she had not only received an answer from Lord Elfhelm but also from his wife, Lady Cynewyn, whom he believed better suited to correspond with her. Over the past months the lady had written to her regularly, answering many of her questions and giving her lots of advice regarding Rohirric customs, especially about what was expected from a bride.

Acting on her suggestions Lothíriel had – inter alia - acquired a new wardrobe suitable for the colder climate of the north and the different life style at Meduseld. In this matter Queen Arwen had a few ideas of her own to contribute and so Lothíriel found herself spending much too much time on a small pedestal with seamstresses pricking needles into her. One gown after the other made its way into the chests, and the chests increased day by day. She could only hope that there was plenty of space at Meduseld to store them all and, if she avoided gaining too much weight over the next decades, she should have enough gowns to wear until her dying day.

The more interesting items of clothing to be made for her were the riding habits. As a girl she had ridden astride, wearing leggings and bootees under wide skirts. Usually, when about thirteen or fourteen years, a girl approaching womanhood would change to riding side-saddle. But at that age Lothíriel had spent most of her days at her ailing mother’s side in the Houses of Healing, and when travelling they had used carriages or ships between the Harlond and Dol Amroth. She hadn’t been on horseback since before her fourteenth birthday and never been instructed how to ride side-saddle.

Queen Arwen had declared that there was absolutely no need for her to learn now as the Rohirric women all rode astride. To Lothíriel’s relief her brothers – at least Erchirion and Amrothos – and, more importantly, her father had agreed. Those side-saddles had never inspired great confidence in her. After her first riding habit had been ready – suede breeches, sturdy boots and a dress with an ankle-length split skirt, Erchirion and Amrothos had insisted of dragging her out at least every other day to ride. Both had thought it rather ludicrous that the King of the Horselords had – of all women – chosen one who preferred horses from a distance . . . from a rather far distance, to be his bride. That was not entirely true. Lothíriel thought horses to be very beautiful animals and she had really loved her pony. But these big horses had also rather big teeth and four hooves and were better not trusted.

Of course her brothers had been right. She needed to revive her riding skills, or even better, she had to improve them. And as with everything Lothíriel took into her head to do she had put her utmost effort into it. But those rides with her brothers across the Pelennor and along the Anduin could not have prepared her for entire days and day after day on horseback. For the past three mornings it had required all of her self-control not to whine but to climb into the saddle. The daily sections of their journey seemed to drag on longer and longer and she couldn’t find anything that would take her mind from her aching body. Long had the glorious landscape lost its ability to distract her.

On her left, since they had left the Drúadan Forest behind them and followed the Great West Road, were the peaks of the Ered Nimrais. They were strung together like a massive, seemingly boundless chain. Nothing but ridges, jagged peaks, ravines, steep slopes, snowfields and glaciers. Wild and untamed beauty as far as the eye could see; one of the great mountain barriers dividing Middle-Earth.

If her eyes needed a rest from this curt and savage sight she could turn to the right, which presented the view of gently rolling hills running into the green ocean of an endless plain. From that direction two riders approached in a checked gallop, slowing down to a canter when they drew nearer to the travellers. Erchirion and Amrothos found their pace much too slow and whiled away the time with short reconnaissance expeditions along their route. Now they rode up to their sister and put her between them.

Trying to avoid any unnecessary movement Lothíriel just turned her head once to her right and then to her left to acknowledge them. Erchirion looked her up and down with a pitying smile.

“How are you faring, dearest?”

“I do not know.” Lothíriel answered irritably. “I have no possibility of comparison.”

Her brothers chuckled.

“That bad?” Erchirion inquired, and of course Amrothos had to shove his oar in. “Or maybe even worse?” he asked.

“Worse!” She spat out that one word with emphasis.

“Worse than worse would be worst,” Amrothos pondered. “Can there anything be worse than worst?”

His siblings considered that a pure rhetorical musing and therefore chose to refrain from responding to it in any way.

“I am afraid we have all misjudged the strain so many days spent on horseback would inflict on you.” Erchirion’s smile had faded to a concerned frown. “It would have had been better had we accepted a longer time of travel so that you could have used a carriage.”

“It is much too late for considerations of that kind,” Amrothos interjected. “And I doubt that a journey in a carriage would have been much more comfortable.” He gestured towards the road in front of them. “The treks of wains with the provisions have done great damage over the cold months. A carriage would have just bumped from one pothole into the next.”

“And it really does not matter any more.” Lothíriel didn’t feel she had the patience for the pointless discussion that threatened to arise. “Hopefully we will have reached Aldburg by early afternoon.”

It had been agreed that they would be met by Éomer King and the Royal Guard at Aldburg, the seat of the Marshals of the Eastmark, which lay only less than a day’s journey from Edoras. From there, the Lord of the Mark would accompany his chosen bride and present her to the citizens of Rohan’s capital.

At this very moment Lothíriel had reached a state where the prospect of meeting Éomer again had taken second place, on her personal scale of important issues, behind the prospect of a long soak in a big tub filled with very hot water enriched by a cup of oil from the laurel fruit. She was just glad that she had thought to add the muscle relaxing oil and a pain-relieving thyme salve to the few remedies she had with her, although she could not have even guessed how badly she would be in need of them.

All her possessions had been sent to Edoras two weeks prior to their own departure from Minas Tirith. The dowry of the future Queen of Rohan had taken up four heavy wains. Two of them alone for the healing equipment Lothíriel had put together and paid for, with the permission of her father, of course, with a relatively small sum from her dowry money that Éomer had refused to accept.

From some remarks Queen Arwen had made she had gathered that, although there were healers in Rohan, their standard of knowledge could not be compared to those at the Houses of Healing. On her careful enquiry Lady Cynewyn had confirmed that the Rohirric healers concentrated mainly on the treatment of wounds and injuries but were rarely consulted or competent when it came to common illnesses. Also there was no central setting – not even in Edoras - to take in patients. Treatment was administered at their homes or wherever they found shelter.

That was a situation Lothíriel intended to change. The healers had to become better educated. The basic training she would be able do herself. But then there had to be several chosen from among the most promising to be sent to the Houses of Healing for a thorough education. She was certain that King Elessar would permit such a scheme; she had just to convince the Rohirric healers . . . and their king.

Of course, she could not blurt out her plans as soon as she entered Edoras. People would certainly not appreciate a foreign queen who came to them with the intention of pushing through changes from the very first day. But she carried the conviction that, in the course of some time, she would be able to make the relevant people see that it would be beneficial if the Rohirrim adopted certain skills from the Gondorians. She was also convinced that it would do the Gondorians some good if they took up a few traits from the Horselords.  But that should not be her concern. Her sole concern was, from now on, her own people, the people of Rohan.

While trying to ignore her brothers' bickering, Lothíriel failed to give her attention to her mare. The elegant chestnut suddenly decided that the ground on the right-hand side of the path looked less rough and therefore was preferable for her hooves. With no consideration to the fact that Amrothos’s horse was already walking there, she pushed her way over in front of him, bumping into the bigger gelding. Her sudden manoeuvre surprised both horse and rider, and Amrothos couldn’t prevent his red roan from startling and throwing up his head and, in the course of doing so, hitting Lothíriel hard against her shoulder. She was unable to hold back a cry. A wave of pain ran through her sore body. Erchirion urged his own gelding forward and seized her mare by the reins to bring her to a halt. Amrothos, who had his horse in hand again, reached over to support her.

“You are well, midget?” he asked, looking uncharacteristically worried.

Hearing this much despised childhood nickname, Lothíriel turned her head too quickly for the comfort of her neck, but she ignored the dull pain and glared at her brother.

“Use that word one more time and I will ram wormwood down your throat,” she threatened, truly meaning it. But her brothers just burst out laughing.

Unfortunately her cry of pain had attracted the attention of her father and King Elessar, who had been riding at the head of the procession. They came back towards them at a fast trot, Elphir behind them. Lothíriel groaned, earning herself another chuckle from Erchirion and Amrothos. She just wanted to suffer in peace and quiet. She was able to bear anything as long as she was not forced to talk about it.

Imrahil reined in his horse, scrutinizing his daughter from head to toe. “Lothíriel, we have only a short journey to manage today. If it is your wish we can take a rest.”

Lothíriel was grateful her father hadn’t asked how she was faring. She could not have guaranteed her answer. “Thank you, Father. But I would prefer it if we continued to Aldburg.” With an irritable sigh she added candidly, and rather unthinkingly, “I just want to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath.” Neither her prickly tone nor her choice of words was entirely proper in the presence of the King, but Elessar didn’t seem to take offence judging by his understanding smile. And her father and her younger brothers also didn’t respond in any way. Only Elphir couldn’t let this breach of etiquette simply go.

“Sister, your manners leave a great deal to be desired. You have to attach more importance to your speech.”

Lothíriel was highly tempted to tell him what he could do with his patronizing attitude but Amrothos was, of course, quicker with his reply. He smiled at his eldest brother, who had ridden up beside him, and laid his hand on his shoulder. “You know, Elphir. You may look like a moron and talk like a moron but we will not let that fool us. You really are a moron.”

“A truer word has hardly ever been spoken,” Erchirion confirmed in all friendliness, “or at least not since dawn.”

Amrothos gave him a glance of utter surprise. “When people agree with me, I always feel that I must be wrong,” he said, sounding slightly disappointed.

Normally, Imrahil avoided getting between the lines when his offspring plunged into a battle of words, but this time he raised his hand and gave all of them a suppressive look, demanding wordlessly, a ceasefire.

“It is your decision, Lothíriel, but please let not your stubbornness overrule your common sense.”

“Your father is right, Lady Lothíriel,” the King said gently. “The tiredness you are feeling is nothing to be embarrassed about. Most men, not used to long hours on horseback, would have demanded a day of rest long ago.”

Inwardly Lothíriel was scolding herself for not having been able to cover her discomfort better. She hadn’t wanted her companions to become aware of how exhausted she truly was. Now, that the King and her father had left the head of their party, the entire procession had come to a halt and she had the feeling everybody was looking at her and becoming aware of her misery. She was only waiting for someone to make a remark about her delicateness - that was the last thing she needed to hear right now. She was able to deal with her condition as long as she was just left alone. As a healer she was well aware that there was nothing to be alarmed about. A good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed and a few days of rest were all what her body needed.

She decided that some self-mockery would convince the others that there was nothing to be worried about

“It is not false pride, my Lord King, that lets me choose to ride on without a rest. It is rather the fear that when I get off the horse, I will not be able to mount it again.” She managed a genuine sounding chuckle.  “At least not in a remotely dignified manner.”

Her light tone appeared to persuade the men that her condition was not that serious. The King turned half around in the saddle and pointed towards the direction they were travelling.

“Do you see the foothills ahead of us? Behind them lies Aldburg.” He looked up at the sky where the sun was barely recognizable behind low clouds. At least it wasn’t raining any more as it had been for four days of their journey.

“We have made good pace this morning. Shortly after midday we will arrive at our destination for today.” Elessar gave her a pensive smile. “You certainly do have a stubborn streak, my Lady. That makes me wonder.”

He didn’t explain what made him wonder. Lothíriel watched him, slightly puzzled, as he returned together with her father to the head of the procession, gesturing to the guards to continue the journey. She could hardly call after her king and demand clarification.

She wasn’t given the time to ponder Elessar’s words. Elphir, who had unfortunately not joined his liege and his father again but stayed with his siblings, demanded her attention. When she was a child, the eldest of her brothers had showed the most patience when it came to answering her irrepressible questions. Her memory from that time recalled a reserved but warm-hearted adolescent who always found the time to tell his little sister a story. Retrospectively, she could not have said when or how their relationship had changed. But it seemed to be impossible for her to meet Elphir’s standards when it came to proper behaviour – or what he considered to be the proper behaviour for his sister.

Nobody had protested with more outrage when their father permitted her to seek an education as a healer. While Erchirion had argued that she was too young to be separated from her family, Elphir considered it simply undignified that the Princess of Dol Amroth would have to care for people of lower birth. And she had learnt from Amrothos that he had – very much to Imrahil’s surprise – tried to foil her bond with Éomer. Whatever his objections had been, her father had kept them to himself. Lothíriel, however, was afraid that her brother suffered from the same prejudice as so many of the Gondorians, who considered the Rohirrim inferior to them. She just wished Elphir had not insisted upon accompanying her to Edoras. If Éomer’s opinion about Amrothos was not overly favourable she rather did not wish to find out what he might come to think of Elphir.

Unintentionally another groan escaped her, this one having nothing to do with her physical condition, but giving her eldest brother just another reason for one of his constant grumbles.

“The preparation of this whole journey was exceedingly inefficient,” he declared.

“Thank you,” murmured Erchirion, who had been the one responsible for said preparation. His brother took no notice.

“If it was decided – for reasons I still fail to understand – that Lothíriel should not travel in a carriage then at least she should have been provided with a palfrey.”

“As she is not using a side-saddle there is not any real point in her riding an ambler.” Erchirion miraculously succeeded in keeping the annoyance that he must be feeling from his voice.

Lothíriel began to wonder how long it would take for Amrothos to interfere . . . and then the true enjoyment would begin. At this moment she wished her brothers – all three of them, although Amrothos would pretend to be deeply offended if he knew – far away. By preference on the opposite side of the Ered Nimrais.

“Well, she should not be riding astride anyway.” Elphir appeared to have every intention of dragging up an issue which had been crossed off long ago. “It is highly inappropriate for a lady of her standing. Had I known that you two were encouraging her to behave so inappropriately, I would have intervened at once.”

“Over-estimation of his abilities is a trait in a man that never ceases to amaze me,” Amrothos remarked, somewhat rhetorically.

Lothíriel caught Erchirion’s gaze, harbouring between exasperation and amusement. Trying to mediate a truce between the eldest and the youngest of Imrahil’s sons could become hazardous for one’s own health.

“There is certainly no danger that anybody will overestimate your abilities,” Elphir retorted humourlessly. “Up till today they have managed to keep themselves successfully hidden.”

“Great talents flourish in obscurity,” Amrothos reminded him with a suspiciously easy grin.

“If you have any talent at all then it is only the one of embarrassing others in front of their liege.”

“If you mean by others - you, then let me assure you, you do not need any help to make a fool of yourself. So far, you have done very well on your own.”

Elphir scowled, and looked at his younger brother in what he took for superiority. “Let me give you one piece of well meant advice . . . “

Amrothos was, of course, not interested in whatever lecture was going to follow and interrupted before he had to listen to it. “In my experience, good advice is something a man gives when he is unable to set a good example.”

Lothíriel felt like shrieking. For a short moment she had the notion to dismount, sit down on the spot and refuse to take another step. Instead she cast a pleading glance at Erchirion who took pity on her.

“Hold it,” he growled in his best authoritive voice. “I am fed up to the back teeth with both of you behaving in this infantile way. Do you believe your constant quarrelling makes Lothíriel feel any better?”

Instantly Amrothos, who was riding next to her, leaned forward and put his hand over hers. “I apologize, midg . . . sorry, dearest,” he said with a smirk, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Would it help, if we just left you on your own?”

“It would be indeed of benefit to my well-being if you and Elphir could move your arguments out of my earshot,” Lothíriel replied with a strained smile.

“Your wish is my command.” He squeezed her hand once more and then reined in his gelding. “Well, Elphir, let us take to our heels. You may try to outwit me at a distance.”

“You may remove yourself,” his eldest brother answered, sounding distinctly complacent. “There are a few instructions I have to give to Lothíriel before she meets her betrothed.”

As Amrothos was now behind them the only reaction Lothíriel could get from him was a loud snort. Erchirion shot his older brother a look that left no doubt about what he was thinking of his frame of mind.

“Elphir,” he began in a voice of forced calmness, “I would really appreciate it if you were capable of comprehending a few simple things. For example knowing when you have outstayed your welcome. You will be the healthier for it.”

“It is not within your sphere of duty to tell me what to do and what not to do,” Elphir repelled in a tone of hauteur.

“How about blackmail?” Amrothos had ridden up to him again. “I will tell Father that you are pestering Lothíriel and speaking ill of Éomer . . . once again.”

“What?” Lothíriel stared alternately at her brothers in disbelief. “What are you talking about, Amrothos?”

But her brothers paid her no attention. Amrothos gave Elphir, who looked most irritated, a very unpleasant smile. “King Elessar will certainly be quite interested to learn what the heir of Dol Amroth has to say about a man he calls his brother.”

Elphir’s face worked furiously, his jaw jerking a couple of times. “I will not be intimidated.”

“I was not considering intimidation,” Amrothos clarified. “I was thinking about embarrassing you in front of your liege.”

Elphir shot Erchirion an indignant glance, but the former just dismissively shrugged his shoulders. Snarling, the oldest of the Dol Amroth princes reined in his horse with too much force, causing the animal to rear. Giving it a violent touch of the spurs he forced the brown gelding into a gallop, leaving his siblings behind. Lothíriel was only just able to calm her startled mare.

Her brothers exchanged a look.

“Apart from those present, I really do prefer the concept of elective affinity,” Amrothos announced before he spurred his horse into a canter to close up to his father and the King. As long as he was riding in their vicinity, Elphir would be reminded of his threat.

The abrupt movements of her shying horse hadn’t helped Lothíriel’s aching muscles. She pulled a face and then turned to Erchirion.

“What is the matter with Elphir? He has always been a bit smug and pompous. But I have the feeling I do not know him any more.”

Erchirion waited a long time before responding. When he did, it was obvious he was somehow at a loss. “So do I,” he finally said. “I wish it could be so simple to just say that five years ago he chose the wrong wife, one he cannot live with in contentment. Oraineth is very competent to run a noble household and she is fulfilling all the responsibilities of the wife of a Prince of Dol Amroth, admirably, but she is not a woman who is easily gratified.” This was the first time ever Erchirion had made a judgement on his brother’s wife.

Lothíriel’s eyebrows drew together in thought. “Am I right in the assumption that she was not overly joyous when Father refused her brother’s suit and promised me to Éomer?” Erchirion opened his mouth to answer, when Lothíriel cut him off. “Is she the reason why Elphir has opposed my union with Éomer so strongly?”

Erchirion looked at her quizzically. “Amrothos has told you that?”

“Yes, he has,” his sister confirmed. “And for some reason of your own neither Father nor you felt it necessary to tell me that my oldest brother threw a tantrum when he was informed about my betrothal to the King of Rohan.”

“You know, Elphir would reject emphatically the reproach that he had ever thrown a tantrum.”

Lothíriel wouldn’t let anything distract her. “If he disapproves so vehemently of this union why has he insisted upon accompanying us to Edoras?”

“He still finds it hard to accept, but as he cannot do anything to prevent it he will at least make certain that everything will be conducted properly.”

“And he feels that the presence of Father and King Elessar will not be enough to guarantee compliance with the proprieties?” Lothíriel gave her head a little shake of non-comprehension. “What does he think could happen anyway?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Erchirion grinning and suddenly it dawned on her. “You cannot be serious,” she said much too loudly. A couple of guards, riding in front, turned to look back at them.

“That is our brother for you,” Erchirion reminded her, mockingly apologetic.

“I will be bonded to Éomer in three days and he feels until then he has to guard my . . .” She interrupted herself, unable to voice her thought.

“Your chastity?” Erchirion offered helpfully.

She averted her eyes, fighting one of those blushes, which always seemed to loom under her skin. “Amrothos is perfectly right. He is a moron!”

“That is one of Amrothos’s more complimentary expressions. According to his newest theory, Elphir is an experiment.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“He thinks Father was still experimenting when he begot Elphir . . . and the experiment went wrong.”

“Sweet Elbereth!” Only very rarely did Lothíriel let herself use profane language. “I just hope he did not mention that to others than you.”

“He came up with that theory only last night.” He chuckled a little. “But I have no doubt he will make it known to the world soon enough.”

“That means there is not the slightest prospect of some peace and quiet in the near future.”

“Not as long as Elphir and Amrothos are within the vicinity of each other.”

“I set my hope in Éomer.” Lothíriel gave a sigh in which irritation and frustration were mixed.

“It makes sense that a woman sets her hope in her coming union.” Erchirion nodded his agreement.

“I was thinking more along the line of Éomer disembowelling at least one of those two brothers of mine; my preference being Elphir.”

“Your demands on a husband are slightly unusual,” her third brother commented wryly.

“I would not know what other demands to have on my husband or what hope I should set in this union.” The moment she had spoken those words of uncertainty, she wished she had kept them inside as she had done for months now.

“Lothíriel?” The smile had faded from Erchirion’s voice.

She felt his gaze on her profile and let her mind frantically search for words to tone down what she had just let slip out.

“Lothíriel, what is wrong?”

“Nothing. Truly.”

“You are not telling the truth,” Erchirion accused her in a gentle tone.

Lothíriel caught his glance and swallowed. She felt her poise crumble slightly under his intense scrutiny.

“I am nervous. What do you expect? In three days I am going to be bonded to a man I hardly know and whom I have not seen in nine months.”

“The fact of the matter is that you knew that when you gave your consent to the betrothal. Nothing has changed. And you enumerated several reasons why it was supposed to be a sensible decision.”

This reasonable tone of her brother was really something to get annoyed with; especially because he only repeated the words her own inner voice of reason had been telling her again and again. But that did not ease those feelings of nervousness and anxiety.

“When I gave my consent I was still under the influence of my encounters with Éomer.” That had come out somehow the wrong way, she thought. “I am not trying to say that now I regret having given my consent,” she added in a rush. “But he is rather overwhelming and . . .” She let her voice trail off into silence, wondering when she had lost the ability to express herself in plain sentences.

She heard a low chuckle from Erchirion.

“I do not know Éomer King as well as our father does, but I have seen him fight. That man is a force of nature and I suppose that is how he comes across no matter in what situation.”

“I will second that any time,” Lothíriel murmured.

“If you do not regret your decision, then what is so obviously bothering you?” Erchirion tried to probe a bit deeper.

“When I gave my agreement to Father’s plan, I was following my own feelings and wishes. At that moment they seemed most important, although of course, I wondered about Éomer’s motivation and sentiments.”

“Have your wishes and feelings changed?” he inquired carefully

“No,” she hastened to clarify. “No, not at all. But suddenly . . . No, not suddenly but gradually it has become more important to know what Éomer . . . why Éomer consented to Father’s plan and why he proposed. I am going to become the wife of a man whose reason to take me as his wife I do not understand.”

“Perhaps his reasons are similar to yours,” her brother asked her to consider.

“I do not think so.” That came out with so much conviction that Erchirion blew out a long breath of surprise.

“What makes you so certain?”

“He is a man.”

Erchirion blinked, again surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“Men are different,” Lothíriel pointed out as if those three words made everything quite clear.

“And you came to this conclusion . . . why? . . . how?”

“I had a lengthy discussion with Amrothos on the subject.”

Erchirion coughed a couple of times and then cleared his throat. “Lothíriel, I do not think that a discussion with Amrothos is the right approach to get to the bottom of a dilemma.”

She pointed a finger at him. “At least he is willing to discuss anything with me.”

“Now I am truly worried.”

Lothíriel swung around too quickly in the saddle and had to stifle a small groan. “Those were Father’s words once. And I would not have thought that you too, would knock Amrothos.”

“I am not knocking him,” Erchirion appeased her. “I appreciate our brother for what he is: probably the most intelligent and gifted of Father’s male offspring. But one cannot overlook the fact that his perception of the world is slightly different from the rest of mankind.”

Without reflecting on his words Lothíriel just wanted to follow the impulse to defend her youngest brother, but Erchirion waved her silent.

“Let us forget about Amrothos for the moment. As I said before, I do not know Éomer King that well, but Father does and so does our liege. Over the past months I couldn’t help but gain the impression that Elessar is absolutely satisfied with you becoming Éomer’s wife. And as he had never made a secret out of the fact that he feels deeply about any of his friend’s concerns, I think we can infer from that, that this union suits your betrothed wholly. After all, he did propose.”

“After Father made an offer to him.”

“Lothíriel!” Erchirion allowed impatience to interlace his voice. “Soon you will face Éomer. Why not wait this short time, if possible without cudgelling your brain? And furthermore,” Erchirion bit his lower lip in a failed attempt to suppress a grin, “you will ask him.”

“Ask whom what?” she inquired, hesitantly because she suspected his reply.

“You will ask Éomer why he wishes to make you his wife.” He nodded with emphasis at the dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, you will! If you have a question, you will seek the answer. That is a law of nature.”

Lothíriel chose not to continue this discussion. Usually it was not like her to withdraw from an argument but the tiredness and exhaustion of her body had seized hold of her mind, which was working much too slowly and disorderly for her liking. She felt inferior to any potential verbal adversary at the moment.

Erchirion accepted her quietness. They rode side by side in peaceable silence. That was something Lothíriel appreciated about her middle brother. He did not feel the constant urge to speak, unlike Elphir who took any chance to lecture any in his vicinity or Amrothos who liked to keep himself occupied with his - admittedly - highly original verbal exercises.

Erchirion offered nothing but his presence. She was going to miss him. As she was going to miss Amrothos . . . and her father, of course. This would be a different kind of separation from her family than the one five years ago, when she relocated from Dol Amroth to the Houses of Healing. This one would be a finality. If she would be able to see her family as much as once a year she would count herself fortunate. That was the fate of women. It was they who had to leave everything behind and settle in with their husband and his kin. But in this case it was only Éomer. And she could not have said if that was an advantage or rather the opposite. As she was unable to predict anything about her future life.

Lost in her train of thought Lothíriel had failed to realize that they had reached the foothills King Elessar had pointed out earlier. They followed the eroded road through a sparsely wooded forest. Although the month of Viressë had been past by half the trees, showed hardly any of the first green of spring. In contrast, when they had left Minas Tirith, the woods of Anórien had stood in full foliage.

Soon they had passed through the wood and in front of them, to their left, rose a steep hill. On its top stood a fortified dwelling with walls of granite blocks and wooden palisades: Aldburg, the first seat of Eorl the Young after he and his people had been rewarded with the province of Calenardhon. Éomer’s home as a young child, and after when he was the Third Marshal of the Riddermark.

As soon as the first riders, the standard-bearers of the King of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth, emerged into the open field, they were sighted by guards in the gatehouse tower, who  announced their arrival with the sound of a horn. Lothíriel had heard a similar sound before. She had heard it in the first light of dawn when the people of Minas Tirith, after a night of fear and desperation, had already given up hope. At that moment she had not fully understood the meaning of that sound, could not have known that it meant deliverance.

Over the last half mile the Guards of Gondor and Dol Amroth, who had travelled until then in loose groups, formed themselves into a military procession. Erchirion and Lothíriel had closed up to their father and their liege and Amrothos had taken again his place on his sister’s other side, leaving an infuriated Elphir to tag along behind them.

Four horse lengths before the standard-bearer reached the gate the heavy panels were swung open, admitting the travellers inside. Lothíriel had hardly the time to admire the elaborate carvings of the gate when she found herself in the centre of a spacious inner courtyard, crowded by uncountable horses and tall blond men in mail and armour.

She had been told they would be received by the Royal Guard, but these riders did not look like a guard of honour. Even Lothíriel with her lack of experience was able to determine that those men had returned, not long ago, from an armed encounter. The horses were sweaty and dirty and so were their masters. A few of them had makeshift bandages, others were checking damaged weapons, but by and large they gave a blithe and rather excited impression. Whatever clash they had been involved in, they must have had secured victory. The calls, with which they hailed Gondor’s King, were also calls of jubilance.

“It looks as if our Rohirric friends found a way to entertain themselves whilst waiting for us,” Amrothos remarked, sounding quite envious.

Suddenly a whisper of awareness tingled through Lothíriel. She sensed his presence just before he called out.

“Aragorn!”

Lothíriel turned towards the familiar voice, a shiver going down her spine. Had she truly feared she would not recognize it just because she had not heard it for a mere nine months? 

Éomer stood on the top of the stairs leading to the hall, smiling at his friend and brother. She had never seen him wearing his full armour. He looked larger and broader than she remembered, and she asked herself how he was able to walk in all that mail, metal and leather, leave alone fight. Without a doubt the warrior, from that night long ago, was back. This time, fortunately, not wounded. At least, as far as she could tell from a distance.

And the dirt was back.

Rohan’s King was definitely in need of a bath. 

Elessar jumped off his horse and walked towards his friend who made his way down the five steps from the hall.

“Éomer, is there a particular reason why the Royal Guard appears to have just returned from battle?”

Instead of an answer Gondor’s King was given a tight bear hug, pressing him against a  hard cuirass. The embrace looked not only uncomfortable but also painful. He freed himself with a laugh and cupped the younger man’s face between his hands, pulling him closer so that there was just a hand’s width between their noses.

“You are still not listening,” he accused with pretended sternness.

“Of course I have been listening,” the Rohír answered with a wide grin, seizing his friend’s forearms. “I did not go out on my own. I took my guard.”

“Éomer, you are a hopeless case.”

“We had to find a way to occupy ourselves. I was thrown out of Meduseld. The women folk have taken over with the preparation of the festivities.”

“And I might have escorted your bride only to find she would have to patch you up.”

Éomer smile disappeared at Aragorn’s words and, detaching himself from his friend, he slowly turned toward her. He did not have to search the crowd. He had known where to look for her. Suddenly Lothíriel was under the scrutiny of a pair of dark eyes and everything around her went out of focus when their gazes locked. It was too late to brace herself for the wave of excitement that always ran through her when she just . . .  just saw him. Her stomach muscles contracted and her heartbeat quickened to a rate she would have considered, under normal circumstances, to be highly alarming.

Her pulse-rate was, right now, the least of her worries. He came toward her with the aggressive grace that was so much part of him, never taking his eyes off her. The intensity of his gaze held her captive until he was standing next to her. She could have touched him, but she was unable to move or to think of what else to do or to think of what to say.

Éomer looked up to her as if he was searching for something in her eyes. And whatever it was, he must have found it because his smile returned and the charm of that smile caught Lothíriel unexpectedly and warmed her like a blazing fire on a cold night. Suddenly she was filled with the most wonderful sense of anticipation, as if she were standing at the edge of something, about to embark on a spectacular adventure.

“My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards her. Lothíriel looked down at it. The hand of the warrior, well-formed but also strong and rough; caked with dirt and blood. Éomer must only have realised that when he followed her gaze, and he was about to pull his hand back when Lothíriel quickly grabbed it with her gloved one. She let the reins, which she held still in her other hand, fall onto her mare’s shoulders and began to pull the glove from her fingers without letting Éomer’s hand go. He watched her manoeuvre until her bare hand lay in his. His gaze returned to her face, his eyes gleaming more gold than green. Slowly he pulled her hand to his lips and she could feel them on her knuckles, firm and warm.

“Welcome to the Riddermark, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

He had spoken loud enough for all in their vicinity to hear, but his next words came in a whisper, meant only for her.

“I have been waiting for you.”

TBC

Lothíriel blinked.

He shouldn’t have said that. Not in that tone of voice, some kind of purr that vibrated all over her skin. Not with roughly two hundred men around them, including her father and her brothers. There had been an unmistakable intimacy in the low greeting, a dark and heavy warmth that she was certain everybody around them had picked up. Suddenly she was intensely aware of the others having watched the scene.

She had to say something; had to answer him. She couldn’t just sit on her horse and stare down at him whilst all eyes were on her. She prayed to the Valar that there would not be another flush of heat setting fire to her cheeks. With an effort, she forced some words out of her mouth.

“I thank you for your welcome, my Lord.”

Well, she would have liked to have said something more eloquent, but she simply did not know how to respond to those suggestive words. She was, on the other hand, utterly surprised how normal her voice sounded, how cool and composed. There was not the slightest hint of how she truly felt; how breathless and anxious and exhilarated, all at the same time.

For a moment she feared he would take her tone for a rebuff, but he still had her hand in his and there was a faint trembling in her fingertips. He must have felt it as his light grip changed just a little and his thumb smoothed over the inside of her wrist and came to rest on her pulse. He had held her before this way; in the feast hall of the Citadel. And as he had known on that evening, he certainly knew now, that she was hiding her turbulent   emotions behind her calm façade.

“Would you like to dismount, my Lady?” There was warmth and laughter in his voice.

Before Lothíriel had the chance to give him an answer, Elphir appeared next to her mare’s head and addressed Éomer in his most condescending voice, looking pointedly at his and Lothíriel’s joined hands.

“My Lord, you must excuse my sister. She is in a feeble condition. The journey has overexerted her and she must be allowed to rest without any further delay.”

Éomer gave the Prince a look of mingled irritation and incredulity. Very much to Lothíriel’s regret, however, he did not make any move to disembowel Elphir on the spot. She stared disbelievingly down at her brother, feeling angry and embarrassed in equal measure.

Either Elphir was blissfully unaware that he was on the verge of creating a scene or that was precisely what he intended to do. His stance left no doubt that he expected the King of Rohan to move aside so that he could assist his sister to dismount. But when it came to scenes in public, he could take lessons from Amrothos at any time.

“And if you try your best not to embarrass yourself, there is always an annoying sibling waiting in the wings to do it for you,” a cheerful voice announced.

Amrothos had come up to them, smiling at Lothíriel and putting his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He bowed his head to Éomer.

“Greetings, Éomer King. You have to excuse my brother. The journey had overexerted him so that his wit, which is in short supply anyway, must have abandoned him. He has forgotten his manners and addressed the Lord of this land before he had been addressed by said Lord of the land. He sometimes still makes a slip when it comes to protocol. Please do not infer our – that is your betrothed’s other two brothers - behaviour from his. We would be most upset . . .  especially me.” It was amazing, but Amrothos seemed to be able to manage this torrent of words without having to take a single breath. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder hard enough that it must hurt, whilst Elphir looked daggers at him, and began to guide him away. “Elphir dearest, I think Father wishes to have a word with you. He is over there; . . . with our liege.”

Somehow he had managed to let his last words – even though his tone was overly kind – sound like a threat, obviously one Elphir had understood. His mouth, which he had already opened to make a sharp protest, clamped shut into a firm line and he allowed his younger brother to lead him away, although his entire posture revealed his only barely suppressed impulse to throw a punch.

Éomer had studied both the retreating princes with all the enthusiasm of someone finding something dubious on the sole of his boot. He shook his head slightly as if to drive away an obscure vision, but when he looked up to Lothíriel again there was mirth gleaming in his eyes.

“Have you ever considered feeding those two hemlock?”

For a couple of heart beats Lothíriel failed to understand what he was referring to, but then she remembered her own threat against him from all those months ago and her lips twitched, the corners of her mouth struggling not to turn upwards.

“Indeed, my Lord, I have; repeatedly,” she replied in a deliberately serious voice. “But right now I feel that the quick and painless death that hemlock provides would be too good for Elphir.”

“You are a dangerous woman, my Lady.”

“I only believe that the punishment should match always the offence.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“You had better do.”

One of Éomer’s straight brows rose and a slow smile curved his lips, his eyes holding hers in a mocking challenge. But he didn’t go into that last remark of hers. She just felt his thumb lazily massaging her palm, sending goose-pimples up her arm. Although he had to be aware of the attention they were drawing, he seemed to be completely unruffled by it.

“Was your brother suggesting that you are saddle sore?” he asked in the teasing tone he had used on her before.

“Rather more stiff than sore, my Lord.” After Elphir’s indiscreet words there was not much use in trying to cover up how uncomfortable she felt.

“Then you must allow me to assist you in dismounting.”

Still holding her hand in his right one he ran his left from the mare’s withers along her crest, putting a gentle downwards pressure on her neck. Obediently the chestnut lowered her head.

“This is certainly not the proper way to dismount, but lean on my shoulder and swing your leg over her neck. I will support you.”

He had let go of her hand and grasped her waist. He was quite right. This was most certainly not the proper way to do anything in public. She had no idea where Amrothos had taken Elphir, but the latter should be quite likely close to having a fit right now. She just hoped her father would view the whole situation with his normal composure.

She laid her left hand on Éomer’s pauldron and, taking both feet out of the stirrups, swung her right leg over her mare’s lowered neck. Well, perhaps swung would have been too kind a description; dragged came much closer to the truth. She barely managed to hold a groan in her throat and without Éomer’s help she would have probably fallen backwards off the horse.

“In that, your brother was right, my Lady. You do need to rest.” The smile in his voice had been joined by concern. His gaze came to rest on her leg. The split skirt had become caught on the pommel and left him with the view of a long, slim leg clad in tight fitting deerskin breeches.

Lothíriel freed the skirt unconcernedly and let it fall down to cover her again. “Let me assure you, that I will be perfectly fine as soon as I have got off this horse,” she insisted, struggling to keep the irritability, which had been looming under her skin for days now, to surface. If people would only stop commenting of her condition.

Making no reply Éomer seized her around her waist and lifted her off her mare, setting her down very carefully and very slowly. Lothíriel realized she was holding her breath and not because she had anticipated some pain from her sore muscles. On her feet again she found herself between the horse and the man, both considerably larger than her. It felt like being caught between . . . well, between a horse and a brick wall, Éomer, in his armour, covering her entire field of vision. 

He had taken his hands from her waist and wasn’t touching her any more, but he was standing so close to her that had she had a more ample bosom, there wouldn’t have been enough space for her to breathe. She could feel the heat from his body, warming her on this chilly day. Another wave of acute awareness arced through her. She really ought to be getting used to the sensation.

Her eye level was at the height of his chin and when she raised her gaze, it came to rest on his mouth, refusing to abandon that sight; beautifully drawn, firm lips framed by a neatly trimmed beard. Her stomach flipped, when she was suddenly ambushed by a blood heating desire for a kiss. She looked up and their gazes locked once more. She knew, with a certainty that was so strong she wondered if she had developed some mind-reading powers, that he was thinking about those kisses in the treatment chamber, and that he knew that she was remembering, too.

For a moment her surroundings seemed to slide away into another dimension. Lothíriel could still see the courtyard and the adjacent buildings, the men and their horses; could hear their voices; could hear them calling out and laughing. But it was all happening in another, unimportant realm. The only thing important at that moment was the look in Éomer’s eyes. She saw him open his mouth to say something, but quite another voice brought her back down to earth with a bump.

“Will you allow a friend to greet you, Éomer King?”

Her father, and with him King Elessar, had come up to them, both looking amused and at the same time intrigued. Éomer turned towards them with a wide smile to welcome the Prince of Dol Amroth. He made a move to embrace Imrahil, but then stopped himself with a self-mocking chuckle. He gestured towards the older man who, after ten days on horseback, managed to look well groomed. His own cuirass, on the other hand, was covered with splashes of mud.

“Perhaps I’d better not.”

Imrahil just laughed and caught the young king in an embrace. “If you feel you can share the honestly earned dirt of a warrior with my liege, you can certainly share it me.”

“I have to apologize,” Éomer said, letting one of his hands rest on Imrahil’s shoulder. “It was not my intention to welcome you to Rohan in such an undignified manner. I would have wished for the Lady Lothíriel to get a better first impression of her new home.”

At his words all three men looked at her, but Lothíriel had had enough time to compose herself. Her mask had fallen back into place.

“My Lord, the first impressions I had of Rohan were in the form of your kinsmen given into my care. And I can assure you, it was a favourable one.”

Once again Éomer was looking into her eyes which such an intensity that she began to wonder if he was trying deliberately to disconcert her. She averted her eyes as a precaution to prevent another blush sweeping her cheeks. They came to a rest on the right side of his cuirass, at the height of his waist, where a dark stain caught her attention. Unthinkingly she stepped closer and stroked the tips of her bare fingers over the spot. Without being aware of the surprised glances she was receiving from the three men, she lifted her hand for them to see it.

“This is blood, and it is rather fresh and not coagulated,” she stated, her eyes already roaming over Éomer’s body to search for the injury, but all the armour and mail covered him so completely, that she couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from.

“Éomer, are you wounded?” she heard Elessar ask.

“No, I am not. It is not my blood,” he hastened to assure them. “I earlier helped to carry Éothain inside the hall. It must be his.”

Lothíriel looked up to him, not aware that the anxiety written on her face was only slowly slipping away. Éomer gave her a short, reassuring smile.

“You will get the opportunity to treat me again another time, my Lady,” he teased, but somehow Lothíriel failed to see the humour in it. The last thing she wanted to imagine was an injured and bloodied Éomer under her hands. And she was not the only one.

“Well, I hope your betrothed will never be obliged to offer proof of her skills by patching you up.” Elessar declared emphatically. “Éomer, I heard the men saying you hunted down Orcs. Why the Royal Guard? And more importantly: why you?”

Lothíriel was surprised by the sharp tone in which her liege addressed his Rohirric counterpart. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw irritability flaring up in Éomer’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she felt she must have been mistaken. He gestured towards the hall.

“Let us go inside. We are in the men’s way here and the Lady Lothíriel needs some rest.”

Whilst Imrahil gave his daughter a neatly folded handkerchief to clean the blood from her hand – only her father was able to produce such after a days-long journey - Éomer waved over a stable lad who had obviously been waiting for a sign. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve years old. He took Lothíriel’s chestnut and led her away.

The two Kings and the Prince made way for her. Having been so focused on Éomer, Lothíriel hadn’t truly realized how crowded the courtyard was. Stable lads and riders were busy leading the horses away, trying to bring some order to the chaos. On top of everything, the servants from the Gondorian party were unloading the packhorses, which carried the belongings of their lords. Had she been by herself, she might have been overlooked, run into and knocked down.

When they entered the screens passage of the great hall of Aldburg they found all three of her brothers right behind the porch in conversation with Lord Elfhelm. Although the Marshal was wearing mail, it was obvious that he had not been one of the riders who had only recently returned from combat. Seeing his King and his guest he excused himself with a nod from the three princes and turned towards them. He greeted Elessar and Imrahil respectfully before he bowed before Lothíriel.

“My Lady, it is a great joy for me to welcome my soon-to-be Queen to Aldburg.”

Hearing his warm words were a load off her mind. Considering their last unfortunate meeting she had certainly not left the best of impressions on him. She had been very much relieved when she had received his prompt answer to her letter, and her correspondence with Lady Cynewyn hadn’t given her cause to assume that he had made any comments to his wife about the situation he had caught her and Éomer in. His friendly welcome and sincere smile confirmed that he had obviously no objections to his King’s choice.

“It is a great pleasure for me to see you again, my Lord Elfhelm. And I hope that now I shall be given the opportunity to make Lady Cynewyn’s personal acquaintance.”

“I am afraid you will have to wait until you arrive in Edoras. With Lady Éowyn gone to be to wed Lord Faramir this past month, Éomer King entrusted my wife to oversee the preparations for his wedding and the festivities. But if you are agreeable I would like to introduce my eldest daughter. She will be at your disposal whilst you are staying here at Aldburg.”

He nodded towards a young woman, or rather a girl, perhaps three or four years Lothíriel’s junior. She curtseyed and whilst rising gave the Princes of Dol Amroth an open smile. She had a wealth of thick, honey-coloured hair, tamed with difficulty into a slightly unruly braid, green-blue eyes and the widest, lushest mouth Lothíriel had ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn’t beautiful by common standards but without a doubt very pleasing to the eye, especially with her smile that seemed to take up half it. She was about Lothíriel’s height and promised to blossom in all the right places.

“My Lady, this is my daughter Merewyn. If you desire to refresh yourself and rest for a while, she will show you to the chamber which has been prepared for you.”

Lothíriel returned the girl’s smile with one of her own.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Merewyn. Your mother spoke of you in her letters.”

“I am honoured, my Lady. I hope I can make your sojourn here at Aldburg comfortable. All has been prepared if you wish to retire and take some time for a rest.”

Lord Elfhelm’s daughter had a lively voice and was quite able to express herself in Westron. Her offer to take Lothíriel to a chamber where she could lie down and hopefully take a hot bath was tempting. On the other hand was her intent to hear what had caused the Royal Guard to go out on a hunt for Orcs. If she had comprehended Elessar’s words of barely concealed reproach correctly then that was not their common purpose. And if those creatures were still a potential danger for her new homeland and her adopted people then she wished to learn about it.

Turning from Lord Elfhelm and his daughter she saw the other six men watching her. Well, not Elphir; he was scowling alternately at Éomer and Amrothos. Judging from the expressions the men wore, obviously everybody expected her to retire and somehow that tipped the scale in favour of her body’s demand for rest. She didn’t feel up to a debate about what was best for her right now. Besides, Merewyn gave the impression of someone who knew what was going on around here and she should be willing to supply some information.

“You will excuse me, my Lords. I will make my farewell for the time being.”

The men murmured their approval and their greetings. Éomer came nearer and took her right hand, which was still covered by her riding glove. He blocked her with the bulk of his armour from the view of the others

“Rest,” he said in a low voice, “until the evening. Then the disarray, which has unfortunately greeted you, will be resolved. Then we can all sit down together for a feast in peace and enjoy each other’s company.”

Whilst he was speaking he had begun to remove her glove. He gave the tip of each finger a tug, and then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unashamedly suggestive, undoubtedly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do with the rest of her clothing. Lothíriel wondered when she had gained the ability to pick up such innuendos. She gasped when the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. What was he doing? They were in the company of others; of her father and the King. She tried to draw back her hand, but he didn’t let go. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a warmth that was . . . not soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Until tonight then, my Lady.”

He let go of her hand and held out the glove for her to take back. There was a smile in his eyes, which Lothíriel did not appreciate. He was taunting her. He did try to disconcert her! With an endearing smile of her own she retrieved her glove.

“Cad!” she said politely, for only him to hear and earned herself a chuckle.

Lothíriel took a step aside so that she was able to face the others in the hall. They could not have seen what had just occurred between her and Éomer but they knew that something had been going on. Unlike Amrothos, Erchirion at least tried to conceal his sly grin – well, he could have tried more. Elphir was fuming and she was surprised that there wasn’t smoke coming out of his ears. But he refrained from saying anything because her father looked as if everything was just as it should be. She caught his gaze and Imrahil smiled at her, still amused but also knowingly. Such a smile, coming from your own father, felt somehow . . . odd.

“Rest,” he repeated Éomer’s advice from just a moment ago. “We will see you later today.”

Lothíriel nodded and bade her farewell, bowing to the Kings. “My Lords.” She wouldn’t have managed a curtsey.

Merewyn gestured politely for her to follow and led her across the hall towards the dais. Lothíriel assumed that beyond that end of the hall were the private chambers of the Marshal’s family and those for high-ranking guests.

The hall was a rectangular room, about three times as long as it was wide, and also higher than it was wide. It had a large bay window on one of the long sides, overlooking the courtyard and above the screens passage, through which they had entered there was also a minstrel’s gallery. Two steps led up to the dais where the top table was situated. Behind the table an arched door led to the living quarters.

Merewyn walked ahead of her along a narrow corridor and opened a door to a chamber of modest size but with a big and very comfortable looking four-poster. A fire had been lit in the hearth and in one corner stood a bathtub, waiting to be filled. All that looked very inviting and much better than anything else had over the past ten days. Yes, she was glad she had decided to retire and not insisted upon joining the men. She sank down on a bench that was sitting at the foot end of the bed.

“Would you like me to send for hot water so you can take a bath, my Lady?” Merewyn asked.

“Oh, yes.” Lothíriel sighed. “If there was something I have longed for from the very first day of our journey, it is a bath.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” the girl answered. “I have ridden to Edoras many times with my father, and to visit relatives all over the Eastmark. But I have never gone on such a long journey as you now have behind you.”

That sounded so envious that Lothíriel had to laugh.

“Believe me, Merewyn, it is not an experience I am overly eager to repeat in the near future.”

“Of course not. You are going to be our Queen. And you must be tired. And you want your bath. I will go and give word for the water to be brought over and make sure you get your belongings. I will be back soon.”

With this flow of words she left the chamber and the door slammed shut. The Rohirrim definitely shared certain mutual characteristics.

Lothíriel leant forward and pushing her skirt aside began to unlace her boots. She was glad nobody was with her at that moment because now she could allow herself to groan to her heart’s content. Tugging the laces from the holes she wondered about Merewyn’s remark that their queen, of course, wouldn’t repeat the journey between the Mark and Gondor. How was she supposed to take that? Did the Rohirrim expect their Queen to never leave the land? Unlikely. Those words had probably no deeper meaning, and were only spoken without thinking by a young girl. And she would certainly be well advised not to take everything she heard literally. The cultural differences meant a different perception. She had a lot to learn.

She had only managed to remove one boot when Merewyn returned with several other women, all tall and blond, carrying large wooden buckets full of hot water. All greeted her respectfully, and undoubtedly curiously, by bowing their heads, before one after the other poured the water into the tub. After the last had left the tub was filled nearly to the edge with steaming water, obviously still too hot to get into immediately.

Merewyn closed the door behind the women. “The water is very hot. You have plenty of time to undress. Would you like some help? I could brush your hair.”

Lothíriel saw the girl looking at her dark braid as if it were some exotic animal. She had better get used to the fact that she would stick out amongst the Rohirrim like a donkey among horses.

“Merewyn, do you know where my father’s servants left my bags, and more importantly, have you seen a small leather chest, in which I keep certain remedies?”

Before the other could answer there was a knock at the door.

“That should be your belongings,” Merewyn explained. “I have given instructions for them to be brought here as soon as your servants have unloaded the pack-animals.”

She opened the door once more and three of the women from before came in, bringing not only her travel bags and the chest with the oils and salves but also two dresses. Lothíriel thought she remembered them being made for her during those endless sessions with the seamstresses under the guidance of Queen Arwen. Both gowns were laid across the bed. One was a simple day dress with long, narrow sleeves made from lightweight dark-blue wool; the other was made from pearl-grey velvet, with silver embroidery on the cuffs, the girdle and the high collar.

Whilst the other women left, again wordlessly, Merewyn straightened the folds of the gowns.

“The wains with your possessions arrived in Edoras five days ago. My mother sent some clothes here because she thought you would like something to wear, at least for a night, which is not crumpled after all those days stuck in the bags.”

“That was very thoughtful of Lady Cynewyn.”

Lothíriel bent forward to get eventually rid of the second boot.

“Would you like me to help you?” Merewyn offered again. Lothíriel had to smile to herself at the eagerness in the girl’s voice. Her parents had probably entrusted her to take care of their King’s bride but there was certainly a great deal of curiosity behind her zealousness. And who wouldn’t be curious about a woman from a foreign land who was about to become one’s queen?

“It would be a great help if you could unpack the bag with the stamped in pattern. There should be a clean robe inside and a riding habit, which will be in need of pressing. I would like to wear it tomorrow on our way to Edoras. Leave the other bag; it contains only worn clothes.”

Happily Elfhelm’s daughter did as she was told whilst Lothíriel removed her other boot and began to unlace her riding dress. She slipped it off, her movements stiff, and looked down at her body with a tired grin. Her current outfit was definitely one she still had to get used to. Never before in her life had she worn breeches or a thigh-long shirt. Merewyn on the other hand seemed to be used to these kinds of clothes being worn by a woman. She had taken a robe made of silk lined wool out of the bag Lothíriel had indicated to her and was trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Shall I have this pressed for you, my Lady?”

“No, that is not necessary. I will put it on as it is.”

Lothíriel hesitated, feeling quite self-conscious. She was, even after all her encounters with the seamstresses, still not comfortable undressing in front of others, and certainly not in front of somebody who had just been introduced to her. But it appeared Merewyn expected her to do just that. She held the robe so that Lothíriel could slip into it as soon as she had removed the last two items of her clothing. She sighed inwardly. Lady Cynewyn had written in one of her letters that she had – after consulting Éomer - chosen and trained a handmaiden for her. So sooner or later she had to get use to showing herself naked in the company of others.

Lothíriel’s heart lurched as a sudden image came to her mind’s eye. Soon she was supposed to show herself naked not only in front of her handmaiden.

Not really wanting to get into that train of thought, she opened the side-fastenings of her breeches, pushed them down and stepped out of them. Loosening the lacing of her shirt at the collar, she turned her back towards Merewyn and slipped it over her head and just dropped it. Quickly she put her arms into the wide sleeves of the rope, pulled it around her and tied up the belt.

“Now I shall brush your hair,” Merewyn announced cheerfully, having already picked up a brush she had retrieved from the depth of the bag.

Lothíriel tugged her braid out of the collar of the robe and couldn’t keep back an amused smile. Her hair seemed to have a considerable appeal for the girl; or rather the colour of her hair.

“If you insist upon it, you shall,” she agreed and again took her seat on the bench. Merewyn settled behind her as if it were the most natural thing to do. She untied the blue ribbon which held the plait together and with which Lothíriel had braided her hair down from her neck. Having undone it she spread the dark mass over her future Queen’s back.

“Such a beautiful colour,” she said, admiration in her voice, “and so straight and silky.”

“It is simply black,” Lothíriel pointed out. “And black is not even a real colour.”

“It is the colour of our most cherished horses; those which Mordor took away. Only very few are left.”

Well, if you were compared to a horse, then you knew for certain that you had arrived in Rohan. And you were as well to take it as a compliment if you were, on top of everything, compared to a rare breed of horse.

The mentioning of Mordor reminded Lothíriel of the clash with Orcs the Royal Guard had apparently engaged in.

“Merewyn, some of the riders have told King Elessar that Éomer King and his guard have hunted down Orcs. What happened?”

The girl had begun to brush her hair with smooth, even strokes. She knew how to do it; it had a very relaxing effect on Lothíriel. It was certainly not the first time Merewyn had cared for somebody else’s hair. She had probably very often done it before for her younger sisters. Lothíriel knew there were two from their mother’s letters.

“Since the men have moved our herds back across the Entwash onto the grazing land of the East-Emnet, there has been trouble with Orcs. After the defeat of Mordor they went into hiding in the Emyn Muil and from there they come to raid the East of the Mark.”

“But there are no settlements in the East-Emnet,” Lothíriel recalled knowledge she had gained from her conversations with the Rohirric riders.

“No, there are not.” Merewyn shook her head, a corkscrew curl that had escaped from her braid dancing on her cheek. “Those creatures are coming for the horses, but this time not to take away to Mordor. They come for meat. The foaling season is not over yet and the dams and their foals are easy prey for them. My father has too few men at his disposal. He cannot send the riders out on patrol at random. And the herdsmen suffered great losses during the battle at Mundburg.”

“I know,” Lothíriel said quietly. “The injured were in my care at the Houses of Healing.”

“Yes, we have been told that you are a healer, my Lady, and that you looked after our wounded kinsmen.” The girl didn’t sound as if she found the fact that her future queen had worked as a healer and treated those men unusual in any way.

“Your father told you that?”

“He and the herdsmen who came back with the cortège of Théoden King. Ealric and Hleogar are here in Aldburg. Oh!” Merewyn called out, her mouth a bit too close to Lothíriel’s ear. “I nearly forgot! They wish to wait upon you, if you agree.”

Lothíriel withheld her first reaction – which was to put her hand over her ear. “I would love to see them, of course. How are they?”

“My mother says much better than one would have expected, taking into consideration how badly they were injured and that they are now maimed. But they are in good spirits.” Her girlish giggle showed that there was still a lot of a child in Merewyn. “Perhaps I should not tell you this, my Lady, but both – Ealric and Hleogar – thought that it is rather peculiar that Éomer . . . ah, King,” Lothíriel did not miss this late addition of her betrothed’s title, “chose you to be his bride.”

Said bride threw a glance over her shoulder at the younger woman, who was still brushing her hair contentedly. “They thought it peculiar that their Lord chose a bride from Gondor?”

“Oh, no! They thought it . . . well, perhaps not peculiar but they were rather baffled that it was you,” Merewyn explained, putting some emphasis onto the last word.

Lothíriel looked aghast and could not avoid her mouth falling open ever so slightly. She caught herself quickly and swallowed. “And why do they think so?” she asked.

“They told us Éomer did not behave very kindly towards you.”

Now she was lost. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, trying to call to her mind what the two men could have observed that had led them to the conclusion that Éomer had been treating her unkindly. She had met him only once in their company and as far as she remembered nothing exceptional had occurred between them. – Only afterwards. And she wouldn’t put that into the category ‘unkindness’ . . . although she had no idea in what category to put it anyway.

Belatedly, she realized that Merewyn had resumed talking.

“. . . my father said that when it comes to stubbornness you can hold a candle to him any time.”

When Marshal Elfhelm had said those words, he certainly hadn’t expected his daughter to repeat them to her. Lothíriel failed to hide her smile and the girl caught on too late as to what she had just blabbed.

“Oh, I apologize. I should not have said that. But I can assure you, my Lady, my father did not mean that in a negative sense. Quite the reverse. There are not many who are a match for Éomer.”

Probably just another Rohirric compliment - being as mule-headed as their King!

Once more it struck Lothíriel that the Marshal’s daughter casually used Éomer’s name without his title. “You do know Éomer King quite well?”

“I’ve known him since I was a small child.” She indicated her then size by holding up a flat hand about hip-height above the floor. “And he was younger than I am now.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I will turn eighteen in late summer. How old are you, my Lady.”

“Twenty. I will turn twenty-one on Midsummer Day.”

“Then you are blessed,” Merewyn stated, sounding very satisfied somehow.

“I am blessed? Why and in what way?”

“There is an old saying that those born on Midsummer Day will be blessed with many children of their own.”

“How . . . nice.” Lothíriel was tempted to ask if this old saying specified a number.

“Next year at this time you may have your first child.”

Lothíriel thought it about time to change the subject and returned to her initial question about the Royal Guard’s armed encounter. How did their conversation venture from hunting Orcs to breeding babies?

“You were telling me about the Orc raids on your herds.”

“Oh, yes. Father had ordered the herds of the dams and newborn foals to be brought closer to Aldburg. He thought the Orcs wouldn’t dare to come that close to a settlement where a full éored is under arms at all times and they had to run about seventy mile over open plain back to the East Wall of Rohan. No band of Orcs can outrun an éored.”

“You said they come for the horses. Couldn’t they just steal them and ride them back to the Emyn Muil, even if they intended to slaughter them afterwards?”

“No horse of Rohan will carry such a foul creature. They slaughter them on the spot and haul the meat back themselves. Four days ago two attacks were reported; both further North and my father sent fifty riders after each of them. But then, during the night before last an even larger band of Orcs raided a herd grazing just twenty miles from here where the Snowborn flows into the Entwash. Not since the fall of Mordor have Orcs come so close to one of our settlements. The herd was guarded only by young lads. They killed two of the boys. The others arrived at Aldburg to raise the alarm only moments before Éomer and the Royal Guard appeared. They took up the chase immediately and hunted the creatures down. None of those beasts will ever lay hand on our kinsmen or our horses again.”

Whilst reporting those incidents Merewyn’s voice had become more and more passionate. She had stopped brushing Lothíriel’s hair. When the latter turned around she saw that the girl was clutching the brush so tightly that she feared it might break in those small hands. And there was nothing girlish anymore in that pretty face. Lothíriel saw a rare hate for those foul creatures, which had inflicted such suffering on her future home; and who were still causing death. Two boys had been killed. No, the war was not truly over yet. Especially not for Rohan.

Carefully Lothíriel took the brush from the girl’s fingers. Merewyn let it go without resisting.

“The Orcs are destroyed and the men have returned safely,” Merewyn said with a grim satisfaction. “They thought all riders were gone. They hadn’t expected the Royal Guard to turn up.”

“Merewyn, I saw blood on Éomer’s cuirass.”  There was obviously no point in using titles. “He said it was Éothain’s whom he helped to get inside the hall. So at least his Marshal must be wounded.”

“Indeed! That idiot!”

Lothíriel blinked in surprise. “That idiot?” she echoed. “You call a man wounded in battle an idiot?”

“Well, if it was his own fault,” the younger woman replied, not at least impressed by Lothíriel’s reproachful frown.

“Sympathy is not your strongest trait, is it?” her future Queen asked with a good dose of sarcasm.

“Those were actually Éomer’s words,” Merewyn defended herself.

“Why am I not surprised,” Lothíriel muttered more to herself. “How badly is Marshal Éothain injured?”

“Not too badly, I should think. Otherwise Éomer and my father would have shown more concern.”

“I must say I am quite relieved.”

“He just has a broken off arrowhead in his . . . bottom.” Merewyn rolled her eyes and bit her lips, obviously in an attempt not to giggle.

“In his bottom,” Lothíriel repeated, keeping her voice steady. “That is . . . hurtful. Especially for a rider, but certainly not life threatening.”

“Master Berenwald is with him. The healer.” Without prior warning Merewyn reached for Lothíriel’s hair and pulled it over her shoulder so that it fell over her right breast down to her lap. “It is so beautiful. I could help you wash it. If we wrap it in a flannel whilst you rest it will be dry by this evening.”

Lothíriel ran her fingers through her hair. To wash it and have it clean again would be wonderful. Her young companion suddenly leaped to her feet, startling her slightly, and went over to the bathtub. She put her hand into the water.

“I think the temperature is fine now. You can take your bath, my Lady.”

Lothíriel sighed in blissful anticipation and looked around for her healer’s chest, when a knock came from the door. She raised her eyebrows at Merewyn who just shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps they found another piece of your belongings,” she conjectured and walked over to open the door.

Lothíriel turned her back towards the door and drew the collar of her robe closer together. But at Merewyn’s next words she came up to her feet and executed a quick half-turn on her heels.

“Éomer?” The girl sounded surprised, and then added, “Ah, my Lord,” which earned her a grin from her King, who stretched out his hand and ruffled her hair. Without hesitating she batted at his hand.

“You cannot come in here,” she stressed. “My Lady was just about to take her bath.”

“Was she, indeed?” He stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He had shed his armour and the coat of mail and was now wearing only a brown leather tunic over a linen shirt and deerskin breeches, all – like the knee-high boots – marked from a couple of days in the saddle. He let his eyes roam over Lothíriel, taking in her loose hair, the wrinkled robe and her bare feet. Then his gaze returned to hers, golden and intense. She had to fight the urge to swallow heavily. And when had the room grown so hot?

Merewyn’s eyes wandered mischievously from one to the other. Finally she addressed Éomer in Rohirric. His gaze turned towards the Marshal’s daughter, a mixture of amusement and amazement. To Lothíriel the few words of his answer sounded somehow like a friendly threat.

Learning their language would be the first thing she would do.

“Is there a particular reason, my Lord, why you have come here?” At least she could always rely on her voice. Again she had managed to let the tone of it be cool and indifferent. To her own ears it could have been the voice of another person.

Éomer’s eyes quickly moved back to her. “I apologize for keeping you from your bath.” He pointed with his chin towards the bathtub. “As you can see we do indeed have big tubs filled with hot water in Rohan.”

“That, my Lord, I have never disputed. I have only doubted how well acquainted you were with the concept of using them regularly.”

“If you are still in doubt, you are cordially invited to get me better acquainted with that concept.”

Lothíriel had a uneasy feeling that they were on their way to dangerous – and for her still unknown -  terrain, and that Éomer was leading her there on purpose, because once there he would have all the advantages he could wish for. When had this turned into a contest?

“If it is necessary to draw your attention to the fact that you are in need of a bath then let me tell you, the moment has come: you should take one,” she pointed out, flinching inwardly because she had involuntarily imitated Elphir’s tone of hauteur.

“Is that an invitation?”

Lothíriel looked at him in non-comprehension. She knew he was teasing her but she had no idea what kind of invitation he expected. Éomer’s eyes held hers in a mocking challenge. Suddenly he lowered his gaze and when he looked up at her again, his smile had softened.

“Lothíriel, are you very tired?”

Surprised by the change of subject, she let out the first words that came to her mind. “I thought we had established that I am in need of a rest.”

“You certainly are,” he confirmed in a regretful tone. “I would not have disturbed you if it were not for the Marshal of my Guard.”

“Éothain? Merewyn told me that his injury was not thought to be serious. That he had a broken arrowhead in his bottom.”

“Indeed. That was what he told us . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“. . . the idiot?” Lothíriel completed the sentence which earned first, her a surprised glance, and then Merewyn a deep frown.

“Well, yes,” he went on. “If I wear only a cuirass I make sure that my coat of mail is buckled up thoroughly at the back so that  - for example – an arrow cannot penetrate. And if it has happened, I do not try and pull it out by myself. So yes, indeed, he is an idiot.”

“And it did not get stuck in his bottom,” Lothíriel inquired, her professional curiosity taking over.

“It got stuck about a hand width above his  . . . cleft.”

“With above his cleft you mean in his lower spine and with stuck you mean that you cannot just pull it out because it got hooked with a lumbar vertebra?”

Éomer had listened to her with a faintly amused expression. “Berenwald, the healer, put it in other words, but that sounds like what he said. He fears if he pulls the arrowhead out with force he will damage Éothain’ spine.”

“He certainly will,” Lothíriel agreed. “We have to cut it out.”

“We have to cut it out?”

“I have to cut it out.” She had not waited for Éomer’s reply but retrieved her healer’s chest from next to the bathtub and put it on the bed. She opened it and took out her oils and salves; leaving only those items in that she needed for a small operation. She congratulated herself that she had thought to pack all those instruments she might need for treating injuries that could occur on a long journey. From the bottom of the chest she pulled out a flat leather case and handed it to Merewyn.

“These are surgical instruments. Take them to the kitchen and have them boiled. Make sure the kettle is clean. And be careful, those instruments are very sharp.”

Merewyn, who had listened fascinated to their exchange, looked questionably at Éomer. He stepped aside so that she might leave the chamber.

“You better get used to doing what your Queen tells you. Make haste.”

The girl giggled and once more made a remark in her own tongue, causing Éomer to give her a not too gentle shove out of the door. Lothíriel could hear her footsteps retreating down the corridor. She took the chest from the bed and handed it to Éomer.

“Would you mind taking yourself outside, so that I can get dressed?”

He took a step backwards and she slammed the door shut in his face. She doubted that anybody would feel disturbed by the bang or would even notice it.

She braided her hair, looking longingly at the slowly cooling water in that inviting bathtub. At least she would sleep in a very comfortable looking bed tonight. Slipping off her robe she took up the day dress Lady Cynewyn had sent for her from Edoras. Not bothering to search for a chemise, she stepped into it and put her arms into the narrow sleeves. Unfortunately the dress was to be laced up at the back and as much as she tried and twisted her stiff body around, she couldn’t manage to pull the laces tight. Her sore muscles simply wouldn’t comply. Out of breath she sank down on the bed. She looked around. All she could do was change into her riding habit or she could . . .

Lothíriel looked at the door. She could ask Éomer. That certainly did not comply with the proprieties, but . . . oh, bugger. She had already seen quite a lot of him and he had felt quite a lot of her, and they were going to be wed in three days time. So what did it matter if he was going to see a bit of skin whilst lacing up her dress.

She took a deep breath. Well, she had a man to treat and shouldn’t really waste any time with over-sensitivities. She slid off the bed and went to the door, putting her hand on the bolt, and taking another breath before opening it.

“My Lord.”

Éomer was leaning against the opposite wall. He raised an eyebrow when she did not step out into the corridor.

“I need your assistance before we can go.”

“Do you need me to take something else for you?” The small chest was standing next to him on the floor.

“No, there is nothing else to be taken.” Her eyes stayed uncomfortably on the chest. “Ineedyoutolaceupmygown.”

“I beg your pardon?” He asked, obviously unable to make sense out of her muffled words. “There were times when you pronounced yourself better.”

Lothíriel cleared her throat and pointed with her fore finger over her shoulder. “My gown,” she said, now with deliberate clarity. “I cannot lace it myself.”

He looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You wish me to lace up your gown?”

“Precisely.”

Éomer pushed himself from the wall. “Out here, in the corridor?”

Lothíriel just shook her head and retreated into her chamber. Éomer followed her pushing the door shut behind them. She had stopped just inside, her back towards him, facing the bed.

“May I?”

She felt his knuckles against the small of her back, pulling at the laces, wandering slowly further upwards. She wondered if it was really necessary for his fingers to brush against her skin all the time. The seamstresses had managed to lace the dresses without doing that. On the other hand it was not an everyday task for him to lace up gowns – at least she hoped not.

Finally he arrived at her neck. She felt him tying the bow. That one of his fingers slowly slid up her neck afterwards was definitely not necessary. Quickly Lothíriel stepped around him and made to escape through the door but he just turned on his heels and reaching over her from behind kept the door closed by leaning with an outstretched arm against it.

For the second time in her life Lothíriel found herself between a hard surface and Éomer and her heart made its utmost attempt to escape from its traditional location up through her throat.

“Lothíriel.”

He just stood in front of her, not touching.

“That day, at the Houses of Healing . . .  My conduct that day was too unrestrained. I should not have done that. I had no right.”

What was he saying? That it hadn’t been right to kiss her? Or that he hadn’t had the right to kiss her? She looked up at him. His mouth curved into one of his slow smiles.

“But I am not saying that I have no inclination to do it again, as soon as I have the right.”

His hands found their way to her shoulders, sliding slowly along them. He laid his hands very carefully around her neck and used his thumbs to tip up her chin. Bending his head, he planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. He hesitated for just a heartbeat before he put his mouth on hers. Gently, this time. Persuasively. Not with that abrupt and shocking flash of heat that, before, had slapped all those sleeping urges awake; but with a slow and shimmering warmth that patiently unknotted every snag of tension inside her; loosened her until her bones felt like melting wax.

When he drew back, his hands were on her face, calloused fingers skimming over her cheekbones, then down, trailing lightly over her throat. She was half surprised her legs didn’t collapse. Without her back against the door she would have probably sunk down to the floor in a puddle.

“I have been waiting for you, Lothíriel.” He was using that voice again, that warm, low purr of a cat . . . of a very big cat. Did lions purr?

“I have been waiting for you for all these months.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth, actually to allow her neglected lungs some air, but her tongue began working on its own account.

“If you have been waiting for me, you could have had said a word in all those months.”

TBC

It was hard to say who was more surprised by that statement. Lothíriel’s eyes widened and she forgot to close her mouth as she realized that she had spoken out loud. That was not what she had intended to say. At least, not at this moment.

She looked up at Éomer who had become somewhat frozen in his posture. The tender caress of his fingers on her throat had stopped; his hands fell heavily on her shoulders.  He glanced at her in patent disbelief, blinking. It struck Lothíriel that he shared that habit with her cousin, Faramir.

“I should have had said a word?” he repeated after an extensive moment of silence. His lips twisted into an ironic expression. “That would have been difficult, considering the fact that we have spent these months roughly four hundred miles apart.”

“I did not mean literally,” Lothíriel explained. “You could have expressed your sentiments in writing.”

He pulled his hands off her shoulders and took a couple of steps backwards, putting some distance between them. There was something unsettling in his gaze. The lion had abandoned his purr and was about to bare his fangs.

“Would you have preferred it written in verse form or in prose?” His voice had sharpened.

Despite the irritation that flared in Lothíriel in response to his heavily displayed sarcasm, she couldn’t help noticing that he was quite able to distinguish the different forms of literature. Although from his tone she could detect that he did not necessarily appreciate them.

“I would have been content with plain phrasing in Westron, thank you.” He was not going to intimidate her with his sudden change of demeanour. If she had to, she would pay him back with his own coin.

“Bema,” he muttered hoarsely. He gave her a humourless smile that almost immediately vanished. “You do know how to kill a man’s mood.”

“That was not my intention,” she said in all seriousness, but a touch hesitantly.

“Then what was your intention?”

“It just slipped out somehow. I had not wished to say anything yet.” Lothíriel closed her eyes, sighing in frustration. Why was it always so difficult to concentrate in Éomer’s presence? She sounded like some dimwit, uttering incoherent thoughts. She was tired. Her body hurt. She just wanted a hot bath, wanted to feel clean again and then she wanted to go to bed and sleep until she woke up all on her own.

“Yet?”

“Yet?” Lothíriel echoed, opening her eyes and blinking with a lack of understanding.

“Yet!” Éomer confirmed, fixing her with an unwavering stare. “What did you not wish to say yet, and if not yet then when?”

Lothíriel was about to press her palm against her forehead but stopped her hand in mid-air, staring back at him, eyes wide. Contradictory thoughts raced through her head, and she found herself becoming more tense with every heartbeat. And as long as she was near Éomer, her pulse rate tended to be rather high. She hoped that that would ease off in the course of the next days. It could not be considered healthy.

What had just happened? Only a few moments ago he had kissed her tenderly, probably wooing her. She was not quite certain about that; she had never been wooed before. And now he was scrutinizing her with one of his sharp, assessing gazes as if he were preparing for a strike.

Dealing with Éomer had something of balancing blindfolded on the wall of the Bastion. One wrong step and you ended up . . . in the back yards of the potters on the third level.

Lothíriel decided to try the reasonable approach. “What I wished to express was the hope I have that we will find some time alone, so we can talk about certain things,” she said in a calm voice that gave no indication of her own mounting irritation.

“We are alone,” Éomer pointed out. “And what are those things you feel we have to talk about?”

Lothíriel raised her chin. “Has it ever occurred to you that we hardly know each other?”

“Yes.” He stretched that word as long as it was possible with one so short. “That particular detail had come to my mind once or twice.”

“And has it also come to your mind that we might do something about that particular detail?”

He raised his eyebrows. He had never heard her employ sarcasm aimed at him before, and had obviously not expected it now.

“We will be bonded in three days time. After that we have a lifetime at our disposal to become acquainted which one other.”

Lothíriel pursed her lips with annoyance. “Meaning, you feel there is no urgent need to make an appropriate effort. You are probably another of those males who think they should know only the bare necessities about a woman, like being able to identify that she belongs to the opposite gender.”

“What?” She saw surprise flash up on his face at this – admittedly - absurd accusation; and then there was anger. “My Lady, it does seem that you are more sleep deprived than I thought. Otherwise you would not utter such nonsense – or at least I sincerely hope you would not. I have every intention of learning more about you. In fact, I was just trying to do that when you found it necessary to provide me with a cold douse.”

“You were kissing me.” She felt her face grow warm.

“Yes, indeed, I was. And I had the feeling you liked it. You have always liked it.”

Éomer’s intent gaze gave her no doubt as to what he was referring. Sensing that the conversation was heading in an uncomfortable direction, she didn’t respond, but she held his gaze, her lips parting unconsciously. He took a step towards her.

“How do you know what I had wanted to say to you when you interrupted me?” His voice was low; the anger and the earlier sarcasm gone.

A frown appeared between Lothíriel’s brows, just above the bridge of her nose. Good question! What had been his last words? Taking a breath, she calmed herself with an effort and asked, “What were you going to say?”

“Why did you not want to listen?” He watched her speculatively.

“I did not realize that you wished to talk,” she stated quietly.

“What did you think I was going to do?” He had come another step closer and had put his palm once more against the door next to her head. She looked at it out of the corner of her eye. She should have moved away from the door when she had the chance. Now he had her up against the wall in more than one way. She was confused by his repeated change of demeanour. Éomer went from teasing to seduction, to anger and back to seduction, all in a blink of an eye. She had problems in following his mood swings, let alone predicting them. And being this close to him didn’t help at all.

“Cease doing this!” she said much more forcefully than she had hoped she would be able to.

In surprise his head jerked back slightly and he straightened up, but his hand stayed on the door.

“What am I doing?”

“Confusing me. On purpose!”

“I am confusing you?” Amazingly enough, his surprise sounded genuine.

“In a word? Yes!” Lothíriel forced herself not to twitch under his scrutiny.

“How?”

How? How was she supposed to answer him without revealing more about her feelings for him than she had intended to; at least not before she had a certain idea what his feelings were for her? But what he had said was quite correct. They would be bonded in three days’ time and after that they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. What if he didn’t want to give away his feelings as long as he was not certain about hers? Would they waste the beginning of their union circling around each other, observing furtively, waiting for some indication; some allusion? It was all a matter of one of them being the first to break the circle. It was matter of trust. Could she trust Éomer? She had no reason to believe she could not. She had no reason to believe he would ever hurt her intentionally.

For long moments they looked at each other, Éomer refusing to say anything before he had his answer and Lothíriel not knowing how to give him this answer and tell him what she wanted him to know. After the silence seemed to have stretched so far that it threatened to tear something apart, she made her decision. She lowered her gaze.

“When you are so close to me the only thing I can think of is . . .  that I want to be even closer to you.”

Breathless in the face of her own daring, Lothíriel looked up into his eyes and wondered what she had done.

“That is confusing,” she added in a whisper.

Éomer smiled at her. It was a slow, beguiling smile that barely reached his mouth but turned his eyes to amber. It was a smile that conjured something she could not yet imagine, but it promised that he would share it with her.

He circled the nape of her neck with his other hand. His thumb traced the line of her throat as if it were a vein of gold. Slowly, he leaned down, his lips not quite touching hers. She closed her eyes.

“Lothíriel,” he murmured, “what I wanted to tell you, what I want you to know, is that I . . .”

A loud knock at the door directly next to her ear startled Lothíriel so that her head jerked forward, her forehead colliding painfully with Éomer’s chin. He staggered backwards, rubbing it with the heel of his fist, an effusion of words coming out of his mouth, which she could only guess to be some kind of Rohirric diatribe.

Lothíriel pressed her flat palm against the part of her forehead which had been in contact with Éomer’s chin. She just hoped it would not swell up and become a lump.

Éomer’s called out to whoever was there on the other side of the door. All Lothíriel could understand was the name Merewyn.

“No, it is not Merewyn,” a much deeper voice answered in a pleasant tone, using Westron. “It is her father.”

Lothíriel groaned. Marshal Elfhelm. Again he had found them in an improper situation. Fleetingly, she was overcome by the ridiculous notion of hiding under the bed – or at least under the bed cover. Éomer, however, did not seem to be affected by such an impulse. Pulling her out of the way and against him, he flung open the door.

“What?”

The Marshal of the Eastmark met the irritable glare of his king with a mild glance of his own.

“My Lord.” He smiled at Lothíriel. “My Lady. My sincerest apology for the intrusion.” He turned again to Éomer, generously overlooking the fact that his liege had his arm quite tightly wrapped around his betrothed, so that her back was pressed against his front. “You were gone for some time, my Lord, and I was wondering . . .”

“. . . if we were in need of a chaperon?” Éomer interrupted him, ignoring Lothíriel who was trying to discreetly free herself from his arm.

“No,” his Marshal replied affably. “I was wondering if you had realized before you left to fetch the Lady Lothíriel, that Éothain was not overly enthusiastic about your decision to consult her regarding his inconvenience?”

“Inconvenience is hardly the right description,” Lothíriel interfered, forgetting for the moment about her imprudent position. “That arrowhead could already have caused a splintering off of a vertebra and an improper removal of it might leave him at least with a lame leg.”

“That is what Master Berenwald told him, but he objects strongly to being treated by you, my Lady,” Elfhelm said apologetically.

“Why?” But as soon as she had asked, Lothíriel remembered that more than just one Rohirrim had proved to be rather reluctant when it came to being treated by her – at least as long as they were still able to protest. One of those, right now, had his arm around her waist, his large hand spread warmly over her midriff and he snorted at her question.

“Because common sense is not one of the Marshal of my Guard’s stronger traits,” Éomer stated matter-of-factly.

“I am afraid Éomer King is right,” Elfhelm agreed with that assessment in a rather wry tone. “Éothain has already attempted to leave once and only a direct order from King Elessar kept him in the treatment chamber.”

“He tried to leave? That idiot!” Éomer repeated his former judgement with emphasis. “He was hardly able to walk and we had to drag him from his horse into the hall. Berenwald told him that he could not do anything without risking an even more serious injury. If he refuses to be treated by Lady Lothíriel, then how is this arrowhead supposed to get out of his back?”

“As he put it: just pull it out. And when Berenwald did not comply, he decided to bid his farewell and find himself something to drink. Thank Bema; King Elessar and Prince Imrahil barred his way. He might have taken a swing had it been any other.”

“He should move as little as possible,” Lothíriel interjected. “As long as we do not know in what position the arrowhead got stuck, we have to be cautious. Damage done in that area cannot be repaired.”

Again she tugged on Éomer’s hand, with the only result being that he settled his palm even more firmly against her midriff. Although his Marshal pretended not to notice anything unusual, she had seen his gaze resting, for the bat of an eyelid, on that possessive grip and had seen the corners of his mouth twitching. At first Éomer might have pulled her against him in a reflex, but meanwhile the suspicion took shape that he kept her in this improper hold because he wished to make a point, and that this point had something to do with Elfhelm having caught them all those months ago at the Houses of Healing. Had it been anybody else outside the door he would probably had kept the required distance.

“What kind of damage can this arrow cause?" Éomer had his mouth next to her ear and she could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

Lothíriel stiffened and made her body as unaccommodating as possible. “It depends how deeply it penetrated. Whether it just got hooked peripherally or if it is lodged between two vertebrae. In that case there is the danger that, with him moving around too much, it can belatedly damage the spinal cord.”

“And damage to the spinal cord means?”

“He could lose the power of movement in his legs. Two of the herdsmen you brought back with you from Minas Tirith had similar injuries.”

The men looked at each other.

“You have to try to bring him to his senses, Éomer.” Elfhelm paused before he went on. “I have known Éothain as long as I have known you. I am aware that he not the most reasonable man, but at the moment he is not thinking clearly. He must be in severe pain to behave that stupidly.”

“Even for him,” Éomer muttered. With obvious reluctance he let Lothíriel go from his embrace. “I better go ahead before the cork-brain hurts somebody else beside himself. Elfhelm, accompany Lady Lothíriel.” He was already out of the bedchamber when he called back. “And take the chest that is sitting in the corridor.”  She heard the arched door to the hall open and then slam shut.

The Marshal looked around and located the healer’s chest. He picked it up and turned towards Lothíriel.

“Is there anything else to be taken, my Lady?”

Lothíriel looked uncomfortably away from his shrewd eyes. “No, we can go immediately.”

His gaze went down to her feet and when she followed his line of vision she found that she was still barefooted. She sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. Some entity had decided to constantly embarrass her before Lord Elfhelm. She dug through her garment bag and produced a pair of simple ankle laced slippers. Putting them on quickly she stepped out of her chamber, pulling the door shut. She headed down the corridor towards the hall, Elfhelm just a step behind her. She could feel him watching her.

“Do not be uneasy, my Lady,” he said in a friendly tone when they reached the arched door. “There is nothing wrong with a man wooing his betrothed, especially after they have not seen each other for so long.”

“Even if he woos her in her bedchamber?” She looked up at him.

“Perhaps not the most recommended location,” he made no attempt to hide his amusement, “but as you are going to be bonded in only three days’ time, there is really no point in being overly particular about it.”

“But I should be particular about the impression I give to my soon-to-be husband’s people.”

The Marshal shook his head reassuringly. “I can only repeat: do not be uneasy. Our kinsmen here in the Eastmark will welcome you as their Queen without hesitation. Their loyalty to their former Marshal is unshakeable. Whatever Éomer decides, they will be behind him. In their eyes he cannot do much wrong. The people of the Westmark have learnt to love him as the man who has done everything in his power to rebuild their settlements and provide for them over the winter. And they will welcome a daughter of Gondor: the country which has acknowledged their contribution to the war and ensured their survival. You are very welcome indeed, my Lady.”

He opened the door, letting her precede him into the hall. Walking behind her across the dais, he added: “Especially when our kinsmen see that their Queen has won their King’s heart.”

Lothíriel missed the first step and stumbled without her usual grace down from the dais. Quickly Elfhelm was beside her and helped her regain her footing. He smirked.

“Do not look so surprised, my Lady. If it were not so, you would not be here. Just give him the time he needs to be able to see the wood for the trees.”

Lothíriel was spared the awkwardness of an answer. From the other side of the screens passage loud voices were to be heard. Somebody was obviously engaged in a shouting contest.

“Ah, Éomer and Éothain are discussing the necessity of the treatment,” Elfhelm remarked in a deadpan voice.

Lothíriel assumed that on the other side of the screens passage was where the kitchen, the buttery and the storage chambers were located. When they entered the passage they found a group of men – Rohirric riders as well as Gondorian knights, her brothers among them – lurking in front of an open door, that led into a large room furnished with long tables and benches; obviously a kind of guardroom. The Rohirrim viewed Lothíriel with unconcealed curiosity.

From behind another door down the passage came the agitated voice of a man who had already shouted himself hoarse. Amrothos was leaning against the opposite wall, nursing a large mug of some unspecified drink.

“Lothíriel.” He grinned at his sister. “You have to ask your betrothed if he would mind me staying for a while after the wedding ceremony. I do like his land. So entertaining.”

“I do not think you should do that.” Erchirion had come up to her, a mug of his own in his hand. “After all, King Elessar attaches great importance to the good relationship between Rohan and Gondor.”

Before Lothíriel had a chance to assure Erchirion that she had not the slightest intention of approaching Éomer on Amrothos’s behalf, there was a muffled thud from behind the door and at the same time the shouting stopped.

Outside, everybody quietened and listened, but nothing else was to be heard. Finally Erchirion shrugged his shoulders.

“It seems that they have come to an agreement.”

“A rather sudden agreement,” Amrothos remarked with raised eyebrows.

The next moment the door opened and Prince Imrahil stepped out. Seeing him, the common riders and knights retreated back into the guardroom and closed the door. Imrahil smiled at his daughter, unusual mirth in his eyes.

“Lothíriel, it is good that you are here, and just in time.”

“So Marshal Éothain has come to see reason?”

“No, I am afraid he did not see reason,” her father replied dryly. “Actually, he did see a fist. Or rather he did not see the fist before it was too late.” The Prince of Dol Amroth definitely had a problem keeping a straight face. “Éomer knocked him out.”

Lothíriel stared at him in disbelief. “He punched an injured man?”

“He knocked out an injured Éothain,” Elfhelm corrected mildly.

“There is a difference?” Lothíriel asked.

“From what I have seen,” Imrahil confirmed, “definitely.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “I’d better go in there and have a look.” But she was only able to take a couple of steps in the direction of the chamber before Elphir intercepted her.

“Father, you cannot be serious. You cannot allow Lothíriel to treat a man’s nether area.”

“Nether area?” Erchirion strangled out. Amrothos, who had just taken a sip from whatever he was drinking, choked but managed to spit the liquid quite neatly back into his mug instead of down his father’s neck.

“Elphir,” Lothíriel explained with all the patience in her voice one should display towards small children and obstinate dogs. “The arrowhead got stuck in Marshal Éothain’s lower back, about a hand’s width above his cleft.” She stretched out her hand as a measurement. “And Éomer’s hand is wider than mine.”

Elphir bristled, “Lothíriel! How can you use such a word in polite company?”

His sister looked at him with a frown. “What did I say?”

“Cleft,” Amrothos supplied helpfully, having recovered from choking.

Lothíriel sighed. “Elphir,” she said once more, feeling her patience slipping. “That is what it is called.”

“Indeed,” Amrothos found it necessary to support his sister. “It is called the cleft between the buttocks.”

“Thank you, Amrothos.” Imrahil thought it obviously better to smother any potential onslaught immediately. “It is good to know that you are familiar with the basic anatomic vocabulary.” He then addressed his eldest son. “Elphir, in there is a man with a serious injury. Your sister may be able to help him. Therefore her betrothed and I have decided that she will do so. There is no further point in discussing it.” Elphir opened his mouth to protest but Imrahil waved him silent.

“My dear,” he said to Lothíriel, “perhaps you better go in there while Marshal Éothain is in a collaborative mind-set.”

“You mean as long as he is unconscious?” Lothíriel took the healer’s chest from Lord Elfhelm. “I sent Merewyn to the kitchen to sterilize my surgical instruments in boiling water.”

“I will go and see how far she has got with it.”

“Thank you, Lord Elfhelm. Let her bring me the instruments in the water. Do not let her take them out.”

The chest tucked under her arm, she opened the door from where the shouting had been coming. Stepping into the room she saw a long table in the centre on which a motionless man lay face down. His upper body was bare. Lothíriel remembered Marshal Éothain from when he had come to the Houses of Healing to see his wounded kinsmen. He was shorter than Éomer and Elfhelm but not less broad in the shoulders. He was without a doubt a man who was – when not cooperative - difficult to bring under control.

She looked at Éomer who was kneeling at the head end of the table checking his Marshal’s breathing. “You punched him,” she said accusingly.

Éomer gave a dismissive shrug and got to his feet.  “You did not want him to move around; he is not going to move around any more.”

Elessar, who stood next to a very thin, tall man whose long hair was braided back and showed more grey than blond, came over and took the chest from her.

“The proceedings may seem a bit harsh, Lady Lothíriel, but believe me at that point Éomer did the only sensible thing.” Gondor’s King grinned at her. To her amazement he appeared to share Amrothos’s understanding of entertainment. “Even under the best of circumstances Éothain is a rather stubborn man.”

“That is a very restrained observation,” Éomer commented, coming around the table. “Lothíriel, please meet Berenwald. He has been a healer here at Aldburg for many years.”

“And have had more than one opportunity to patch you up, my Lord,” the man answered in heavily accented but fluent Westron. He bowed to the Princess of Dol Amroth. “My Lady, welcome to the Riddermark.”

Lothíriel returned his greeting, bowing to a fellow healer. “I thank you, Master Berenwald.” She saw the man stop short, and direct a pair of very pale but intensely blue eyes towards her. She had got used to those direct assessing gazes. Whilst children in Gondor learnt that it was impolite to stare at somebody, the riders had told her that in Rohan only those who had something to hide would not look directly into your face.

“I spoke to our riders who had been in your care, my Lady,” the Rohirric healer addressed her politely. “I have seen their scars. You have great skills in the healing of wounds in Mundburg.”

“It is a skill which had been passed down from one healer to the other over many generations. Much knowledge has been lost over the centuries, but more has been gained. I shall be glad to share it with you.”

“I would be honoured.”

Lothíriel had the feeling that Berenwald really did mean what he said. His words were more than just polite phrasing. He was somebody willing to learn, knowing that he only stood to gain from her knowledge, a kind of attitude easily comprehensible to her.

“Shall we have a look at Marshal Éothain?” she asked.

Berenwald just nodded his agreement and turned towards the Marshal. When Lothíriel made a move to join him, she caught Éomer’s gaze. His smile barely touched his mouth, but it showed quite clearly a wealth of emotions; amusement, approval, admiration, surprise and something Lothíriel was not sure she understood correctly and which certainly did not belong here in the treatment chamber; she believed she saw desire.

Now, that was inconvenient. She was about to cut an arrowhead out of one man’s back whilst another set her senses vibrating.

Regaining her composure with some difficulty and trying to ignore Éomer’s presence, she stepped next to the table opposite to Berenwald and bent over the unconscious man to examine the wound. The arrow had penetrated his back next to the spine in an acute angle but not overly deep. The coat of mail must have absorbed most of the impact. The broken end was still visible.

“I have attempted to grip the head with tweezers and pull it out sideways,” Berenwald explained. “But it is very coarsely made and the rough edges got caught between two vertebrae.”

“Would you hand me the tweezers, please?” Lothíriel asked. Next to the Rohirric healer stood a hip-high stand on which he had laid out his instruments on a clean cloth. She could see that they were not as sophistically manufactured as the ones she had brought from Minas Tirith.

She took the tweezers from Berenwald and carefully spread the wound open to get a better look at the arrowhead. A moan came from Éothain. The pain had penetrated his faint. Lothíriel waited a moment to see if he would become conscious but he stayed motionless. Éomer’s punch had proved to be rather effective.

This was a kind of injury she had seen and treated before.

“I will make a short incision parallel to the spine. You will have to spread it open with two retractors so I can use forceps and tweezers to push the arrowhead first down to free it from the vertebrae and then pull it out sideways.”

“I do not have a knife sharp enough for such a delicate cut,” Berenwald demurred.

“I have a set of surgical instruments with me. I sent Lord Elfhelm’s daughter to have them sterilized in boiling water.”

As if that had been the cue, the door opened and the Marshal of the Eastmark himself came in carrying a large kettle from which steam rose.

“I took this from Merewyn,” he explained. “She was far too enthusiastic for my liking about watching you perform this operation.” He handed the kettle to Berenwald who began to fish out the sterilized instruments with one of his own forceps and lay them out next to his. He eyed every single one with interest.

In the meantime Lothíriel checked Éothain’s pulse. It was strong and regular. The man had the constitution of a horse and from the look of his heavily muscled back, she supposed, very likely its strength.

“I am afraid if I make the incision he will wake up,” she declared. “Considering his attitude so far I would say he might jump right off the table. We will have to strap him firmly to it to avoid him injuring himself even more,” she added pragmatically.

“And more importantly, to avoid him injuring you in his rage,” said Éomer dryly. “Do you have ropes in here, Berenwald?”

“Of course. It happens that from time to time I have to tie up a man so he cannot move when I treat him. Normally I avoid hitting them over the head.”

Éomer gave a derisive snort. “And you think you could have persuaded Éothain to cooperate whilst we strapped him to the table?”

“Éomer did not hit him over the head but punched him on the chin,” Lothíriel heard her liege point out. “Otherwise you might have had to check for a broken skull.”

“Has anybody checked if his teeth are loose?” she asked.

“His teeth are fine,” Éomer assured her.

Lothíriel decided not to inquire how her betrothed could be so certain. She turned towards Berenwald whilst Éomer and Elfhelm tied their friend to the table.

“We will be in need of a branding iron to stop the bleeding and close the wound after we have pulled out the arrowhead.”

The healer gestured towards the hearth behind him. There she could see an iron already red-hot in the flames. She nodded approvingly and looked around for her chest. Elessar had seen her wandering gaze and retrieved the small leather chest from a sideboard behind him. He passed it to her.

“Thank you, my Lord.” She took it and placed it on the table next to the now bound feet of the Marshal of the Royal Guard. She felt to be under the scrutiny of her liege. The clear grey eyes, the same colour as her own, which could glance so warmly at you, seemed now trying to pierce into her mind. Uneasy, she looked up and met his sharp gaze.

“My Lord?”

“You do like this work, do you not?”

“Of course, I do,” she replied surprised. “Otherwise I would not have asked my father for his permission to let me seek an education from the healers.”

“And there is not much you have not seen in the aftermath of the battle on the Pelennor.”

“When it comes to the suffering of men, no, my Lord, I do not think there is much I have been spared witnessing.”

“You are a woman of great strength, Lady Lothíriel. You are much stronger than one would guess at a first glance.”

“You mean especially after one has seen me on horseback?”

Gondor’s king chuckled and the lines which wind and sun had engraved around his eyes wrinkled when he smiled at her.

“Yes, indeed,” he mused. “I believe there is a good chance that most of the time you will be the last one standing.”

Lothíriel had already opened her mouth to ask what he meant when a low, warm voice directly next to her ear cut her off.

“No, you do not need to understand that. At least, not now.”

Éomer had come up to her and she could feel his body heat warming her back. She turned around, determined not to get flustered again by his closeness.

“And who is going to decide when the time has come for me to understand? You?”

“Yes,” he replied with a totally natural arrogance.

Lothíriel smiled her cool, serene smile. “Right now I have a patient to treat and no time for a dispute. But be assured, my Lord, we do not agree on this matter.”

“I do not expect you to agree with me,” he retorted, his green-gold eyes gently amused, and then added, tilting his head, “immediately.”

She contemplated him for a moment. “As I said: I do not have the time and we are not going to agree.”

She turned her back on him. She knew he was watching her with his unsettling smile. The hair on the back of her neck stirred in a primeval reaction. She forced her mind back to the important matter on hand and opened the chest to take out a flask.

“Master Berenwald, this is a liquid to support the healing and prevent the wound from infection. It is made of a strong spirit of wine, olive oil and rose oil. It has to be applied to the wound regularly for ten days.”

“I will do that if I can manage to keep him here for ten days.”

Lothíriel took a phial from her chest. “This is a potion made from the seeds of poppies. Give him fifteen drops in a cup of water twice a day for the first three days and he will sleep a lot and will not feel the pain too much.”

Berenwald accepted the oil and the potion. He pulled the stopper from the flask and sniffed at the oil. “Rose and olive oils are something we do not have in Rohan.”

“But in their combination they do work wonders with wounds and we can have them sent from Gondor.” She feared they would start arguing about the price of such rare remedies and therefore went on in a hurry. “Do you use yarrow?”

“Yes, we do,” Berenwald confirmed. “We let men with fresh wounds drink as much yarrow tea as possible as a preventive measure against infection.”

After the Rohirric healer had put the remedies Lothíriel had given him aside they prepared for the operation, washing their hands first in the hot water from the kettle and then rubbing them over with a strong spirit.

As Lothíriel had suspected Éothain did become conscious as soon as she made the incision. His cry, a mixture of agony and rage, was loud enough to frighten the more sensitive horses in the stables and somewhere in the dwelling several dogs gave a bark. The rider struggled against the ropes, the muscles of his back bulging. The table skittered over the stone floor. Elfhelm squatted next to his head and began to talk to him in a calming voice. It didn’t take much imagination to identify the outbursts coming from Éothain, only interrupted by cries of pain, as curses and insults probably directed towards all present.

Berenwald took a piece of leather, rolled it up and handed it to Éomer. “Here, my Lord, stuff this between his teeth. That will kill two birds with one stone. He will no longer be able to swear and he can bite on it when it gets really painful.”

Éomer did as he was told. He held the leather roll in front of Éothain’s face and gave apparently some kind of order in Rohirric, which induced the Marshal of his guard to take the leather between his teeth with surprisingly little resistance and enticed his Gondorian friend to laugh out loud.

“Éomer, nobody will ever accuse you of being a sweet-talker.”

“I really will have to learn this language as quickly as possible,” Lothíriel murmured, taking the retractors from Berenwald.

“I am just glad you do not speak it yet,” Éomer said, grinning. “And I do hope your vocabulary will always stay limited in certain areas.”

Lothíriel did not reply but concentrated on placing the retractors in position. When she put the double hooks into the incision and spread the tissue, her patient moaned loudly around the leather roll and immediately sweat broke out all over his body.

“Master Berenwald, please hold the retractors in this position.”

The arrowhead was now fully visible. Whilst the Rohirric healer took over the task of keeping the incision apart, Lothíriel quickly grabbed the forceps and tweezers. With the latter she push the arrowhead carefully down, feeling in her fingertips when it became unhooked from the vertebra and she used the stronger forceps to pull it out sideways in a slow motion. As she had been taught, she ignored the muffled cries of pain coming from the man under her hands.

When she had it cleared from the wound she held up the arrowhead to Berenwald for inspection. “It does not look as if it is damaged. I do not think anything remains in the wound.”

“Neither do I,” Berenwald confirmed. “And it does not look as if there is any bone damage either. I think the idiot was fortunate indeed.” He carefully removed the retractors and pressed a thick bundle of clean linen onto the bleeding wound.

Lothíriel looked at him baffled, taken aback by his last remark.

The healer just shrugged his shoulders. “I have known him since he was at his mother’s breast.” He changed the compress. “Now we come to the more unpleasant part. We have to burn out the wound.”

Éothain made a muffled noise. Berenwald patted his thigh. “Now, I know that it will hurt a bit. But you also know it is necessary.” He looked at Lothíriel. “Would you like me to do it, my Lady?”

“Yes, please,” she agreed. It was not a task she particularly liked. “I am certain you have burned out many more wounds than I have.” She went over to a basin of warm water that sat next to the hearth and began to wash the blood off her hands. She heard Éomer saying a few sentences in Rohirric. When she had dried her hands she watched Berenwald, who had another piece of thick leather wrapped around the cool end of the iron, the old healer made a gestured towards their patient.

“I can take it from here, my Lady. I will have your instruments cleaned and returned to you in the morning.”

“No, please, keep them here at Aldburg.” For the first time she saw genuine surprise on Berenwald’s face. “I have another set.”  Actually, she had five other sets and she was glad to have found an opportunity to hand over the first one to a Rohír without having much explaining to do. “As you have seen, the operation was not very difficult and you could have done it easily yourself had you had the right instruments.”

“I am not so certain, my Lady, but I thank you for your generosity. Those instruments will be indeed of great help to me.” The thin man bowed to her and Lothíriel returned his salutation.

She looked over to where the injured man lay on the table. Sweat was glistening on his bare upper body and his muscles had cramped in pain and in anticipation of even more agony. Normally she would not leave a patient before she had made certain that he had been properly taken care of, but she had her doubts that Marshal Éothain would appreciate any sympathy from her right now.

She walked over to Éomer who was standing next to Elessar. Both men seemed to have the intention of leaving the treatment chamber together with her. And she wanted to go immediately. She did not like the smell of burnt flesh and the cries of agony men gave when the red-hot iron came in contact with their body; and when those cries abruptly ceased when they fainted. If she had to burn out a wound because it was necessary she would do it without hesitation, but she hated it nevertheless.

Éomer extended his hand towards her and she put hers in his. His fingers tightened around hers. He smiled his slow and beguiling smile. She had to talk to him. He really shouldn’t do that when they were in the company of others. Although the thought of him looking at her in that way when they were alone was even more unsettling.

“Now it is high time for you to get your badly needed and well deserved rest, my Lady.”

Behind her she heard the noise of the heavy iron being lifted from the hearth.

“Yes, please, let us go.”

Both kings must have heard the urgent tone in her voice. Elessar opened the door and Éomer ushered her out, his warm hand in the small of her back. The screens passage was deserted now but from the other side of the wall they could hear a multitude of voices. The people of Aldburg and their guests had begun to assemble in the hall for the evening’s feast.

Elessar had barely managed to close the door behind them when they heard the awful and then abruptly ended cry Éothain made from inside the chamber. Berenwald had pressed the hot iron into his flesh to close the blood vessels and seal the wound.

Lothíriel groaned and turned towards Éomer who pulled her without hesitation into his arms. Cradling the back of her head in his large hand, he pressed her face against the crook of his neck. She relaxed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She found it even harder to witness the pain and anguish a treatment could mean for a man when she was not involved; when she had not to concentrate on the necessary procedures.

She felt Éomer’s lips against her temple.

“Lothíriel, I know you hurt for those in your care; you hurt with them, but you cannot let yourself be touched by the pain of everyone. Éothain will be fine. He is a tough man if there ever was one.”

She leant back in his arms to look up into his face.

“I know that, but knowing about the necessity of a treatment and tying a man to a table and cutting into his flesh are two very different things.”

He held her with one arm around her and caressed her face with the fingertips of his other hand. “And I know for certain that you do not mind inflicting some pain on a man as a kind of retaliation.” His voice had changed to a teasing tone. He was trying to lighten her mood.

“Oh?” Lothíriel raised her eyebrows.

“You have already admitted that you could had been more gentle or at least could had warned me before you slapped that spirit soaked gauze on my open wound.”

“You deserved it.”

He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “What had I done?”

When she opened her mouth to reply his thumb trailed along her lower lip and instead of words only a surprised breath escaped her.

Elessar thought that this was the right moment to recall his presence to their minds. He cleared his throat. Éomer looked at him over his shoulder without releasing Lothíriel from his arms.

“What are you still doing here?”

“You are keeping a lady, who is still my subject, from – as you put it yourself – her well deserved rest.”

“True,” Éomer admitted, smiling down at her. “As much as I regret it I think it is for the best if you retire for today and get a good night’s sleep. There are still another twenty five miles on horseback to come tomorrow.”

Lothíriel groaned again and let her head fall forward, her forehead coming to rest on his chest. He smelled of leather and horse and sweat.

“You need a bath,” she murmured into his tunic.

“A recurring theme in our relationship,” Éomer chuckled. “Come, I will accompany you to your chamber.” He turned to his friend. “You will make our excuses to the assembly in the hall for the time being.”

“I will,” Elessar assured him with a laugh. “But do not neglect to turn up soon, or you may have to deal with three brothers searching for their sister.” He bowed his compliments to Lothíriel. “My Lady, I think my brother here has found a wife who will easily be able to hold her own with him.”

Whilst Éomer snorted at this assessment, Lothíriel looked at her liege with a frown. “Odd that you mention it, my Lord King. I have been told that already, earlier today.”

“Then there must be some truth in it,” the High King replied and turned to leave them.

“Aragorn,” Éomer called after him. His friend looked back at him over his shoulder. “If you see one of Lothíriel’s brothers – send him the other way.”

“And where would you like me to send Prince Imrahil?” the former ranger asked before continuing on his way to the hall to join the others who were assembling there.

“Come.” Éomer released his betrothed from his embrace and, taking her hand, pulled her in the opposite direction, to a door at the end of the screens passage. It led to a narrow, paved passageway that seemed to run along the long side of the hall. There was no ceiling above them but the outer wall had no openings. They passed a flight of stairs.

“Where do those lead?” Lothíriel asked, not even her tiredness was able to suppress her curiosity.

“To the wall walk on top of the hall.”

“And that door?”

“To the latrine.”

“Oh.”

At the end of the passageway was another door.

“Behind this is the corridor in front of your chamber,” Éomer explained, but made no move to open it for her, so Lothíriel set about pulling back the bolt, struggling a bit with the ancient metal. It gave way with a creaking sound.

“It needs some oil,” she remarked and went to pass through the door, but Éomer pulled her back into the passageway and into his arms. Gradually she was becoming used to and – admittedly – savouring the feeling of being pressed against his body. She looked up at him questioningly. It was half-dark in the passageway and with the light coming from above, his face was obscured by shadows whilst hers must have been quite clearly visible.

He cradled her chin in his palm. The silence stretching between them caused Lothíriel’s heartbeat to quicken once again.

“Do you realize how beautiful you are?” he finally murmured.

“Oh!” She blinked. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, I do think so.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“And I think I am going to kiss you again.” His hand moved slowly to the nape of her neck. “But first there is something I want you to know. What I was trying to express when I said that I have been waiting for you was, that I . . . “

“Are you going to take her to bed now?” a lazy voice asked, and Amrothos shoved himself around the corner from the inside, his most innocent look plastered over his features.

Lothíriel considered shrieking but dismissed this notion as it would, in all likelihood, only bring others to their current location, probably Elphir among them. It was bad enough that Amrothos was here, and it seemed that her brother was totally unaware that he was balancing along the edge of his grave. At least that was how she believed she would have to interpret the furious growl coming from Éomer’s throat. Not that she would have minded if he had throttled her brother. She would have given preference to Elphir being the first victim of Éomer’s wrath but she did not want to appear fussy.

“You were missed,” Amrothos informed them pleasantly, tilting his head as he looked at Éomer’s arm, which was still around his sister’s waist. “When King Elessar came to the hall . . . on his own.”

“If you were in the hall when your king made his entrance, what are you doing here now?” Éomer’s voice was so overly friendly that it had to be regarded, by anybody who knew him well enough, as a sign of acute danger. Amrothos appeared happily unimpressed.

“I thought you might have taken this shortcut.”

“How did you know about this passageway?”

“Merewyn told me.”

“Merewyn?” Éomer lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Such a lively and intelligent girl.”

“You do have a particular liking for danger, do you not?”

“Danger? Why should I be in danger? I have not done anything wrong . . . in days!”

From long years of experience Lothíriel knew that Amrothos was just warming up. No matter if Éomer decided to engage in a battle of words or shorten this encounter by inflicting some bodily harm on her brother, it would at any rate keep her from her bed for the foreseeable future. And as much as she had wanted to learn what Éomer had been trying to tell her – several times – right now she felt neither able to take in some deep-minded revelations – if that was what Éomer had attempted at all - nor some of Amrothos mind-boggling games.

“I am going to bed,” she announced, freeing herself from Éomer’s arm and stepping quickly around Amrothos into the corridor. Not caring for the surprised glances of the two men she tried to remember which door led into her chamber. She opened one, had a look and found to her relief that her bags were sitting on the bench at the end of the bed. She turned towards her betrothed and her brother.

“I am going to bed now,” she repeated. “And I do not want to be disturbed before the morning, not even if Sauron should decide to return tonight.” She frowned. “I would not be able to do anything anyway.”

Retreating into the bedchamber she slammed the door shut forcefully.

It was good to be in Rohan.

TBC

Lothíriel woke slowly, consciousness returning as each layer of sleep peeled away. She winced when the first stirring reminded her of her sore muscles. She could not have said what had awoken her. Perhaps it was some noise or perhaps the brightness of her chamber. She had not bothered to close the drapes in front of the high set window and its bulls-eye panes gave the light a diffused quality which made it difficult to guess the time of the day. Or perhaps her body just had been satisfied with the rest it had been given.

Apparently Éomer and Amrothos had passed on her request. Nobody had come to check on her or had disturbed her in any way. At least not to her knowledge. But then she had been dead to the world from only moments after she had closed the door behind her. She had kicked off her shoes, had, after some uncomfortable contortions, managed to pull open the laces of her gown and then just dropped it where she stood. Without caring about finding a chemise she had slipped under the bedcovers and had fallen asleep as soon as her head had touched the pillow.

Lothíriel stretched underneath the covers, arching her back. The sore muscles still protested, but a more pleasant feeling gained the upper hand over the stiffness. Never before had she slept without wearing a nighttime garment. Doing without it gave her an odd sensation of freedom of movement and the soft, smooth linen sliding over her bare skin had a somewhat sensual feel.

She stretched again, lazily like a cat in the sun, and rolled over onto her stomach, hugging a pillow and snuggling into it. There was something . . . somebody she would rather hug and snuggle into. Pillows were not a good substitute.

To say that she liked being held by Éomer did not do justice to the way it made her feel. She could not . . . would not deny the allure the warmth and the hardness of his body held for her. Being wrapped in his arms gave her an indescribable sense of well-being. And that with all their clothes between them. She wondered how it would feel to be just skin-to-skin.

Contentedly she rubbed her cheek against the pillow but then paused when her eyes fell on the dress she had worn yesterday. It should have been on the floor where she had left it, but it lay carefully folded on the bench at the foot of her bed. Somebody had put her bags down onto the floor to make space, not only for the day dress, but also for the grey velvet gown which she should have had worn the night before at the feast and also for the riding habit Merewyn had taken to be pressed.

She sat up, holding the quilt to her breasts. Somebody must have been in the chamber while she had been sleeping. Again she gazed up to the bull-eye panes. It was daylight outside, but was it early in the morning or already well into the day? They wouldn’t have let her sleep late? As Éomer had mentioned, they had to cover the twenty-five miles to Edoras today. And she wouldn’t be able to do that at a very fast pace.

She searched for her creased robe and found it hanging over the edge of the empty bathtub. She couldn’t remember if the tub had already been empty when she had returned to the chamber, but she thought that it probably had. She might have slept through somebody folding up her clothes but certainly not through the water being ladled out of the tub.

Lothíriel wrapped the quilt more securely around her and slid to the edge of the bed. She had just put her feet down when she heard a muted rap at the door. Before she had the chance to respond, the door opened slowly and Merewyn’s honey blond head appeared. Finding Lothíriel awake she smiled and pushed the door open with her shoulder to enter the chamber. She did not seem to care that the occupant of the chamber hastily scrambled backwards to bury her more bare parts into the pillows.

“You are awake,” she cheerfully stated the obvious.

The girl was carrying a tray in front of her. With both her hands occupied, she hooked a foot around the door and shoved it shut with a bang. She was wearing a riding outfit, less lavish but the cut similar to the ones which had been made for Lothíriel. Hers was made of deep russet wool, which complimented her natural colouring. Several of her corkscrew curls had escaped her plait and framed her heart shaped face.

“Good morning, Merewyn.” Lothíriel tugged at the quilt to make sure that it covered all of her significant parts while she was trying to sit up.

“Good morning, my Lady. I have brought you something to eat. You must be starving. You did not have anything at all last night.”

Without any forewarning she put the tray on Lothíriel’s lap, causing the quilt to slide down to an alarmingly low position. There was no chance to pull the cover up again without throwing the tray out of balance.

Holding the bedspread to her chest with one hand and stabilizing the tray with the other, Lothíriel indicated with her chin the garment lying across the bathtub.

“Merewyn, would you be so kind as to hand me my robe?”

“Oh, you must be cold.”

The girl fetched the garment and laid it down on the bed next to Lothíriel. She reached for the tray.

“I will take that again so you can slip on your robe.”

She took a few steps back to allow Lothíriel to get out of the bed. Obviously she found nothing unusual about seeing her soon-to-be queen in a state of complete nudity. That was probably due to the fact that she had grown up with two sisters. And, after having seen her interact with her king, Lothíriel had the suspicion that Merewyn lacked any excessive regard for title or station. In her, the girl saw, very likely, less the princess and future queen, but rather, another female of more or less similar age.

Lothíriel fished for her garment, holding the quilt around her and trying as discreetly as possible to put it on without revealing too much skin. She saw Merewyn contemplating her with a look of concentration in her eyes. She was not left for long wondering what was going on inside the girl’s head.

Placing the tray on the bench on top of the velvet dress, Elfhelm’s daughter continued in a chatty tone. “The riders say that you are beautiful and that they do not believe that Éomer is going to take you as his wife only because of the provisions we have received from Gondor over the winter.”

Lothíriel froze, so that the quilt slipped out of her grasp and dropped to the floor. Totally stunned for the moment she forgot to tie the belt of her robe, trying to digest what the young girl had just said. But before she had the chance to gather her thoughts, Merewyn clapped a hand over her mouth. A little too hard, to judge by the muffled “Ow!” that was to be heard. She looked at Lothíriel in a momentary embarrassment.

“I should not have said that,” she murmured in a voice smothered by her own hand. “It is only what people have been saying but my father told my mother that that is utter nonsense and Éomer has fallen for you so hard that it knocked the breath out of him and some sense into his brain.”

Merewyn had certainly a rare talent for merrily dropping one clanger after the other. Lothíriel’s mind already had difficulties grappling with the fact that the Rohirrim apparently believed her to be part of a political bargain. Now it took her a few more heartbeats to recover from the next revelation. Somebody else, in this case Marshal Elfhelm, thought that Éomer had fallen for her, and she was still not quite certain what that phrase actually meant.

She studied Merewyn’s innocent face, finally remembering to close her mouth. And there were people lamenting Amrothos’s lack of sensitivity. Here was somebody who could easily compete with him, with the distinction that her brother never ever uttered a single word accidentally, while the girl – it would seem - blurted out whatever shot through her head without a second thought.

Lothíriel gathered the folds of her robe together and, drawing a deep breath, tied the belt with a rather forceful motion.

“Merewyn,” she said, in a voice that was almost steady, “I do not think that certain comments you overhear your father making, especially to your mother, should be repeated to whomsoever by you.”

The young woman looked at her in true bafflement. “But he did not say anything unfavourable. He was delighted when he heard about your betrothal. He said . . .”

“Merewyn,” Lothíriel used the voice, which had in the past proved effective even with the more stubborn patients. And this time, too, it secured her the attention of the addressed. She continued in a more obliging tone, gesturing towards the tray. “I think I should apply myself to the food you have on offer here. I am truly hungry as I have not eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

“Oh, of course.” The girl picked up the tray. “Will you go back to your bed? I hope the tea has not cooled down too much.”

She looked expectantly at Lothíriel who had never felt the desire to take a meal in bed as it reminded her too much of those who had to be confined there because of their sickness. A bed, even the most comfortable one, was meant to be slept in. At least that was how she had regarded that particular piece of furniture until now. In the future she would certainly experience it in an additional capacity. But right now it seemed to be best to follow the line of least resistance and fall in with Merewyn’s suggestion.

She plumped up the pillows and then settled against them, accepting the tray, which was placed once again on her lap. She found a large mug with still hot mint tea and another one with buttermilk, piles of honey cake, sweet poppy-seed bread and fruit bread with a small bowl of goat butter. Even though she was unusually hungry, the amount of food on offer should have easily satisfied another two starving souls.

“I forgot to ask you yesterday what you would prefer for an early meal,” Merewyn explain apologetically. “That is . . . after you sent me to boil those instruments I did not have the chance to ask. And after you got that arrowhead out of Éothain, Éomer took you straight to bed.”

Lothíriel had put some butter on a piece of fruit bread and popped it into her mouth. She looked thoughtfully at Elfhelm’s daughter. Her – admittedly involuntary - tactlessness was quite worthy of Amrothos. That was somehow worrying. It was probably better not to investigate any of her remarks.

“Merewyn, is it already well into the morning? I am afraid I have lost my sense of time.”

“Oh, no. It is still quite early,” the girl assured her. “Éomer instructed me last night to let you be until you gave a shout. But your brother advised me earlier this morning to check on you and that it would be better to help things along a bit, or we might get stuck here for another day.”

“I have three brothers,” Lothíriel reminded her, concentrating on her food.

“Oh, the nice one.”

“Erchirion?”

“Amrothos.”

Lothíriel swallowed carefully and took a sip from her tea.

“You spent some time with Amrothos?”

“Yes, we sat together at last night’s feast.” Merewyn nodded, her untameable curls dancing around her face. “He is really very nice. He told me a lot of things.”

“Did he indeed?”

Sweet Elbereth! What was Amrothos up to? He would never dally with a girl like Merewyn, would he? Lothíriel remembered his words from last night, when he had ambushed her and Éomer in the passageway. He had learnt about it from Elfhelm’s daughter. Of course, her irrepressible brother would recognize a kindred spirit as soon as he saw one. If he had decided to keep himself entertained by stirring up some trouble he might find it useful to engage the girl in his frolics.

And if Merewyn was indeed in any way similar to Amrothos there was no point in warning her off. She would only do exactly the opposite. Better to say nothing and keep an eye on her . . . and on Amrothos.

Merewyn’s mind had already jumped to the next subject.

“Ealric and Hleogar were quite disappointed when they found you had retired last night. But they are hoping that there will be some time for them to call upon you before you leave today.”

Lothíriel looked up from her food. “At any rate, I absolutely want to see them. I had better make haste. I do not want to delay our departure to Edoras needlessly.” She was about to hand the tray over to the girl, but Merewyn gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

“No, first you shall have your bath. Éomer gave the order. He said you are very particular about bathing.” She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Your brother asked how he could know about that.”

“Amrothos asked that?” She really hoped it had been Amrothos.

“No, the grouchy one.”

“Elphir!” Lothíriel sighed. “I am not certain if it is a good idea to make this inquiry, but what did Éomer answer?”

“That you mentioned it to him once or twice. And then your brother – the grouchy one - wanted to know why you had talked about something as intimate as personal hygiene. And Éomer said it came up because you found him sadly lacking in it.”

Lothíriel stifled another sigh. It seemed that she had missed some truly interesting discussions last night. She just hoped that Éomer would appreciate that there was a certain balance in her family. Elphir and Amrothos might be hard to endure - each in his own way - but her father and Erchirion surely represented some sort of compensation. And if he should ever meet her aunt Ivriniel  . . . well, she could always blame it on their elven blood.

Merewyn interrupted her reverie.

“Shall I send for the hot water, my Lady? While the serving wenches fill the tub you can finish your meal.”

Lothíriel nodded her agreement and the girl rushed out of the room to return only moments later, the same women from the day before in tow, who, after a polite greeting, began to fill the bathtub once more. This time she got lucky. Nobody turned up to disturb her bath. Nevertheless, she kept it brief and did not allow herself to linger long in the soothing warmth of the water. And there was no time to wash her hair, but Merewyn happily took on again the task of brushing it and helping her to braid it back from her temples and fasten the tresses at the nape of her neck with a brooch. From there she let it hang loose down her back.

For the day she would arrive in Edoras Arwen had chosen a riding habit made of an elaborate fabric. It was woven of two different threads, one of a deep green, the other of a lighter blue. The material shimmered in jewellery colours; sometimes more like emeralds, then again, dependent on how it caught the light, like sapphires. It was worn over a sapphire-blue blouse of a very fine silk crêpe. The sleeves fell in many small folds down her arms and over her wrists, covering the emerald-green gloves to the knuckles. The wide sweeping skirts hid deerskin breeches, dyed in the same deep green.

Personally Lothíriel found this outfit much too loud and had asked her to consider that, in view of the fact that the Rohirrim still had to live from hand to mouth, it was almost immoral to let oneself be seen in such a lavish dress. But Arwen had argued that it would rather disappoint the citizens of Edoras if they first saw their future queen in some plain gown, perhaps even shabby after all the days of the journey.

Merewyn seemed to agree with that point of view. In her own effusive way she expressed her approval, babbling out that she had pressed the dress herself, because she had wanted it to be done right and that it was not easy to deal with the unusual fabric.

“And you look gorgeous,” she declared, walking round Lothíriel, appraising her. “Éomer’s women have always been very pretty, but you are the most beautiful so far.”

Lothíriel decided she had better not take everything the girl said literally or seriously. Perhaps she should just feel reassured that she was able to hold her own in comparison to Éomer’s past liaisons. – At least in Merewyn’s opinion.

With the help of Elfhelm’s daughter she collected the few belongings she had with her, packed them in her bags and left in the chamber those that would be collected by the servants. The girl assured her that Berenwald would take her healer’s chest to the packhorses himself, as he wished to bid her farewell anyway.

Leaving the chamber and walking along the corridor towards the hall she could hear a confusion of voices. From the riders in her care she had learnt that in Rohan the great hall of a dwelling place was a multifunctional room. It was not only used for receiving guests, it was also the room where all the household – the lord of the house, the riders and even the servants – would come together for their meals in the mornings and in the evenings. In the winter some members of the household might even bed down there for the night.

Stepping through the arched door onto the dais, she saw that the early meal had officially ended. Whoever had sat at the high table had gone and the food and dishes had already been removed. Only on the floor of the hall were there a few still seated at the long tables. Most people were moving in and out through the screens passage or had gathered in small groups, talking.

Experiencing once again those little hot and cold chills of awareness, her gaze was drawn to her left. Éomer was standing there on the main floor, clad in full armour. He had his back towards her, one of his feet resting on the upper step of the dais with his elbow propped up on his thigh. He was talking to another man, no doubt one of his riders, as he wore a knee-length coat of mail and the ornamental gorget of the Royal Guard. The latter’s eyes spotted her when she stepped out into the hall, his shift of focus causing Éomer to straighten and to turn around in a single fluid movement. Not for the first time Lothíriel wondered how he was able to move so easily and unhindered under the sheer weight of his harness. And she remembered the unfortunate remark it had – indirectly -provoked her to make during that night in the Houses of Healing; a comment about his back muscles that had revealed more of her interest in him than she had intended.

Éomer took both steps up to the dais at a time and came over to her. He reached for her hand and brushed a light kiss across her gloved knuckles.

“I hope you have rested well,” he said, his mouth curved into a faint smile, but in his eyes there was enough warmth to heat the hall.

Lothíriel didn’t get the chance to answer him. Merewyn’s mouth worked quicker.

“My Lady slept like a stone. She did not even stir when I tidied her room last night and returned her riding dress. Do you like it?” she asked, making a sweeping gesture and managing to get her hand caught in one of Lothíriel’s wide sleeves.

Éomer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Why do you not go and try to make yourself useful?”

The girl giggled, not taking the brusque discharge amiss, and left without a word, hopping down the dais and crossing the hall to where Lothíriel noticed Erchirion and Amrothos just making their entrance through the screens passage. Her youngest brother greeted the girl with a wide grin.

A frown of genuine concern appeared between Lothíriel’s brows. “I hope he knows what he is doing,” she murmured more to herself.

“I hope he does not,” Éomer replied hopefully. When he saw her questioning gaze, he added with an unsympathetic grin. “If Elfhelm runs him through I can keep my hands clean.”

Although she had, only yesterday, hoped that Éomer would subject Amrothos to some kind of corporal punishment – after all, he had proven to have a rather effective hook - she felt suddenly an unexpected loyalty to her brother surge up.

“I am very fond of my brothers,” she declared, a faint challenge in her voice.

“Of all of them?” Éomer asked in disbelief.

Now, there he got her. “Yes, I am!” But in all sincerity she could answer him only with a certain reservation. “. . . at least basically.”

The hesitation in her reply produced an even deeper smile in his eyes. He took her hand between both of his and pulled it against his cuirass.

“That you will give me an honest answer,” he said in a low voice, “no matter what the question might be, is what I love most about you.”

Lothíriel stared at him, too stunned to get a word out of her mouth. It was as if her tongue had been paralysed. Her brain too. He couldn’t really mean what he had just said. He wouldn’t declare something like that without any preliminary indication, surrounded by several dozen people. In all likelihood it was just a figure of speech and she simply didn’t understand the true meaning because of her limited experience in such matters. It was probably best to give him a non-committal smile and pass over his words.

Her bemused brain began to grope around carefully for a safer subject.

“My Lord, Merewyn mentioned earlier that Ealric and Hleogar are here at Aldburg and I would very much like to see them before we depart for Edoras.”

Éomer looked down at her, slightly taken aback and with a certain lack of understanding.

“They are two the men who were in my care in the Houses of Healing last year,” Lothíriel hastened to add.

“I know who Ealric and Hleogar are.” There was a faint note of resigned mockery in his voice. “They are right here in the hall.”

He let her hand go and turned around, gesturing towards a table in the opposite corner. Indeed, there she could see the two herdsmen who had been entrusted to her for so many months. If she had bothered to look around when she had entered the hall earlier, she would have had seen them, as she could have had seen not only her brothers – all three of them – but also her father who was standing nearby with King Elessar and Lord Elfhelm. She had simply failed to notice any of the others because her whole attention had been fixed on Éomer.

He escorted her down the dais and along the aisle between two rows of now abandoned tables. They paused for her to greet the group around her father. With some relief she found that she was able to execute her curtsey to her liege without any particular difficulties. At least the muscles of her legs had recovered overnight.

“You look well rested, my dear,” Imrahil said genially. “You should be able to cover the last stretch of our journey without any disquieting strain.”

“Do not worry, Father.” Erchirion had joined them. “I doubt Lothíriel intends to embarrass you or herself by falling off her horse in front of the Royal Guard of Rohan.” He gave her one of his lazy and amused smiles.

The men chuckled and Lothíriel felt unexpectedly tempted to kick this brother of hers on his shin. It would have surprised him. If she remembered correctly the last time she had done that had been about twelve years ago and it hadn’t been on purpose. Or at least she hadn’t intended to kick Erchirion but had simply missed Amrothos.

“I am glad you had a peaceful night after yesterday’s bedlam caused by Éothain’s injury, my Lady,” Lord Elfhelm addressed her in his even, friendly way. “I hope Merewyn did everything to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, my Lord Elfhelm. Your daughter has been very much at pains to make my stay here agreeable.”

Lothíriel looked around – discreetly, she hoped - but couldn’t see either Amrothos or Merewyn. Where had her bloody brother and the little chatterbox disappeared to?

“I understand we are ready to set off for Edoras?” Elessar asked, directing his inquiry politely at Lothíriel.

“If I could have a few moments more, my Lord King,” she replied. “I would like to have a word with two men who were in my care after the battle on the Pelennor. They already asked yesterday to call upon me.”

“By all means, Lady Lothíriel. Take your time.”

“I will accompany you,” Éomer announced, but Lothíriel’s mind was fixed on a different matter.

“That is not necessary,” she declined, not thinking. “Erchirion will come with me.” She grasped for her brother’s arm, but instead got hold of his surcoat as he had already turned to leave and was taken by surprise at his sister’s action. Unaffected by the odd stares she was receiving – not least from her betrothed - she dragged Erchirion behind her. Half way to the corner where the two herdsmen were sitting she came to a halt so abruptly that her brother bumped into her. 

“Is something wrong, Lothíriel?” he asked politely.

“What is Amrothos doing with Lord Elfhelm’s daughter?” she demanded. “I hope he is not up to something reprehensible.”

“I am certain he would love to be up to something reprehensible.”

“Erchirion,” Lothíriel exclaimed, not quite able to hide the laugh in her voice. “You do not make jokes about things like this.”

“Dearest,” he reassured her, “if I felt that our brother were in any danger of getting carried away, I would not have attempted to make a joke. There is nothing to worry about. Amrothos would never dally with an innocent girl like Merewyn. He treats her like his newest and favourite pet.”

“I just hope she understands that. She appears to be very taken by him.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “She has called him nice.”

“You are worried because somebody calls our brother nice?”

“No, I am worried because a young female calls Amrothos nice.”

He did not respond immediately, but contemplated her with one of his sudden shrewd gazes.

“And you think that has to be considered alarming? Perhaps based on your own experience?” He grinned at her. “Does this mean we are now on our way to Edoras because at one point you began to think about your betrothed being nice?”

“I can assure you that I have thought about an assortment of expressions to describe Éomer. Nice has never been one of them and is not very likely ever to become one of them.”

The by now, familiar, whisper of awareness that tingled through her when the just named was close, came only marginally too late.  She guessed that he must have heard her last words, not least because of Erchirion’s mocking grin.

“It is not very nice that you do not consider me worthy of being called nice.” It sounded genuinely offended.

Lothíriel briefly closed her eyes, sighing. She tilted her head, looking at Éomer over her shoulder. “I think I said this before, but somebody of your size should not be able to move so stealthily. And certainly not with all that mail and leather moving with him.”

“And my answer is still the same. You have a tendency to be oblivious to the rest of your surroundings when you concentrate on one matter.”

Erchirion raised his hand. “If you will excuse me, I think you are going to do quite well without my presence.” He bowed to Rohan’s King. “I wish you a merry argument.”

Éomer’s eyes followed the retreating form of the middle of the Dol Amroth princes. “I think that is a brother of yours I could get used to.”

“How courteous of you,” Lothíriel muttered, earning herself a smirk. His smiles were truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Shall we go and wait upon your former patients?” He gestured her to precede him.

Lothíriel decided to bite back the comment that she would be quite able to find her way around the hall without an escort. It was not as if she did not long for Éomer’s company; it was just that the feeling of being under the scrutiny of so many made her uneasy. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she couldn’t help thinking that everybody was watching them, contemplating upon the kind of relationship they would establish – or what kind of relationship they may have had back in Minas Tirith. Éomer, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be troubled by it at all. Since she had arrived the day before he appeared determined to keep her close to him – at least as close as the respective circumstances permitted. But she was still waiting for an answer to her question why he hadn’t bothered to drive forward their relationship after they had become betrothed.

Seeing their king and his betrothed approaching, the two invalid herdsmen got to their feet. To her satisfaction Lothíriel recognized that both did do so without any great difficulty. The Rohirrim had always assured her that they would recuperate much quicker as soon as they were back to the expanses of the plains, away from the confining narrowness of a city made of stone. And looking at those two men, there was no doubt that their words had come true.

“My Lady. Éomer King.”

Both men bowed their greetings, Ealric’s accompanied by a wide grin, the more guarded Hleogar barely showing a smile on his face. And it was Ealric who addressed his soon-to-be queen first.

“Welcome to the Riddermark, my Lady.”

“Greetings, Ealric. Hleogar. It is good to see you so well.”

“And we know that we have got you to thank for that, my Lady.”

Lothíriel shook her head, smiling at the men.

“When you left the Houses of Healing your health was still poor and your constitution frail. Since then you have recovered very well; here at your home, and I have not had any part in that. Has Master Berenwald carried on the treatment of the scars?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Ealric confirmed. “As you did, Berenwald sets great store by keeping the new skin supple.”

“May I?” Lothíriel gestured at the stump of his right arm. Ealric appeared to regard her professional curiosity as something entirely natural. He turned his shoulder towards her so she could roll up the loose hanging sleeve of his shirt and have a look at the stump. The skin was still thin but supple and well cared for.

“What kind of oil do you use?” she asked.

“Goat grease.”

“That works very well for scars, but perhaps you could ask Master Berenwald if he could make some oil with the essence of sweet violets. I do not know when they flower in Rohan but I suppose it will be soon.”

“So, are you still in the habit of mutilating defenceless flowers?” inquired Éomer, sounding mildly interested.

Lothíriel let the sleeve fall back over Ealric’s stump and turned to look at Éomer. She frowned, confused by that statement. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mutilating flowers,” he repeated softly. “Those you use for your salves and oils, like sweet violets, roses . . . marigolds.”

Lothíriel caught the innuendo – for a change - at once and felt the colour spreading across her cheeks. She watched another smirk appearing on Éomer’s face. It would seem he had achieved his goal. Why had he done this? Yesterday he had apologized for his behaviour on that day – not that she had ever felt an apology to be necessary – and now he was teasing her with it. The only thing worse than being teased was not being sure why one was being teased.

She wasn’t even conscious of her chin lurching up. “I am seriously considering including certain representatives of the human species into the assortment of ingredients I use for those salves and oils.”

“You may find those representatives are not as defenceless as the flowers.”

“I am a healer, my Lord. As such I can think of more than one way to make them defenceless.”

“So can I.”

Lothíriel nearly growled. She was quite certain that that was just another innuendo, unfortunately one she didn’t understand. Therefore she had to confine herself to a scowl and to turning her back on him. She resumed her conversation with the two herdsmen, who had followed their exchange with a mixture of bewilderment and relish. She was so pleased to be able to contribute to the general entertainment!

And while she learnt that Ealric had returned to his old task of assessing and choosing the young horses for training, and that Hleogar had found a new one in repairing and maintaining the saddlery of the riders, she was only too aware of Éomer standing closely behind her. It was as if she could feel his eyes physically on her neck. She was just glad her riding habit and her gloves covered her entirely, or he might have seen the goose-flesh running in wave after wave down her body.

“My Lady.” Despite her constant awareness of him, his sudden address startled her. She forced herself to turn around and look up into his face. Éomer returned her look, eyes gleaming. “I am afraid you have to take leave of your patients. It is time that we set out for Edoras or we will not arrive before dusk.” He looked her up and down with one of his assessing gazes. “The people of Edoras want to see their queen-to-be and not just catch a glance of a shadow in the dark.”

Lothíriel just nodded her assent and bid her farewell to the herdsmen. Ealric and Hleogar bowed, but when she was about to leave the former addressed her once again.

“You know, my Lady, I have been wondering why you are willing to be his wife?”

Thrown off by this unexpected question which any Gondorian would have considered as extremely impertinent not only for its tenor but also for the way it had been put forward, Lothíriel stared aghast first at Ealric and then at Éomer.

Rohan’s King didn’t even bat an eyelid, although the inquiry was just short of an insult towards him. He raised one of his straight brows in deliberate thoughtfulness. “Strange that you should mention it, Ealric. I have been asking myself the same thing.”

Before Lothíriel had the chance to recover, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and pulled her behind him out of the hall. While they had been talking to the two Rohirrim everybody else had left, either to prepare for the forthcoming departure or to go about whatever their tasks might be. The porch door to the courtyard stood open and she could see that outside it was as busy as when the Gondorian company had arrived yesterday. There was nobody in the screens passage.

Lothíriel tried to free herself from Éomer’s grasp with a sudden jerk, causing him to tighten his grip reflexively. Her moan was more a protest as it was an actual expression of pain but he came to a halt and let her go immediately.

“Did I hurt you?”

Lothíriel rubbed her arm and scowled at him.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded angrily.

“What precisely am I doing?” He had this bad habit of returning her questions with one of his own.

“Again and again you are trying to throw me off balance,” she hissed. “And what is that remark you just made to Ealric supposed to mean?”

He eyed her thoughtfully and for long enough to make her blush again.

“You know, Lothíriel,” he began slowly, “you asked me a question yesterday and I had all night to think about it and I found that I have a question of my own, which I would like you to answer. Well,” he added with a shrug, “there are actually two questions.”

He came closer and leant forward slightly. There was a glint in his eyes she was not able to interpret.

“Why have you not said a word in all these months and – more importantly – why did you give your consent to my proposal?”

He raised his hand to her face and let his forefinger move along her jawbone, tracing the shape as if he intended to sculpt her features.

“Give me an honest answer,” he pressed for her reply, his voice soft and low.

Lothíriel looked up at him and when her eyes met his she found she couldn’t even blink. She tried to fight the feeling of being melted by his gaze and to force her brain to think pragmatically and logically. She was out of her league and he knew all the tricks. Amrothos had explained to her that women were easy game for him, and from Merewyn’s words she could only infer that there had been plenty and that he had not made a secret of his various liaisons. With her confession that she longed to be close to him she had dropped her guard rashly and had laid herself open to attack. And he was too experienced a warrior not to seize the advantages when he saw a chink in the armour of an adversary. She wouldn’t give him any more answers to any questions as long as she did not know how he felt about her. She had made the first step; the next had to be his.

She shook her head. “No.”

“No?” He gazed down at her in a most amused manner.

She gave a single shake of her head. “It is your turn, and I asked first.” It sounded childish. It sounded exactly like one of those typical arguments she used to have with Amrothos many years ago.

“If I recall the occasion correctly it was I who asked first,” Éomer pointed out with deliberate patience. “I asked you to become my wife.”

“And I consented.”

“Which leads us back to the question ‘why’.”

“True! Why have you not earlier asked ‘why’?”

“Communication with you, my dearest princess, proves to be difficult.”

His sarcasm irritated her. “You think I am difficult?”

“In a word? Yes!” he mocked.

“Look who is speaking!”

“Bema!” Éomer gave her an exasperated glance. “I have received quite a few felicitations to the forthcoming union. I get this feeling that sympathies would have been probably more to the point.”

“You made the arrangements for this union with my father,” she felt it necessary to stress that at this point.

“Not true! You sent the letter with your consent before Imrahil had returned to Minas Tirith. He had no bearing on your decision. Therefore, why did you consent?”

“Why did you propose? I mean, was there a reason other than that you thought why not take the princess from Gondor as you take the provisions anyway?”

“What?” He stared at her, obviously stunned. She saw anger and outrage flare up in his eyes, and something more, something very dangerous. She should congratulate herself. She had just stepped onto the tail of the sleeping lion.

“That is the most stupid thing I have heard in a very long time. Even somebody like you who is the most stubborn, aggravating and . . . .”

“It is not what I thought but what your people think. That I am just the side-dish to the provisions Gondor has sent to Rohan as its appreciation for your contribution during the war.”

“What makes you think that you know the . . .” He stopped himself and sucked in a deep breath. “Merewyn! That bloody little gossip needs her mouth sewn shut.”

“Why? Because she voices the common opinion? She also had some words of comfort for me. I may call myself fortunate that I come off quite well in comparison to your other women.”

Lothíriel was startled by the sound of her own words. She did not know where they had come from. She had not intended to say them. But there they were.

There was a deep anger in Éomer. It burned in his green-gold eyes and vibrated along every line of the hard body underneath the armour. He seethed with it, although he was masking it well enough beneath a layer of self-control. Lothíriel could sense it and it sent a shiver down her spine. Angry men were dangerous. Amazingly enough, she felt herself more of a match for him when he was angry, than when he was in his teasing and courting mood.

“If I ever needed a reminder that you possess this vexing tendency always to do or say something one does not expect, then I have just been given one - a not too gentle one, I may add.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth for a retort but his finger came with lightning speed, pointing at her face.

“Not a word! Not a single word before I have finished.”

His voice was so low and underlined with outrage that Lothíriel thought it advisable to comply with this request.

“You are going to be my wife. You are going to be Queen of the Riddermark. There are not, and will not be, any other women for you to be compared with. Not by you, nor by me, nor by anyone else.”

He caught her chin between his fingers, surprisingly gentle considering his state of mind, and tilted her face slightly so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

“And one thing has to be absolutely certain between us. My decision to ask you to become my wife has nothing to do with the provisions Gondor supplied, an offer made to me by your father or any kind of politics. There has only ever been one reason . . .”

“I am truly sorry having to interrupt, but I just wish to inform you that everybody is ready to set off for Edoras.”

Lothíriel could make out from Éomer’s dumbfounded expression that he had a similar sense of unreality as she had. This couldn’t be real. There couldn’t have been this voice. Slowly they both turned their heads towards the porch. What they saw standing there was certainly not a delusion.

It was Amrothos.

Lothíriel heard Éomer growl. It was a rough, dark sound that came from deep in his chest and her brother couldn’t have heard it or he would already have turned around and run for his life. Instead he propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.

“We are only waiting for you, Éomer King, and your bride.”

Éomer said nothing, but no one could have mistaken the murderous look in his eyes - no one except Amrothos.

“Shall I inform King Elessar and our father that you need some more time alone with your bride?”

Lothíriel saw Éomer closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. She counted the breaths. After the fifth he opened his eyes again and turned towards her brother, addressing him in a dangerously even voice.

“Do you have any idea how much effort it requires to keep my temper in check?”

“No, I do not,” Amrothos replied genially, as if he had been asked after the weather. “But if you give me a hint . . .”

Éomer shook his head in a motion of mixed disbelief and resignation. “You are a menace, if there has ever been one that has taken on human shape.”

“People say that sort of thing to me all the time; I try not to take it personally.”

Rohan’s King walked up to the Prince of Dol Amroth, confronting him face to face. Lothíriel began to worry about Amrothos. He was not that much shorter than Éomer but much lighter build – and totally oblivious to the fact that, at the very least, his health was in acute danger.

“Will you do me a favour?” Éomer inquired politely.

“If it does not take too much trouble.”

“Fall onto your sword.”

With that parting request he walked straight out of the door, forcing Amrothos to press himself flat against the jamb in order not to get mown down.

“That takes too much trouble,” he remarked, adjusting his surcoat, which had got caught on the departing king’s couter. He looked at his sister. “You know what I think, Lothíriel? It is time that this wedding took place. That man has a lot of tension to work off.”

Lothíriel was wondering if she should feel affronted by having been left standing here. She sighed. “I wish he would do something to get rid of the tension before the wedding.”

Amrothos surprised her when laughter exploded from him. “I doubt that you truly mean that.” His eyes narrowed. “What have you done to make him so angry?”

His sister just blinked at him in indignation.

“Do not give me that look. I own that look.” He held out his hand to her and Lothíriel walked over to him and took it. Amrothos pulled her closer. “Lothíriel, I do not know what he was trying to make clear . . .”

“You have been eavesdropping,” she interrupted him. “Has nobody ever told you that that is considered very bad manners?”

Amrothos just shrugged one shoulder, a movement somehow matching perfectly his lopsided grin.  “Whatever the common opinion about eavesdropping, I learnt a long time ago to appreciate its merits. But that is not the point.” He took her other hand, too, and pulled both of them up under his chin.

“You asked me once how the mind of a man works. Well, today I feel I should give you an additional piece of advice. Do not push. Whatever questions you may have – and I know there are many – ask them, but do not push for an immediate answer. Men do not like being pushed by women.”

He turned her around and shoved her out of the door.

“I know what I am talking about. After all, I am a man.”

TBC

Nobody had ever mentioned to her that love could be so irritating.

Lothíriel stiffened in the saddle and her hold on the reins slackened. Fortunately her chestnut mare concentrated more on the horse in front of her than on her rider. Hastily Lothíriel seized the reins again.

Where had that thought come from?

Up until now she had successfully avoided putting a name to her emotions. How could she term it? Especially when the most characteristic trait of the emotion was to discomfort her so profoundly? On the other hand, she had had this sneaking suspicion for quite some time now that her heart was already certain. She just had to make sure that her mind agreed.

She felt her eyes being drawn to the two kings. The procession they were now heading had increased to more than two hundred riders. Her gaze became fixed on Éomer’s back. Since they had left Aldburg he had been amiably chatting to Elessar as if their argument in the screens passage hadn’t taken place or as if he hadn’t been affected by it. How did he dare to look so relaxed and handsome with his blond mane falling down over his shoulders, not to mention tormenting her with the warm laughter he shared with his friend? All this while she had to struggle with the realization that she had indeed fallen in love with him?

Behind her, she could hear Amrothos bantering with Lord Elfhelm’s daughter, teasing her, and making her giggle. Lothíriel began to ask herself why she should have been concerned about him at all? If his frolics earned him a bloody nose, some loose teeth and a few bruises, it would be just what he deserved. Right now she couldn’t make up her mind whom she was more upset with: Éomer for just walking off and leaving her standing there or Amrothos for preventing Éomer, a second time, from revealing . . .

Well, what exactly had he tried to reveal to her?

Lothíriel growled in frustration, surprising not only Erchirion, who was riding at her side, but also herself. Thinking about it she found that she wouldn’t have consciously known how to make such a sound.

Erchirion did not even attempt to stifle his laughter.

“What in the name of the Valar could have brought about that rumble?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to reply but then closed it again, pressing her lips into a firm line.  She was not certain what to answer or if she even wanted to give one. She saw her brother’s expression sharpen and nearly growled again. The problem with Erchirion and Amrothos was that they were much more perceptive than most people would give them credit for. But then again, they did have many years of practice in hiding most of their abilities effectively.

“What has Amrothos done this time?” he inquired with deliberate patience.

“What makes you think he has done anything at all?” she hit back.

“Lothíriel, you have to do something about this habitual reaction of yours to adamantly defend Amrothos even before one has the chance to bring anything forward against him.”

“I do not think he did it on purpose.” She had, however, to admit to herself that she didn’t really believe that.

“No? Well, that would have been the first time since he was about one year old.” There was not even sarcasm in Erchirion’s voice. He eyed his sister quizzically. “Let me rehash. We were all out in the courtyard waiting for Éomer King and his betrothed to join us so we could set off to Edoras. There was no obvious urgency. Nevertheless, our brother thought it advisable to walk back to the hall. And after he had barely entered the porch, our host – your betrothed – came out looking like a thundercloud on legs, a sign, by the way, that could cause a more timorous soul to run for cover. Now you must admit having witnessed this little incident should give me more than enough reason to inquire as to the latest misconduct of said brother of ours.”

Lothíriel sighed. She knew when she was fighting a lost cause. Erchirion was not only perceptive but could also be rather persistent if he chose to.

“That Éomer was so angry was not Amrothos’s fault but mine.”

“Yours?” Erchirion looked slightly suspicious, “What could you have done to upset him so obviously?” When he got no immediate answer, he pumped her again, “You and Éomer have quarrelled?”

At least she could try. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

“You do not wish to talk about it!” The way he stressed the words sounded somehow peculiar. From the corner of her eye she could see him scrutinizing her but she refused to meet his gaze. “Very well, then we may assume that any disagreements between you and Éomer will have been mended by tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. You do remember, do you not? Tomorrow you and Éomer will be bonded.”

Lothíriel was about to sigh again but suppressed the urge rather quickly. The desire alone to do so felt pathetic and she certainly didn’t want to appear miserable in front of Erchirion. The thing about having a number of siblings was that there was never a lack of opportunity to make a fool of oneself.

Another silence stretched between them. Nobody was able to remain silent as expressively as Erchirion. Lothíriel felt herself begin to fidget.

“You said yourself I would ask him,” she burst out. “And you did not seem to think that anything was wrong with asking.”

“I said you would ask him what?” Erchirion inquired. But then it dawned on him, “Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel! Could you not even wait at least a whole day before you demanded a declaration from him?”

“It is not as if I woke up this morning and made up my mind to approach him on the subject,” she replied irritably, ignoring that she had already brought up the matter the day before. “It just came up . .  . somehow. And I think I have a right to know before we are bonded tomorrow,” she added defensively.

“That might be so,” Erchirion conceded. “By the way: did you find the time to explain to Éomer why you consented to his proposal?” he asked incidentally.

Lothíriel stopped short. “No, I did not,” she said hesitantly.

“He did not want to know?”

“I asked first.” That was one of the stupidest statements she had ever made . . .  if not the stupidest. She saw Erchirion rolling his eyes heavenward.

“I begin to understand why Father feels you two are made for each other.”

Lothíriel’s sense of justice wouldn’t permit it that Erchirion thought Éomer had taken advantage of her foolishness. “I think Éomer was trying to tell me . . . something. But then Amrothos happened to arrive . . .”

Erchirion did not say anything but looked at her steadily for a very long time. Lothíriel did her best to withstand his gaze without too much blinking. It occurred to her that most females would envy her brothers for their long thick lashes.

“What I do not understand,” this brother finally said, “is how the King of Rohan has managed to build up the reputation of being short-tempered. As far as I am able to judge, in recent incidents, he had shown enough patience to rival Aunt Ivriniel’s giant tortoises.”

“I think that comparison is inappropriate,” she objected. “They are rather more phlegmatic than patient.”

“Whatever,” Erchirion replied in a tone that sounded decidedly impatient. “Only one last question. Assuming Éomer had asked first,” he ignored the unladylike snort coming from his sister, “and supposing that you would have been willing to answer that particular question at all, what would your answer have been?”

Lothíriel decided to copy Erchirion’s recent demonstration. She tried to keep expressively silent. After half a dozen horse lengths he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well. I only hope that at least you are able to admit it to yourself.”

Lothíriel eyes wandered back to Éomer. She contemplated him thoughtfully, not even trying to be subtle about it.

“Yes, I am,” she murmured under her breath, but Erchirion had caught it. She could virtually feel his grin, but he was gracious enough to forbear to further comment on it.

They travelled until well after midday before they made a halt. Lothíriel suspected that they only did so in order that she could get some rest. Her aching muscles, which had recovered fairly well overnight due to the comfortable bed, made themselves felt again. She did her best not to let her soreness show but her tense posture didn’t leave much to anyone’s imagination.

They must have covered more than half of today’s leg, probably closer to two thirds. Once past Aldburg, the Great West Road had ascended gradually but consistently until it finally led onto the bank of a river running downhill towards them from the West. If she had discovered enough of something when she had searched for knowledge about Rohan in the Great Library of Minas Tirith, then it had been maps. Therefore Lothíriel did not have to ask for the name of the river. It was the Snowbourn, which had its source in the Ered Nimrais at the foot of the mountain Starkhorn. From there it followed the Harrowdale northwards, passing Edoras, then flowing eastwards and finally joining its waters with those of the Entwash. It had been at its mouth where the Orcs had attacked the herds, killing two young boys.

She began to understand how somebody like Merewyn, who must have lived with the threat of the Orcs all her life, did not feel just relief but also a strong sense of satisfaction about the destruction of the foul creatures.

When they made the halt on the banks of the Snowbourn, most of the riders of the Royal Guard didn’t dismount, but just gave their horses free rein, letting them walk around at will. They moved with an ease and casualness on their steeds as if they were sitting securely in a comfortable armchair. But there was also an underlying watchfulness in their bearing. Lothíriel could not have said if it was due to a actual threat from a foe – after all, the Orcs had come closer to Aldburg than since before the war - or if it was, above all, a habit which had become second nature to them during all those years living under constant threat.

Lothíriel did dismount, with the help of Erchirion, more gracefully than she could have hoped for. Her brother had been perfectly right this morning: she had not the slightest intention of making a fool of herself with Éomer’s guard watching. It appeared that she was the object of their curiosity and the topic of their conversation anyway. Which was hardly surprising but she would rather not contribute to their entertainment.

She left it to Erchirion to take care of her mare and walked down to the bank of the river. It was a wide, flat stretch of water, fast-running with the riverbed strewn with rocks of all sizes. They had been rounded and polished over thousands of years by the force of the water. Here and there boulders lay scattered along the grassy banks. Lothíriel climbed up on one of them, turning to look upstream. Willow-trees grew thickly along the stream. There would certainly never be a shortage of willow-tree bark for her herb stocks.

Suddenly the cloud cover, which had hung over them since they had left the White City, broke up and for the first time in more than ten days she could feel the sun. She tipped her face up and basked in its unexpected warmth. It felt wonderful.

At least it did until the tingling on the nape of her neck provided her with the information that Éomer was approaching. She straightened immediately, her entire body reacting.

She did not move; did not turn around, but waited for him to do or say something. She felt a slight vibration of the boulder under her feet. Éomer had also stepped on it, invading the already narrow space. She could sense him behind her so clearly, watching her, as if he touched her not only with his eyes but with his hands.

“You are a challenge, indeed, my Lady.” His voice was warm and soft and wrapped itself around her.

Lothíriel swallowed, trying to ignore the goose-flesh making its way down her back. “A stubborn and aggravating challenge, I gather? Not what you were expecting?"

“Oh, do not get me wrong. I love challenges. And I am going to prove that I am a match for this one.”

She lifted her chin. “Are you challenging me?”

“This is not a contest, Lothíriel.”

She didn’t respond. His closeness made her become more tense and fidgety with every passing moment. She was tempted to turn around but also feared it. From now on she would have to look into his eyes with the recently admitted knowledge that she loved him. She was certain that she would not be able to keep her feelings from him. She was not quite sure why she would still want to hide those feelings. Everything was so confusing. Why couldn’t this have happened in the middle of the night; in her bed where she was alone and had the time to get used to the idea and to compose herself? In broad daylight and surrounded by about two hundred men it was truly a case of bad timing.

“I should not have remained silent all these months,” Éomer said, after what seemed to be a ridiculously long pause.

For some reason she hadn’t even expected him to say anything else without a response from her. And certainly not something she had wanted him to say: namely the confession that he had been at fault. But now that he had said those words she felt it was not fair. She couldn’t put the blame entirely on him. She had taken offence at the form of his proposal and without trying to find out why he had chosen to write such a formal and aloof letter, she had written back in the same fashion. Judging by the way he had acknowledged her consent he had been as upset by her wording as she had been by his. It would be childish indeed to insist upon who was at fault at the origin of their strife.  

“You are right, Lothíriel. We need to learn about each other.” Probably because she hadn’t responded to his introductory words, there was a hint of urgency but also of impatience in the tone of his voice. Giant tortoise indeed.

“We need to talk. But I am afraid with that brother of yours around there is not much point in trying to before I have the right to lock you up.”

“You are going to lock me up?”

Lothíriel came around so abruptly that she lost her footing on the uneven surface of the boulder. Without Éomer seizing her quickly at her waist she would have fallen off backwards. She only noticed in passing that she had just shown, once more, the more clumsy side of herself. Highly indignant she scowled at him.

“You are going to lock me up?” she repeated.

Having helped her to regain her balance Éomer let one of his hands settle lightly on her hip. He did not try to conceal his grin at her indignation.

“My apologies. My wording was misleading,” he said soothingly, keeping his eyes on hers. “What I wanted to say was - that I will not even try to have a meaningful conversation with you before I have the right to lock us into a chamber together. It will seem that it is a law of nature that as soon as I open my mouth that youngest brother of yours will appear out of nowhere. It is beginning to become a nuisance.”

“The first time we were interrupted it was Lord Elfhelm.” Lothíriel thought it only fair to point out.

“But Elfhelm did not do it on purpose while your brother . . .”

“He is a good bother.” Erchirion was right. It was some sort of habitual reaction.

“I think you mentioned that before.” Éomer sounded highly doubtful, the expression emphasized by a pair of eyebrows which had moved up to be very close to his hairline. Looking into the green and gold depth of his eyes Lothíriel lost the thread of the conversation. A man shouldn’t really have such beautiful eyes. Or lips . . .

Seeing her looking at him so intensely the brows made their way back downwards and the fingertips of the hand laying on her hip pressed slightly into her flesh. “Do not look at me that way,” he murmured.

Lothíriel’s mouth suddenly became dry and she had to swallow a couple of times to get her tongue off her palate.

“What way?” she got out, when her brain finally took charge of her spinning emotions.

He smiled at her slowly and she felt her blood heat.

“I am wondering if you have any notion how much I want you.”

Lothíriel frowned. That phrase again! “I do not even know if I understand what wanting somebody truly means. I asked Amrothos about it . . .”

“You did what?” Éomer burst out.

She blinked at him in surprise. She saw his eyes being drawn toward to their travel companions and following his gaze found that his voice, which certainly carried, had attracted the attention of virtually everyone – if they hadn’t had it before already.  Perhaps they should just ignore the curious glances.

Éomer appeared to have come to the same conclusion. He cleared his throat. “Do I want to know what his answer was?”

“He said he would leave it to my husband to enlighten me.”

“There seems to be a small amount of brain in his head, after all,” Éomer muttered. He gave his head a small shake as if to clear his thoughts. “Lothíriel, do you feel rested enough so that we can continue to Edoras?”

She felt slightly baffled by the sudden change of subject but resisted the urge to pursue the matter and just nodded. “Of course.”

Éomer stepped down from the boulder and turned, holding out his hand to assist her. She took it and hopped down. Before he let go of her hand he squeezed it lightly.

“I think it is high time we were alone,” he murmured.

“We have not said a word to each other for nine months,” Lothíriel replied pragmatically. “I think our talk can wait for another day.”

She thought she heard a snort coming from him, but when she looked up at him he just stared straight ahead, his face showing a deadpan expression. He accompanied her back to her chestnut and helped her mount by grasping her lower leg and lifting her up so she could swung her right leg easily over the back of her mare. Putting her left foot into the stirrup he kept his hand wrapped around her ankle while she arranged her wide skirts.

“By the way.” She looked down at him and saw him motioning to her riding habit. “I do like this gown.”

“Thank you,” she smiled hesitantly, explaining, “I would not have chosen it myself. These wide sleeves are rather impractical.”

His mouth quirked slightly at the corner, “Indeed, then who chose it for you?”

“Queen Arwen.” Suddenly she got an idea. “I am not certain if you have taken note of it but Merewyn mentioned that the wains with my possessions have arrived at Edoras. I am afraid there are chests upon chests with gowns and all kind of pieces of clothing. Probably more than I will ever have need for.”

“Yes, I took note of the arrival of those wains and I was told there were chests upon chests containing healers’ equipment.”

“I hope you do not mind.”

“Mind what? You bringing all those herbs and potions and instruments? Our people will only benefit from them. This morning when I looked in on Éothain I saw Berenwald happily playing with his new set of surgical knives.”

“No, that is not what I meant. Will you object if I continue to use my knowledge as a healer?” she asked cautiously

Éomer gave her a long considering look. “If I had any objections, would I have asked you to cut the arrowhead out of my Marshal? And I had better be careful about any objections I might have. As you said earlier, as a healer you have the means to force me into submission.”

“True!” Lothíriel smiled down at him with a sigh of relief. “And all I need for it is in those chests you mentioned.”

“Without a doubt a very interesting prospect to look forward to.”

She frowned, confused by that statement. He didn’t truly expect her to poison him? But he continued before she could ask him to explain.

 “Lothíriel, you once told me that without the acquiescence of either her father or her husband a woman in Gondor can do nothing.”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise that he remembered something she once had mentioned, more or less only incidentally.

“As my wife you will not need my consent for everything you do. You will make your own decisions. I cannot promise that I will always agree with them, but I can promise that I will respect them. I think I understand what it means to you to be a healer. And as long as you will not keep me from riding, I will not keep you from healing,” he added with a lighter note in his voice. “But there will be one condition,” he went on. “You will refrain from treating strange men, all on your own, in the middle of the night.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Yes indeed. I think I had better refrain from it. After all, we have seen where it can lead.”

He watched her with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it to him and pushed the cuff slightly down so he could drop a kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“I think I would have found you at any rate.”

Lothíriel’s fingers tightened around his in a short, flexing movement, but she nearly managed to keep her voice calm. “Somehow I have this feeling that my father would have had made sure of it.”

“Ah yes, Imrahil,” he said dryly. He appeared to be holding back a smile. “Remind me, when the opportunity arises, to convey my gratitude to your father.”

She did not get the chance to reply. King Elessar approached, leading not only his own steed but also the huge grey she had earlier seen Éomer riding.

“Éomer, this beast of yours is everything but cooperative.”

Lothíriel could have sworn there was a hint of desperation in her king’s voice.

“What are you doing with Firefoot? I left him with Forthhere.” Éomer seized the reins of his stallion and rubbed his muzzle with his palm in greeting.

“Your squire was needed to assist Prince Elphir whose horse seems to have picked up a stone in his shoe.”

Éomer had gone over to run his fingers lovingly through his steed’s forelock. “Lothíriel, I do not think you have yet had the chance to meet Firefoot.”

Lothíriel looked at the stallion who was wearing an elaborately decorated bridle and saddle, somehow a contrast to Éomer’s otherwise rather mundane tastes. To her, who had admittedly very little experience of horses, this one looked very fierce and she couldn’t help feeling that she hadn’t missed much by not having met him until now. Nevertheless, Éomer’s words had sounded like an official introduction and as if she was supposed to respond to it. But she had never before been officially introduced to a horse. What was there to say?

“Greetings, Firefoot. It is good to finally meet you.”

The stallion granted her no more than a bored glance.

“I am afraid I do not impress him very much,” she pointed out.

Éomer grinned first at her and then at his horse, patting his neck.  “He is a very amiable lad,” he said.

Never before had Lothíriel seen her king rolling his eyes.

“Has the problem with Elphir’s horse been resolved?” she asked Elessar.

The King of Gondor swung into the saddle. Bringing his steed on the bit, he smiled at her.

“Yes, it was nothing serious. If you are ready, Lady Lothíriel, we can continue.”

They were distracted by Firefoot, who, after his master had mounted him, was prancing around in a circle. “Stop those gimmicks. You are not a colt any more,” Lothíriel could hear Éomer scolding affectionately.

Elessar watched his younger friend with a brotherly smile. “I think there is one aspect in the relationship of those two I can reassure you about,” he addressed Lothíriel. “It is known that Éomer has shared Firefoot’s stall from time to time, but so far it has not been heard of, that on any occasion, he has shared his bedchamber with his horse.”

“Very funny,” Éomer muttered.

“I am relieved to hear that,” Lothíriel said with a deadpan voice, “and furthermore I would be grateful if you would refrain from it in the future. The only exception I would tolerate would be in the case of excessive flooding of the stables.”

“Edoras is situated on a high hill,” Éomer pointed out.

“So I have been told,” she replied.

Both men chuckled in response.

Imrahil rode up to them.

“Lothíriel, there you are,” her father said, remarking on the obvious. “Eight more miles, my dear, and you will have it all behind you.”

“Now that she is in Rohan she will have the opportunity to quickly improve her skills,” Éomer announced.

“I was afraid you would say that sooner or later,” Lothíriel sighed. But she assumed that she would at least get a few days of rest before she had to mount a horse again. With the wedding and the festivities there certainly wouldn’t be the time to go for a ride.

They began the last leg of their journey to Edoras. Soon it turned out that her elegant chestnut couldn’t keep pace with the stallions of the two kings, so she let her drop back and took again her place at the side of Erchirion. Her brother must have seen her with Éomer and must have inferred from their conduct that they had indeed mended their disagreement. But Erchirion didn’t say a word about it and instead chatted about the recent improvement in the weather and the imposing landscape.

They followed the reaches of the Snowbourn upstream. It led them in a wide curve crossing the foothills towards one of the uncountable valleys which ran through the great mountain barrier. Its mouth was still wide but it closed in towards its end like a huge funnel. Suddenly Erchirion pointed at a steep hill still far before them.

“Lothíriel, that must be Edoras.”

She raised her hand to shield her eyes against the sun which now hung low in the sky. After a while she could see the hill on the eastern side of the valley more clearly and she could make out more details. Edoras certainly made use of its natural geography. It was a natural rock stronghold that looked down on the whole plateau. 

The hill was surrounded by a mighty wall and thatched houses nestled uphill into the green slopes. On the top of the hill stood, defiant and in solitary splendour, the great feast hall of Edoras, Meduseld. Bathed in the glow of the setting sun there was certainly the impression of the roof being tiled with gleaming metal. The Golden Hall did credit to its name indeed.

Finally the Great West Road came upon the ford of the Snowbourn and they left this route and forked off onto a track leading towards the gates of the city. Closer and closer they came to the place which would be, from today on, her home. She was able to make out that the protective wall consisted of three sections; an earthen dyke and a wall of stone topped by a thorny hedge.

Concentrating on her surroundings and taking in a whole host of new impressions, Lothíriel did not notice that Éomer had turned his steed around and was riding next to her, not until he addressed her. She started slightly, leading him to smile.

“So engrossed?” he asked in a low tone.

“I have never seen a city like this, fashioned by the hand of men but in harmony with nature. In Gondor, wherever men built their settlements they subjugated their surroundings, wanting to make their mark for all eternity.”

“We Rohirrim are still a young people, Lothíriel, who have not yet begun to think about eternity. For us the 'now' is more important. We are not trying to make history and create a legacy.”

“The Rohirrim have made history already.”

“Perhaps, but rather incidentally. We fought for the survival of those who are living now.”

“And for those who will come.”

“That is a law in itself.”

They had reached two rows of mounds, lining the road on both sides. They were covered with tiny, simple flowers. The barrows of the Kings of Rohan. Éomer gestured to the first barrow to his left.

“This is where we laid my uncle to rest. This is Rohan’s history, for better and for worse.”

She looked at his face turned towards the grave of his predecessor.

“Did you love your uncle?”

“As my king and as my kin.” His voice was strangely colourless. “I found that love does not make one blind but it makes one hesitant and cautious.”

Lothíriel did not know what to answer as she was not sure what he was talking about. At first glance Éomer was of a pragmatic nature, a man who was comfortable with his power and utterly in control. Her father had described him as a man who had a natural talent for leadership and command and also that he had the ability needed to organize people and resources to achieve a purpose. A man who could make people understand his purpose; make them want to get there with him. And he was a warrior; focused and aggressive.

But no man was two-dimensional. Under the surface there were many layers of his personality to be discovered. He was right. They had to learn about each other. And as soon as all those necessary preliminaries were over, the wedding and the festivities, she would begin to peel back those layers until she could discover what lay hidden in his core. She doubted that that was going to be an easy task, but then:  nobody had ever mentioned that love would not be irritating.

The sound of horns jolted her out of her reverie. They had passed the barrow field and were approaching the massive gates which were flanked by tall watchtowers. From the top of the towers and along the crown of the wall the banners of Rohan, Gondor and Dol Amroth greeted them. All those who had ridden in front of them, except the standard-bearer, had reined in their horses and joined the procession behind them.

The King of Rohan escorted his bride into his city.

The huge pair of gates, elaborately decorated with carvings, swung open and admitted them into Edoras. Lothíriel’s eyes were caught by the mighty stone wall.

“It is constructed without any mortar to bind them together,” she remarked.

“I beg your pardon?” Éomer looked at her, slightly baffled.

“The wall,” she explained, “is built without any mortar to bind the stones together.”

Éomer surprised her by bursting out laughing, and so those citizens of Edoras who had come to the wide open grounds behind the gates to greet their king and their future queen, were given a rather cheerful first impression of the soon-to-be royal couple.

“What is so funny about my remark?” Lothíriel demanded under her breath.

“It is not funny but unexpected.”

They had crossed the open grounds and entered the wide stable yard. More Rohirrim were waiting there, but Lothíriel did not find the time to comprehend that all those eyes were looking first and foremost at her. Éomer jumped off his steed and, handing the reins over to a stable-hand, he turned to help his bride dismount.

Having her on her feet before him he looked down at her, his eyes gleaming with warmth and laughter.

“I swear you must be the first bride ever to enter Edoras commenting of the construction of its fortification.”

“I still do not see why that should be so funny,” she stated. “I mean, it is difficult to overlook.”

“For somebody with your sense for detail and your curiosity . . . probably it is.”

Éomer looked around for his guests. King Elessar, her father and brothers and Lord Elfhelm with his daughter joined them. Their host nodded to them and then raised his arm, inviting his bride to put her hand on his.

“We will have to walk uphill to Meduseld.”

“Do not worry. In contrast to my sadly lacking skills on horseback, I am steady on my feet.”

They left the stable yard, following a broad path paved with light-yellow flagstones. Several times they had to climb wide steps to a higher level. The path was lined by houses, all built of wood and with thatched roofs. The further they went uphill the bigger the houses became and the more elaborate the carvings on the doors, the shutters and the ridges. It appeared the more prosperous a citizen of Edoras was, the closer he lived to the Golden Hall.

The way was lined with people, their faces friendly, open and curious, but a loud and cheerful greeting did not seem to be in the character of the Rohirrim.

Finally they reached the high platform on which Meduseld stood. When Lothíriel raised her eyes, she saw that a large group of people had gathered together on the paved terrace in front of the hall.

“I was told you always complained about the crowds in Minas Tirith,” she murmured only for Éomer to hear.

He followed her gaze. “That is not truly a crowd. They only appear to be of a great number because the space they have assembled on is rather limited.”

He led her up the high stairs of stone and Lothíriel would have preferred to turn around and appreciate the view over the city but instead she had to face a load of guests and dignitaries. She braced herself for this task when her eyes fell upon a tall figure apparelled in white. The same moment she heard Éomer exclaiming, definite delight in his voice.

“Gandalf.” He held out both hands to the wizard who clasped his forearms. “This is an unexpected but great joy to have you back at Edoras.”

“I could not let the King of Rohan get wedded and stay away. And, of course, I wanted to meet his bride . . . again.”

Lothíriel looked startled. “I am honoured, Mithrandir. I have seen you at the White City but . . .  you said again. We have never been introduced.”

“Oh, not officially,” Gandalf replied in a friendly manner. “But we spoke a few words at the Houses of Healing, Princess Lothíriel. I think you said: ‘You are in my way!’ and I answered: ‘My apologies.’”

Lothíriel blinked at him in embarrassment. “My belated apologies,” she said, feeling warmth in her cheeks. “I did not realize . . . I cannot even remember that episode.”

Éomer chuckled beside her. “I think I already mentioned that you have a tendency to be slightly single-minded in certain situations.”

She gave that a moment of thoughtful consideration. “Do you think we will soon find the time to discuss your character shortcomings for a change?”

“Oh, I am certain you will,” Gandalf assured her. “But there are many more who wish to meet your bride, Éomer. I will keep her no longer. And I wish to greet Aragorn and Imrahil.” He was about to turn around, but then hesitated as if he remembered something. Raising his hand, he stopped the King of Rohan. “Éomer, I thought while I am here I can make myself useful. I will preside over the ceremony tomorrow.”

“You will?” Éomer asked, undoubtedly surprised by this offer, which did not sound like a request.

“Yes, I will,” the wizard confirmed. “We can talk over the details of it later.”

“As you wish.” If he had intended to comment on this unexpected development, he didn’t get the chance. Two small figures, who had been fidgeting around in the background, came forward to greet him with bubbling enthusiasm. They were talking fast and over each other and Lothíriel could have sworn they were talking about several different subjects at the same time. Amazingly enough Éomer appeared to be able to follow the torrent of words and managed to take advantage of a short silence to take over the conversation.

“Lothíriel, please meet Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine of the Mark and Master Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor. My Lords, I have the pleasure to introduce to you my betrothed, the daughter of Prince Imrahil, the Princess Lothíriel.”

The very formally introduced princess looked at her betrothed from out of the corner of her eye, not certain if he was making fun of the Hobbits, but all she could see in his expression was genuine affection for those small men.

She accepted their felicitations and compliments but had hardly time to thank them when another short but definitely more massive figure pushed to the front.

“Yes, yes, yes!” a deep voice boomed. “You Hobbits always talk too much. Go away, so I can greet the lad and have a look at his bride.”

The next moment Lothíriel found herself face to face with . . . a face that was somehow well camouflaged behind masses of wiry hair. The dwarf had braided parts of his hair and beard but could have also easily have braided his brows.

“Ha!” it rang out of the undergrowth. “I knew it!”

“You knew what, Gimli?” Éomer demanded clarification.

“Dark hair! I have known it since that feast. You do not like blond hair.”

“A rather unfortunate dislike in a land like Rohan,” Lothíriel murmured. It seemed their wedding would offer an interesting assortment of guests.

“I remember you, Princess,” Gimli informed her. “You had that row with him. I always wanted to know what it was about.” The bushy brows move up quizzically.

“The weather,” Éomer enlightened him.

“What?” the dwarf bellowed.

“The weather,” Lothíriel confirmed. “I have always been quite self-willed about the weather.”

“The weather is indeed a subject one can easily become absorbed in and reflect upon for long hours in philosophical meditation.” The voice was melodious and silvery soft, the face of the speaker beautiful beyond compare.  However neither drew Lothíriel in, but rather forced a restrained response from her.

The Elf bowed his head to Éomer. “My Lord King.” He turned towards Lothíriel. “My Lady, you are your father’s daughter. The echo of your elven blood can still be seen.”

“The eyes of the elves must be sharp indeed if you are able to see this blood, thinned over twenty three generations,” Lothíriel answered.

“No matter how thin, Princess, it will stay with you and with many more generations to come.”

Legolas bowed again and then left, steering his friend away so Éomer and Lothíriel could proceed in greeting others.

“The weather?” she could hear the dwarf ask sceptically.

The introductions went on for quite some time. Lothíriel met Erkenbrand, Marshal of the Westmark. A mountain of a man with the biggest hands she had ever had to entrust her own to. He had once chosen a wife in proportion to his own configuration and therefore their children, two sons and two daughters, were of similar size. A truly large family. She had never felt so fragile.

She was introduced to the members of the Royal Council and their families; too many faces and too many names to be taken in all at once. But finally she looked into a face that made her nearly sigh in relief. There was no doubt from whom Merewyn had inherited her untameable honey-blond hair and her wide, lush mouth.

Lord Elfhelm’s wife stood next to a tall lean woman with a thick wheat-coloured braid. Both women bowed when Lothíriel came up to them.

“My Lady, I am honoured to finally make your personal acquaintance.”

“And I have been looking forward to meeting you, Lady Cynewyn.”

“You must be exhausted after so many days of travel. I gather you did not get too much rest at Aldburg.”

“I went to bed early and had a good night’s sleep,” Lothíriel assured her.

“Only after she had to perform an operation on Éothain,” Éomer had come up to them. Both women looked at him with concern in their eyes. “We had to hunt down Orcs. Éothain is fine and is now with Berenwald.”

“No further casualties, my Lord?” Lady Cynewyn had lowered her voice.

“Two lads have been killed by the Orcs. We lost several dams and foals.” The woman opened her mouth to say something more but Éomer shook his head. “Not now, Cynewyn. Not here. Take the Princess to her chamber. She needs to rest.”

“But I cannot just. . .” Lothíriel began to protest.

“You can and you will,” he cut her short. He took her hand and pulled her inside the hall. Lothíriel realized that she hadn’t had a chance to have a closer look at the beautiful doors and bronze mountings or the carving and gildings which decorated the outside of Meduseld.

“Today I don’t want you to have to think about anything other than getting your rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“I think I can promise not to break down because of exhaustion during the wedding ceremony,” Lothíriel protested slightly irritated over his high-handed conduct.

“I was not thinking so much about the ceremony,” he murmured.

Lothíriel frowned. She did not like that particular smile of his. It always seemed to appear at those times when she got the feeling that she didn’t really understand the meaning of what he had just said.

“Are there any Rohirric wedding customs I do not know about?” she asked suspiciously.

Éomer shook his head. “No, I do not think so.”

Others began to pour into the hall and he nodded towards Lady Cynewyn and the second Rohirric woman.

“Lothíriel, I have neglected to introduce Ælfgyth. She is the housekeeper at Meduseld. She will take you to the bedchamber which has been prepared for you for tonight.”

“Mistress Ælfgyth.” Lothíriel greeted the tall woman.

“My Lady.”

“I will also accompany you, my Lady,” Cynewyn announced.

“Then you are in good hands.”

Éomer still held one of her hands in his and suddenly she felt a tug which was becoming all too familiar. He was trying to slide her glove from her fingers. Lothíriel made a fist. She looked up into the green-gold gaze. His grin nearly made her knees buckle but she refused to give in. Finally he raised her gloved fist to his lips and dropped a light kiss on it.

“Sleep well.”

It seemed that the purr was at his disposal whenever he wanted to make use of it. There was no doubt. Éomer of Rohan enjoyed playing cat-and-mouse . . . as long as he got to be the cat. She had a lot to learn and she intended to be an apt pupil.

Lady Cynewyn and Ælfgyth led her quickly across the hall. Lothíriel could get only a fleeting first glance of the splendour of the Golden Hall. It was much bigger than the hall of Aldburg and decorated with tapestries and the banners of Rohan, Gondor and Dol Amroth. The complicated pattern of the stone floor was magnificent; mighty pillars, carved and gilded, supported a lofty roof; the high set windows held panes of coloured glass; the dais at the far end of the hall did not house the top table but a single, richly carved and gilded chair.

Obviously the Rohirrim loved their carvings and the colour gold.

Lord Elfhelm’s wife preceded her up the three steps and across the dais, pushing aside a wall hanging in the far left corner to uncover a door. It led the three women into a wide corridor, apparently running along the entire short side of the hall. Cynewyn opened one of the many doors from the corridor.

“This will be your chamber for tonight, my Lady.”

Lothíriel stepped past her into the room and looked around. It was more spacious than the one she had spent the last night in. Like the great hall it had a beautifully tiled stone floor covered with woven rugs. The walls showed panelling in a warm honey-tone colour. The same wood was used for the richly carved furniture: a four-poster bed, a bench and two armchairs in front of the hearth and several chests. There was a screen which shielded a bathtub and on it hung a dress of dark blue velvet and ice blue satin: her wedding gown.

“I took the liberty of having all your possessions taken straight to the Queen’s chamber,” Cynewyn explained. “Only those things I thought you might need for tonight and for the preparation for tomorrow I had brought here. I hope that meets your approval.”

“Very much so,” Lothíriel answered. “You have been a great help, Lady Cynewyn. Not just by taking care of all the preparations for the wedding. Lord Elfhelm told me that you took over this, and it certainly could not have been an easy task.”

“It has given me . . . all of us,” she gestured towards the housekeeper who stood by the door, “great pleasure to prepare for the wedding of our king. Rohan hasn’t had a queen in forty years. When Thengel King died his wife Morwen returned to her home in Gondor and Théoden King’s wife, Elfhild, had died two years prior to that; so there never was a queen at Théoden’s side. And we are not even certain that the Golden Hall has ever witnessed the wedding of a crowned king. This occurrence is special indeed.”

“Oh my,” Lothíriel went over to the bench and sat down, “another reason to be nervous.”

Both women laughed. “I do not see any reason for you to be nervous about anything. I admired you just now, when you were paraded in front of all those people out there, you showed all of them a friendly face.”

“I fear I have already forgotten at least half of the names of those I was introduced to.” She put her palm against her forehead. “There was Lord Erkenbrand and his family. His wife’s name is Alfrun and there was a daughter with the name Eormenhild and a son named Erkenwald. I am afraid the names of the two others have slipped my mind.”

“Do not worry about that, my Lady,” Ælfgyth interjected. “You may have forgotten their names, but any offspring of Lord Erkenbrand and Lady Alfrun are easily identified.”

Lothíriel blinked a few times, fighting the temptation to laugh. “True,” she finally commented in a deadpan voice. “And then there was Lord Aldhelm, the head of the Royal Council and his wife Heregyth.” She frowned. “But the names of all the others . . . I will have to begin all over again.”

“But not tonight,” Cynewyn objected. “Let me send for hot water so you can take a bath.”

“I would like that very much. I was able to take one this morning, but only in haste. And I do need to wash my hair,” she added, pulling the dark strands over her shoulder and eyeing them critically.

“In that case I will go and get, not only the water, but also Winfrith,” Ælfgyth declared. With a brief nod she left the chamber.

“Who is Winfrith?” Lothíriel asked.

“If she is agreeable to you, she will be your handmaiden,” Cynewyn replied. “She is a young widow who lost her husband at the Fords of Isen. He was a rider in Prince Théodred’s éored. She has no surviving male relatives or close kin to rely on and has to make a living on her own. I found her much too bright and eager to waste her as a kitchen maid.”

“I am quite certain that I will find her agreeable, as she has your recommendation,” Lothíriel assured her.

Cynewyn went behind the screen and returned with a quilted robe of a pale blue silk. Lothíriel couldn’t remember that one having been made for her. But then there had been so many pieces of clothing. She wondered how Cynewyn and Ælfgyth had managed to store everything away.

“Perhaps you would like to take off your riding habit and make yourself more comfortable while waiting for the water to arrive.” Cynewyn suggested.

Lothíriel groaned inwardly. This taking off her clothes in front of others was getting to be habitual. Before she had decided with which part of her clothing to begin, a knock sounded at the door. Cynewyn bid whoever was there to enter and another blond woman stepped in. Her hair showed a strawberry tone and her face was covered with freckles; an amazing number of freckles for this time of the year. There was hardly any more space for additional ones which might arrive in the summer.

“My Lady, this is Winfrith.”

Unlike Cynewyn and Ælfgyth, the handmaiden curtseyed to her. She was in her mid twenties and could have been called quite pretty if there had been a trace of joy on her face and less sadness in her eyes.

“Let me help you to undress, my Lady.” She went down on one knee before Lothíriel and began to unlace her riding boots. “Ælfgyth will see to your bathing water. You are going to feel much better after you have washed off the dust from the roads.”

Lothíriel decided to just let everything happen to her. If she had learnt one thing from her acquaintance with Gondor’s Elven queen then it was that resistance was futile when females got going about a fellow female’s toilet and wardrobe. She considered herself lucky that she had escaped all that fuss for at least her years in the Houses of Healing.

Soon she was reclining in a spacious bathtub, resting her head against a rolled up linen sheet. Winfrith had somehow managed to retrieve her travel bags and she had been able to enrich the water with the soothing oil of the laurel fruit. While her newly appointed handmaiden took care of the dirty clothing from the bags, Lady Cynewyn went over the order of events for the next day – her wedding day.

She would be glad when all these preludes would be done with and she could go back to her life. Or rather forward to her new life. There was so much to learn and to discover, a prospect she was definitely looking forward to.

“My Lady, are you listening?” Cynewyn asked from the other side of the screen, humour in her voice.

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose sheepishly. “I am afraid I was wool-gathering for a moment.” She sighed, “I will probably stumble through the ceremony like a dimwit tomorrow.”

“I doubt that you know how to stumble around,” the other woman assured her. “And the Rohirric customs are like our people: straightforward and not very ostentatious. All you have to do is give the affirmation that you are entering this union of your own free will.”

“And otherwise I just follow – of my own free will, of course - wherever Éomer leads me.”

Cynewyn laughed. “Yes, I think you have comprehended the essence of our customs.”

Lothíriel found it as easy to talk to Marshal Elfhelm’s wife as she had found it writing to her. They chatted about the preparation for the festivities: about the lady’s children – there were two more daughters beside Merewyn, sixteen and fourteen years old (to the embarrassment of those daughters Cynewyn had given birth to a baby boy just three months ago) – and about the measures which had been taken to store all of Lothíriel’s possessions, especially her healer’s equipment, until she decided what to do with them.

Finally Winfrith washed Lothíriel’s hair. The young woman was polite and obliging and certainly very clever and practically minded, but she was also the total opposite to the talkative Merewyn. But that was a quality Lothíriel could very well live with.

Feeling really clean and comfortable for the first time in many days, Lothíriel found herself in front of the hearth, clad in a chemise and the silk robe and feasting on a light meal whilst letting the warmth from the fire slowly dry her hair.

Winfrith place a pitcher of water and a mug on the stand next to the bed and turned to her lady. “Is there anything else you wish for, my Lady?”

“No, thank you, Winfrith. You can retire and wake me tomorrow morning early enough.” Lothíriel lifted the tray with the leftovers of her meal. “Please take this with you.”

The handmaiden took the tray, curtseyed and left the chamber.

“And I will go so you can take your rest,” Cynewyn declared, getting to her feet. “I will be back tomorrow morning, together with Winfrith, to be at your disposal. Ælfgyth is going to be very busy with the preparation of the feast. Sleep well, my Lady.”

“Thank you again for all your help, Lady Cynewyn.”

“As I said, it is a great pleasure.”

The lady went to the door. With her hand on the bolt she turned around again, looking at her soon-to-be queen with the quiet humour which reminded Lothíriel very much of Lord Elfhelm.

“You are going to get a rather . . . unique husband, my Lady.”

“So I have already gathered,” Lothíriel replied wryly.

With a chuckle, Cynewyn left the chamber.

Lothíriel shook out her hair in front of the fire. She was tempted to go straight to bed, but she had better let her hair dry entirely or tomorrow there would be only an unruly mess. She pulled one of the armchairs to the fire and settled down in it, resting her neck on the upholstered back and letting her hair fall over it. Staring at the ceiling she became drowsy and must have nearly fallen asleep when noises penetrated the slumberous clouds that were wrapped about her. It took her a while to identify those noises as voices and then to identify the voices as those of her brothers – all three of them. Sweet Elbereth, what was that lot doing in the corridor outside her chamber?

In the meantime, it had become dark outside and, according to Lady Cynewyn, there was a feast prepared for the guests in the great hall. Why weren’t they at the feast?

Lothíriel got up reluctantly from her comfortable chair and shuffled half-asleep towards the door. She pressed her ear to the panel. Yes, indeed, there was Erchirion’s voice and Elphir’s and she could have sworn she had heard Amrothos’s earlier. Carefully she opened the door just a crack.

Now she could understand Erchirion quite clearly.

“Elphir, we are guests of the King of Rohan and it is not usual to snoop around after your host. What are you thinking?”

“What makes you think he can think?” Amrothos butted in. “By now you should have realized that he has the brain of a chicken.”

“All I want is to make certain of where Éomer King has disappeared to.” Elphir replied irritably to Erchirion, ignoring his youngest brother’s remark.

“Meaning you are going to knock at our sister’s door to make certain that Éomer is not with her. Sweet Elbereth, Elphir! Tomorrow he is going to wed her.”

“Not to mention that tomorrow night he is going to bed her,” Amrothos supplied cheerfully.

Lothíriel heard a snort from Erchirion. “You are not very helpful, Amrothos.”

“What makes you think I am trying to be helpful?”

“I have really no idea why the two of you are making such a fuss,” Elphir hissed. “She was ushered away so quickly after our arrival that I just want to make sure that our sister is well.”

Now she could hear snorts coming from both Erchirion and Amrothos. She feared that they would quarrel happily until somebody might not only discover them but also the reason for their disagreement and that could become truly embarrassing.

She flung open the door and stepped out into the corridor.

“I am well,” she announced. “I am alone and I am tired. And Amrothos is right, Elphir, you do have the brain of a chicken and I bet it was glad to get rid of it.”

Without giving them a chance to reply she retreated back into her room and slammed the door shut.

She loved her brothers. She truly did. But she was glad that she was going to get shot of them.

TBC

“My Lady?”

A soft voice nudged into her mind. Lothíriel’s lids began to flutter hesitantly. She really tried to open her eyes but they were resisting.

“My Lady?” Again that soft unknown voice.

After several fluttering heart beats, she finally managed to force her eyes all the way open and met the gaze of sky blue eyes in a strange face. A face covered with freckles.

Freckles!

Winfrith; her newly appointed handmaiden.

She had come to wake her and help her prepare for her wedding.

Her wedding!

All at once she was wide awake and she sat up with a jolt, making Winfrith jump.

“My apologies, my Lady. I did not want to startle you.”

“Oh, no,” Lothíriel pushed back from her face those tendrils which had escaped her braid, feeling slightly giddy after the abrupt movement, “you did not startle me. I just remembered that today is the wedding.”

There was a tiny smile on Winfrith’s face, but she made no comment. Instead she retrieved the tray she had left on top of a chest.

“I have brought you mint tea and some fruit bread and butter. While you are eating I will fetch hot water for your morning toilet.”

“Thank you, Winfrith.”

Lothíriel plumped up the pillows and settled against them, holding out her hands to accept the tray. Perhaps she could get used to having an early meal in bed after all.

Winfrith left the chamber to fetch the water and Lothíriel discovered that the handmaiden had already stirred the fire. The flames snapped and crackled in the hearth, radiating pleasant warmth. Now, in the second half of the month of Viressë, spring would have arrived in Gondor, the air mild and the vegetation awakened. Here in Rohan nature was at least a month behind, the coldness and the gloom of winter not yet forgotten.

Lothíriel wrapped her hands around the mug of tea, blowing lightly into it. Taking a sip, she looked over the rim at her wedding gown hanging on the screen. There were actually two gowns, both of different shades of the traditional bridal colour, which also happened to be the colour of her coastal home. The simple but elegant velvet gown with its gored train and drapey sleeves had been deliberately chosen to have the same deep peacock blue as the banner of Dol Amroth. It was meant to be worn over the satin dress for the ceremony, which would take place outside on the terrace in front of Meduseld. Later, for the festivities, she would shed the velvet gown. Inside the hall it would be too warm for it and she would wear just the ice blue dress, which had a high narrow collar and long fitted sleeves. Lothíriel had found that the shimmering satin hugged her barely existing curves too tightly but Arwen had assured her that it was not at all indecent.

She took her eyes from the gown and looked down at the fruit bread in front of her. She knew she should eat something, but she didn’t feel hungry. Or rather her throat felt as if somebody had put a noose around her neck and was tightening it, and further down, her stomach had metamorphosed into a hard inflexible lump.

This was a bad time to get nervous. For most of the day, there was not really anything significant going to happen that would justify getting nervous right now. Tonight she would be given enough opportunities to get tense. Tonight she and Éomer would have to consummate their union.

Who, in the name of the Valar, had come up with those syllables to paraphrase what Amrothos had put in simpler and more concrete words: she was going to be bedded.

That didn’t sound well either. Amrothos phrasing was, no doubt, more vivid but also cruder.

Lothíriel took a deep breath. No, this was not the time for nervousness and tension. She would save that for later. She just had to concentrate on something else. For example forcing food through her tight throat down into her disobliging stomach. As a start she downed the contents of the mug in one. Not a very bright idea. In doing so she had gulped down a fair amount of air as well. She pulled a face. Now she had an unpleasant feeling of fullness in that area, on top of the already knotted feeling. She pressed her palm on her stomach and rubbed it in circles. After some massaging she was granted success. The air made its way back out of her stomach via her throat and escaped from her mouth with a loud burp. Its volume could have easily rivalled that of a crib biting horse – an appropriate comparison for Rohan, Lothíriel thought. But she really needed to eat something or she might faint during the ceremony after all, despite the fact that she had assured Éomer she wouldn’t.

The thought of her betrothed brought back the thought of tonight and her stomach tensed even more. Not a very good omen. She really wished she had at least some experience and would go into the wedding night with more than a vague idea what was going to happen. She knew about the pure mechanical course of the event, but she was uncertain of what she was expected to do to contribute to the success of the venture.

Lothíriel broke off a tiny piece of bread and put a small knob of butter on it. She took a deep breath and popped it into her mouth. She chewed carefully. She liked the taste of the goat butter, which seemed to be common in Rohan, and goat milk was said to be much easier to digest than the milk from cows.

By breaking off tiny bits and with careful chewing Lothíriel finally managed to get down a single slice of fruit bread; not exactly a sumptuous meal but that was all she was able to take in. She felt as if she had eaten half a roast ox.

Undecided if she should get up or wait for Winfrith to return she let her eyes roam the room and her thoughts wander over the past couple of days.

From the way Éomer had greeted her and had been treating her she ought to believe that he was quite content with the idea that she would be his wife. And had he not been interrupted constantly - he would have told her so - of that she was certain. After all, he had already mentioned that he thought her beautiful and that he wanted her. The way things stood and taking into consideration that she was definitely in love with him, she would assess the overall situation as rather positive. It could only improve if he would admit to some feelings for her.

She needed company. She had always believed that those who were not content with their own company were lacking spirit and imagination. But today her imagination let her follow peculiar trains of thought. She needed a diversion; something or somebody to take her mind off things: off her nervousness, off the wedding night, off Éomer – if that was possible at all.

She nearly giggled in relief, when after an announcing knock, the door opened to reveal not only Winfrith but also Lady Cynewyn who was keeping her promise from the night before and had come to help her prepare for the ceremony. She was wearing, probably by Gondorian standards, a simple gown. But the moss-green velvet with the golden embroidery at the hem suited her perfectly and she had managed to confine her thick curls under a golden crespinette.

“Good morning, my Lady. I hope you had a restful night.”

“Good morning, Lady Cynewyn. Thank you, I slept quite well.”

The wife of the Marshal of the Eastmark stepped next to her bed, taking a look at her food tray, without a doubt discerning that she had hardly eaten anything. But she forbore to comment on it.

“Would you like me to take this so you can get up, my Lady?”

Lothíriel handed her the tray. She folded back the quilt and swung her legs out of bed. Putting her feet on the ground, she drew them back again quickly. The tiled floor was not only beautiful but also icy cold. Cynewyn had watched her manoeuvre.

“I am sorry,” she said ruefully. “We should have placed more rugs in this chamber. But the last time it was used was in the summer, and then the coolness of the stone floor is rather pleasant.”

“Can it really get so hot in Rohan that you crave for cooling?” Lothíriel asked, taking a pair of slippers from Winfrith and putting them on.

“Not over long periods of time,” Cynewyn explained. “But for us Rohirrim, who are not used to heat in general a sennight of hot weather feels like a rather long stretch.”

“When do you think the weather will improve?” Lothíriel could hear Winfrith transferring some of the hot water she had brought in big buckets into the washbowl.

“It already has,” the wife of the Marshal laughed. “The sun arrived together with you yesterday. It is bright and sunny outside, but also pretty windy. We will have to braid your hair or you may not be able to see a thing when the wind blows it into your face.”

“That is why you chose to wear a crespinette, I suppose.” Lothíriel motioned to the fine net holding the lady’s thick curls captive.

Cynewyn touch her hair, “I am afraid I have passed on this unruly mass to all three of my daughters. As it is easy to identify Erkenbrand’s and Alfrun’s offspring, you cannot overlook ours.”

“So your son is going to be a curlyhead, too?”

“I hope not,” Cynewyn pulled a face in mocked horror. “Can you imagine the teasing he would have to endure? A rider with a mop of corkscrew curls.”

Both women laughed. Lothíriel was already feeling a little bit calmer and more relaxed in the company of Lady Cynewyn.

Winfrith stepped around from behind the screen. “The water is ready, my Lady, if you please.”

Lothíriel slid from the bed and went to the washing facilities behind the screen. As she had taken a bath just the evening before, she began, after taking off her chemise, to wash herself with the help of a facecloth and flannels. Winfrith had repositioned the screen so that the warmth of the fire flowed over from the hearth. She also found tooth powder, bleached wool and a mug with water to rinse her mouth. Last night, before she had gone to bed, she had braided her hair into a loose plait. She wondered what Lady Cynewyn planned to do with it, so that it would withstand the gusts of wind. They seemed to be part of Edoras, as she had discovered yesterday.

Having finished with her morning toilet, she put on her robe and joined the two other women.

“I think you should begin by donning the underdress,” Cynewyn suggested, “and then we will see to your hair. The velvet gown can be put on without disturbing your hairstyle.”

Lothíriel saw no reason to object and let Winfrith help her with the satin dress. Its cut did not allow her to wear a chemise underneath, but she was quite certain that, with the velvet gown worn over it, she would not get cold outside now that the sun was shining.

Winfrith had placed a large oval looking glass on one of the chests and while the handmaiden was pulling the laces tight at the back, Lothíriel had the opportunity to look at herself in the first piece of her wedding gown. She had to admit that Queen Arwen had immaculate taste. She wouldn’t really have known what to choose.

The ice blue satin was laced tight around the waist and the folds of the skirt began at the level of her hips and fell in heavy lines down to her feet. Beside the beautiful silver embroidery on the high collar and the cuffs, its best feature was that it made her look as if she actually had breasts.

Both other women looked at her approvingly.

“I think from today on there will no Rohirrim left in doubt that they are going to have a very beautiful queen,” Cynewyn assured her with a smile, and Winfrith gave a nod to second that opinion.

“Thank you.” Lothíriel smoothed her palms over the soft fabric. “Do you not think they would rather have a useful queen?”

Cynewyn regarded her steadily. “I think you have already offered proof of that particular quality of yours when you cut the arrowhead out of Éothain. The tale did its round yesterday night at the feast. And it also went around that many of the chests that were delivered from Gondor did not contain just your personal dowry, but healers’ equipment also.” Suddenly she began laughing, shaking her head slightly when she caught Lothíriel’s surprised expression.

“We all, who have known him for years, should have realized that Éomer’s choice of a wife would be rather unusual. But we certainly did not expect him to choose a princess from Gondor who is also a healer.”

Lothíriel hesitated a moment, wrestling with herself, before she asked. “And what do you consider being the more unusual part of his choice? The healer or the Gondorian princess?”

Cynewyn regarded her thoughtfully. “The Gondorian princess,” she finally answered, probably simply not able to be anything other than blunt, but she went on to explain. “Like all of us, Éomer grew up with tales of Queen Morwen, his grandmother. The noble lady from Gondor, who did not care about her husband’s people and who tried to persuade Thengel to abandon his duty as the heir of Rohan. It is said she had great influence over her husband and while he reigned his court was dominated by Gondorian customs and everybody in their vicinity was forced to speak the common tongue. When Thengel King died, Morwen could hardly wait for his funeral before she left for Gondor, taking three of her daughters with her. Her youngest, Théodwyn, Éomer’s mother, stayed behind in Rohan. They say both she and Théoden broke with their mother.”

“And now the grandson of this much despised queen has chosen another Gondorian noble woman to be his bride,” Lothíriel soberly took stock of her words.

“No,” Cynewyn replied simply. “Éomer chose you to be his wife.” She laid her hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Come; sit on the bench, my Lady, so we can dress your hair.”

After Lothíriel had settled herself comfortably, the lady pulled a ribbon from the small embroidered purse she wore at her girdle and held the ends together.

“This is the perimeter of the Queen’s circlet. What do you think, Winfrith?”

“It will be too big for my Lady. We will have to braid her hair around her head so the circlet will be supported by it.”

The handmaiden handed Lothíriel a pair of elegant shoes, buttoned at the ankles and made of fine suede. They had been dyed in the same colour as the velvet gown.

Cynewyn eyed them doubtfully. “They have rather thin soles. You will be freezing. At Meduseld you would be better wearing sturdy shoes. With these stone floors there is always a draught around your feet.”

Lothíriel looked down. The dainty footwear looked very pretty with the silver buttons and decoration.

“I suppose I am not going to die from cold feet.” There was nothing to be done but to accept her fate. When Arwen had picked out the shoes she had probably done it with her own experience from the summer months in mind. Lothíriel just hoped she was not going to get a cold because of it.

Winfrith took a brush and, undoing the plait, began to brush her hair with gentle, even strokes.

In one of her letters Cynewyn had explained that after the wedding ceremony, when bride and groom or in this special case the king and his bride had spoken their vows, Éomer would asked his kinsmen to give him their consent to crown his new wife as his Queen-Consort. After the Rohirrim had expressed their agreement, he would put the Queen’s circlet on her head.

The newly appointed handmaiden proved herself to be very skilful in the braiding of hair. Somehow she managed to conjure an elaborate style that would withstand the gusty winds without looking plain or severe.

“That is very lovely, Winfrith,” Lady Cynewyn praised her effort. She again took the ribbon and held it as a measurement around Lothíriel’s head. “And it will support the circlet,” she found to her satisfaction.

Lothíriel took a calming breath. “That means I am prepared – as well as I can hope for – and ready to leave.” She thought that her own voice sounded awfully strained.

Cynewyn smiled at her. “There is some time left. Perhaps you would now like to eat some more or have another drink of tea. Winfrith will go to the kitchen and bring you whatever you might fancy.”

She did not feel the slightest bit of an appetite, but her common sense told her that she couldn’t hold out the whole day with only a slice of fruit bread in her stomach. The last thing the Rohirrim should have to witness was a fainting Gondorian princess.

When Cynewyn saw her hesitating she made a suggestion. “Perhaps you would like a hot beef-broth with a fresh egg yolk whisked in it. That is easy on the stomach but nutritious.”

“That is a very good idea, my Lady,” Winfrith agreed. She left the chamber without waiting for Lothíriel’s approval, taking the tray with the leftovers with her.

“You will feel better, as soon as you have eaten something,” the lady assured the nervous bride.

“That is what I told myself earlier.” She let out another breath, irritated with herself. “I do not understand this. I was not this tense yesterday. It only began when I opened my eyes this morning. Suddenly I felt as if . . . Sweet Elbereth, I do not even know how I feel,” she groaned.”

There was again this calm friendly humour in the older woman’s eyes. “I think you would only have a reason to be concerned if you were unmoved and indifferent right now.”

“You are probably right.” Lothíriel managed a smile.

Lady Cynewyn pulled a folded piece of parchment from her purse.

“While you are waiting for Winfrith to bring you the broth, have a look at this. Gandalf gave it to me for you.”

Lothíriel took the parchment with a surprised arch of her eyebrows. “What is it?” she asked rhetorically, at the same time unfolding what appeared to be a note.

“It is the wording of your wedding vows.”

Now she felt even more surprised. “But you sent me a description of the Rohirric wedding customs including the words I have to say, many months ago,” she reminded Cynewyn and began to read what was written on the parchment in a precise lettering.

“The night before yesterday Gandalf arrived in Edoras – out of nowhere, as is his way - announcing that he would preside over the wedding ceremony,” the lady told her. “And during the feast yesterday he disappeared together with Éomer for a while to discuss some details and changes, whatever they may be. I suppose this wording is the result.”

Lothíriel stared at the lines in front of her. These had nothing to do with the mundane wording she had once received from Lady Cynewyn. This vow was very different. It was much more, rather, a declaration. There was not one single word here she wouldn’t be able to speak in truth and with conviction, but why had they, Gandalf and Éomer, decided to diverge from the common Rohirric customs?

Cynewyn must have seen from her expression that she was at a complete loss. “Is something wrong, my Lady,” she inquired, concern in her voice.

“No. Everything is fine.” Lothíriel replied absent-mindedly, slowly shaking her head. “I suppose I just have to memorize these words.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” the older woman declared, still looking doubtful. “I will have a look at how everything is proceeding and return later with your father to fetch you. Winfrith should be back soon.”

“Yes, that is just fine with me.” Lothíriel looked up, having managed to slip on her customary mask of composure.

After Cynewyn had left she turned her attention back to the short script in her hands. Why had Gandalf and Éomer changed the common words? Why was she expected to speak this vow in front of all the witnessing citizens of Edoras and the wedding guests? She recalled the words Merewyn had said without really thinking. The people of Rohan believed their King would wed her as part of a political arrangement with Gondor. Did Éomer fear that his kinsmen considered her another uncaring noblewoman from the south who had been dragged to their land against her will? Were these words supposed to be a public declaration to reassure the Rohirrim? Had the decision been made after consulting her father and King Elessar?

So many questions. Amrothos had been right. Her urge to ask questions would land her in trouble one day, even if this trouble came only in form of the headache she felt approaching. This was her wedding day. Could it get any worse? She was a bag of nerves; her stomach was rebelling and her head throbbing. And now she had to memorize these lines that Gandalf had sent her, and all she wished was for Éomer to know that she was truly going to mean these words, that for her they were more than hollow phrases.

Do not push, Amrothos had advised her, and Erchirion had made a similar comment. She should not expect everything to happen at once. After all, they had a lifetime at their disposal to become acquainted with each other.

When had she started thinking in quotes made by others?

She just had to get over this day and night and tomorrow everything would be back to normal. Her nerves would have soothed, her stomach settled and the headache gone. One step after the other. Therefore, she had better begin by memorizing these lines. She had not any intention of making a fool of herself in front of her new people by getting into a tangle.

Fortunately she had always found learning by heart easy - or unfortunately, because soon as she had the words memorized her mind began to sink its claws into the implications of the changes again. She wished it were possible to turn off her brain.

Winfrith returned with a bowl of beef-broth and forcing it down provided at least some kind of diversion. Today she was thankful for small favours.

At last – or perhaps much too soon – Lady Cynewyn was back, announcing that a large crowd, the citizen of Edoras and many Rohirrim from the environs of the capital, had gathered at the foot of Meduseld.

“Everybody is ready, my Lady. The King and his guests and the Rohirric dignitaries will be expecting you on the terrace. Your father has come to escort you.”

Lothíriel swallowed heavily and got up from her seat. The moment had come. With the help of Cynewyn and Winfrith she put on the velvet gown. How could she have forgotten that the train was this long? She just hoped nobody would step on it. The same went for the drapey sleeves. Not very practical.

She hesitated, then took the small parchment and rolled it up, slipping it under the narrow sleeve of her underdress. She doubted that she would have a chance to look at it even if she found that she suddenly couldn’t remember the words, but somehow it made her feel better to have it with her.

For a last time she contemplated her reflection in the looking glass. Quite impressive. She didn’t look as delicate as usual.

“You look stunning, my Lady,” Cynewyn confirmed her own positive evaluation. “Shall I ask your father to come in?”

“Yes, I think it is time,” Lothíriel replied, but when the other woman was about to turn away to open the door, she held her back. “Lady Cynewyn, let me express again my gratitude for all you have done for me over the past months. Your correspondence has helped me more than you can imagine and so did your company last night and this morning. And my thanks for finding Winfrith. I am convinced we will do very well together.” She smiled at the handmaiden who acknowledged her words with a quick curtsey.

“As I said, my Lady, it has given me great pleasure to be able to give you support and be assured that you can rely on me whenever you wish for my assistance or my companionship.”

The women exchanged a warm smile, and Lothíriel was certain that she had formed a first friendship in Rohan. Perhaps she could even count Lord Elfhelm as another friend. His and his wife’s welcome had eased some of the anxiety that had been building up inside her with every league they had travelled closer to Rohan.

The lady went to the door and opened it. Imrahil must been waiting outside in the corridor. He stepped inside the chamber, taking in his daughter’s appearance. The expression on his face was not one of wistful pride, which one should have customarily expected from a father who was about to give his only daughter to another man. Imrahil of Dol Amroth looked quite simply complacent.

“My dear, you do look decidedly lovely, but I will refrain from paying you any hollow compliments by muttering something like ‘a true Swan Princess’. I think the one time I tried that comparison you informed me that you do not see any big difference between a swan and a goose.”

Lothíriel appreciated her father’s notion of trying to cheer her up and ease some of the tension he had to know she was feeling. She managed a smile. “Especially on dry land, away from its natural element, a swan just waddles like a goose.”

Imrahil smiled down at her, now perhaps a bit wistful after all, and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, “You are not leaving your natural element, my dear. You are just about to finally reach it.” He bent and placed a light kiss on her forehead. Then he raised his right arm, offering it to her. “Chin up, Lothíriel. You are not going to meet your hangman, but your husband.”

“Thank you, Father. You are very encouraging.”

She placed her hand on the back of his and let him lead her out of the chamber. Entering the great hall she found that the top table had been put on the dais, already laid with plates, goblets and cutlery. Down on the floor beautifully carved tables and benches had been placed close together only leaving a wide aisle in the centre. Everything had been prepared for the wedding feast.

At the end of the dais King Elessar and her brothers were waiting for them, her liege wearing the colours of Gondor, her brothers those of Dol Amroth. All were smiling at her in greeting, even Elphir, although his smile could be considered slightly pained. At least he made an effort.

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel, that gown is gorgeous,” Amrothos declared, gesturing to her with a flourish. “It’s a good job that it was not left to you to choose it.”

He received a thump in the ribs from Erchirion. “Another one with an amputated brain,” the latter muttered.

“Those are the simple pleasures of being a parent,” Imrahil remarked to no one in particular. “Shall we proceed?” he asked his chuckling liege.

They walked down the aisle; Lothíriel led by her father, Elessar on her other side, her brothers behind them. The stone floors of Meduseld were very beautiful, no doubt, but there was indeed a draught around her feet. They were already as cold as ice cubes.

The huge door panels of the Golden Hall stood open, flanked on each side by two doorwards, wearing long green cloaks over their coats-of-mail and imposing helmets with faceplates. Lothíriel wondered if the doorwards were chosen because of their size. Those four could have easily been kin of Lord Erkenbrand.

Through the open door she could see that again a large group of people had assembled outside. A babble of voices greeted her, voices from more people than just those on the terrace. The whole of Edoras and beyond was waiting for her.

One of the guards gave a sign and the sound of a horn announced that the bride and her family were approaching. The four doorwards bowed to their future queen and her entourage, turning the hilts of their swords towards them in greeting.

And so Lothíriel stepped out into the bright sunshine and the eternal wind of the plains.

The gathered dignitaries had left a path to the edge of the terrace where two figures were waiting; one clad in white, the other in green and gold. Seeing Éomer in his dark-green tunic with the high collar and its rich golden embroidery, the King’s circlet keeping his blond mane from being blown in his face, Lothíriel wondered if the Rohirrim had chosen green and gold to be their colours because it complimented their own natural colouring or if that was just a coincidence.

Imrahil let go of her hand and Gandalf motioned her to step next to Éomer with a friendly nod. Her soon-to-be husband did not smile but looked at her with an intensity that made her knees go weak and her stomach flip. Quickly she averted her eyes and looked down at the gathered crowd, which had fallen silent with the sound of the horn. There were the citizen of Edoras, the riders of the Royal Guard of Rohan and the Knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth.

“Rohirrim!”

Lothíriel nearly jumped when Gandalf began to speak with a loud, clear voice, using the common tongue, so that all who had gathered would be able to understand him.

“Friends and guests of this land and of this people. We have come here in celebration of the joining together of Éomer King and the Princess Lothíriel, daughter to Imrahil, Lord of Dol Amroth and as such vassal to Elessar, King of Gondor.”

He turned towards the High King.

“So first I have to ask the lady’s Liege-lord: My Lord King Elessar, do you approve of this union?”

“I do approve.” Elessar replied and bowed to Lothíriel. “With all my heart I give this daughter of Gondor my blessings.” And with a bow to Éomer he added, “And my best wishes to my brother.”

He stepped back to stand next to the Marshals of Rohan.

“And so we shall proceed.”

Gandalf stood at the edge of the terrace, addressing the people of Rohan.

“There are many things to be said about a union between a man and a woman. Much wisdom concerning the joining together of two souls. With each union, more knowledge is gained and more wisdom gathered. Though we are unable to give all this knowledge to these two who stand before us, we can hope to leave with them the knowledge of love and its strengths and the anticipation of the wisdom that comes with time. The law of life is love unto all beings. Without love, life is nothing, without love, death has no redemption. Love precedes life and endures beyond death; love should be the beginning of creation and love alone should stand above all else on this earth. If we learn no more in life, let it be this.”

This introductory speech of Gandalf had nothing to do with what she had been told were Rohirric customs. But then the wizard was known to be strange in his dealings. On the other hand the Rohirrim, and especially Éomer, trusted him implicitly and would not stop him from doing whatever he pleased to do.

“The union between a man and a woman is a bond to be entered into only after considerable thought and reflection. As with any aspect of life, it has its cycles, its ups and its downs, its trials and its triumphs. With full understanding of this, this man and this woman have come here today to be joined as one in such a union. Others would ask, at this time, who gives the woman into this bond but, as a woman is not property to be bought and sold, given and taken, I ask simply if she comes of her own will and if she has her family’s blessing.”

At least those last words were the same she had been provided with by Lady Cynewyn and she knew what she was supposed to answer.

Gandalf looked into her eyes with kindness.

“Princess Lothíriel, is it true that you come of your own free will and accord?”

“Yes, it is true.”

She nearly sighed in relief. Her voice had sounded very much as always, firm and even.

“With whom do you come and whose blessings accompany you?” the wizard inquired.

Imrahil took a step forward. “She comes with me, her father, and is accompanied by the blessings of all of her family.”

Again Gandalf turned towards her. “Please join hands with your betrothed and listen to what I am about to say.”

Lothíriel held out her right hand to Éomer who took it in his right. It was his sword hand; hard, calloused and very likely with enough strength to break every single bone in hers by simply pressing it together. But his fingers enclosed hers with so much care and tenderness, that she knew she would never have to fear any harm coming from his power and strength. And his hand was so wonderfully warm; very warm. Or perhaps hers was just so very cold.

She looked into his eyes, and they kept their hold on her while Gandalf continued.

“Above you is the sun, below you are the stones, as time does pass, remember: Like a stone should your love be firm, like the sun should your love be constant. Let the powers of the mind and of the intellect guide you in your bond, let the strength of your wills bind you together, let the power of love and desire make you happy, and the strength of your dedication make you inseparable. Be close, but not too close. Possess one another, yet be understanding. Have patience with one another, for storms will come, but they will pass. Be free in giving affection and warmth. Have no fear and let not the ways of the unenlightened give you unease.”

The wizard made a pause, waiting for Rohan’s King to separate his eyes from his bride’s face.

“Éomer King, I have not the right to bind you to this woman, nor has any other. Only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time.”

“It is my wish.”

These were the first words spoken by Éomer in this ceremony, the first Lothíriel had heard from him since they had parted the evening before, and his voice was very different from the low, sensual tone he had used on her then. With this voice he could have made himself heard all over the plains and on the battlefields. This rich voice carried certainly to everybody listening right now.

“I, Éomer, son of Éomund, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take you, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen one. To desire you and be desired by you, to possess you, and be possessed by you, without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for you. I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

While he was speaking Lothíriel could feel her mouth falling open ever so slightly and she did not seem able to close it again. She froze, staring at Éomer, rapidly blinking. Those were the same words she had received from Gandalf, the same she had memorized and was supposed to repeat when the wizard gave her the cue. She had thought they wanted her to say those lines to reassure the Rohirrim that she came of her own free will and that she would be committed to her new husband and his land. But now Éomer spoke of love and desire. Could he mean it? Or were those words just empty phrases? Or was this what he had tried to tell her when . . . ?

“Damn Amrothos!”

She was startled by her own words. She had spoken them out loud. Not really loud, thank the Valar, but loud enough for Gandalf and Éomer to hear. The former looked at her in surprise; the latter gave her his first smile on this day, which turned into a wide grin.

“My sentiments, exactly,” he murmured.

The wizard cleared his throat. “Do you mind if we proceed?”

Rohan’s King didn’t take his eyes from his bride. He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Princess Lothíriel,” Gandalf continued with the ceremony, humour in his voice. “I have not the right to bind you to this man nor has any other. Only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time.”

“It is my wish. I, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, by the life that courses within my blood, and the love that resides within my heart, take you, Éomer, son of Éomund to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. . . .”

Lothíriel spoke with a clear voice, making herself heard by all assembled. She didn’t want to hide her feelings any longer. She wanted Éomer to know and she didn’t mind everybody else knowing. She wanted him to know that she meant every single letter of this declaration.

“. . . I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

Éomer looked at her steadily, smiling. A smile that barely reached his mouth but clearly shone in his eyes. Perhaps it was the light of the sun reflecting from all those coats-of-mail and harnesses, in the golden embroidery of his own tunic, but his eyes were more gold than green, like amber. Under their gaze she felt warm . . . except for her feet; those were still icy.

“We all have heard your words,” Gandalf went on, “and have witnessed the declarations of your mutual will to become bonded in a union. Now you may drink your fill from the cup of love and share the bread as you will from now on share everything in life.”

One of the Hobbits, Master Meriadoc, stepped forward and handed Gandalf a large, golden goblet, which he passed on to the King of Rohan. Éomer held the vessel so Lothíriel could take a sip from it. It contained hot spiced wine; a very pleasant taste. Next she had to hold it for Éomer. After he had drunk of the wine, the goblet went back to Gandalf and then Merry, and the second Hobbit, Master Peregrin, came to hand over a golden plate on which lay several pieces of a dark bread. Gandalf gave the plate to Éomer who took a piece of the bread between thumb and forefinger, offering it to Lothíriel. She opened her mouth and he placed it on her tongue, his finger brushing lightly over her lower lip. She had to concentrate to take over the plate and feed him and not to swallow the rather hard and dry bread the wrong way. Perhaps it would have been better to eat the bread first and have a sip of wine after that.

After Pippin had taken the plate away, Gandalf took a few steps back from the couple.

“The bond has been concluded,” he announced. “Now it may be sealed with a kiss.”

Éomer came closer, so close that she had to tip her head backwards to be able to look into his eyes. He raised his hands to her shoulders and let them slide slowly towards her neck. He had touched her this way before. When he framed her face between his hands, he did it with great tenderness. She could feel the roughened skin of his palms, his calloused thumbs caressing her cheekbones; again she could sense the utter strength in those hands. Yet he cradled her face as if he might break something. She closed her eyes; her own hands came up to clasp his wrists. His head bent, his mouth brushing hers. It was not a deep kiss, lips barely touching, barely moving, but he let it linger. It sent a delicious shock wave through her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she became aware of the clapping and cheering. She could feel Éomer’s lips curved into a smile over hers. He pulled back slightly.

“I wish we could get rid of all them right away,” he murmured. “But I am afraid there is still one thing left to do.”

He straightened up and took her hand in his, turning them, so they both now faced the people of Edoras and Rohan.

“Rohirrim.”

He definitely had a voice that carried.

“Today you have witnessed the conclusion of my bond with Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Now I wish her to be at my side not only as my wife but also as my Queen-Consort. Do you consent?”

“Ay!” It thundered up to them.

The Rohirrim in general seemed to be blessed with a rather healthy lung capacity.

Éomer turned to her. “Lothíriel, will you pledge allegiance to this land and to these people?”

Lothíriel hesitated for a fleeting moment. The wording she had been given for this ritual had had her pledge allegiance to Éomer as her liege as well, but she decided to follow his lead and change the words of her vow.

“Yes, my Lord, I will pledge allegiance to land and people.”

“Then kneel to receive the symbol of your station.”

Éomer helped her to keep her balance as she went down on her knees in front of him. Somebody could have put a cushion or at least a small rug on the stones. They were not only cold but also hard.

From the corner of her eye she saw Lord Erkenbrand step up to them, carrying a green cushion in his huge hands. On it lay the circlet of the Queens of Rohan. Éomer took it and placed it on her head. Thanks to Winfrith’s skills in braiding it found a secure hold on her hair.

Éomer stretched out his hand to her.

“Rise, Lothíriel, my wife and Queen of the Riddermark.”

She took his hand and putting down a foot carefully to avoid stepping on the folds of her gown; she got up and once more faced her new people.

“Behold the Queen!” That was Lord Elfhelm’s voice.

And the reply came from all those having gathered at the foot of Meduseld and behind them on the terrace of the Golden Hall.

“Hail, Lothíriel Queen! Hail, Éomer King.”

Now she was not only a wife but a queen as well. She had not the slightest experience with one or the other, and in both cases only a vague idea what was waiting for her. All she knew for certain was that her life was forever altered. And her father thought, for some reason, that she had not left her natural element but just arrived in it. So much for unbroken optimism.

She looked down at the cheering crowd. Strange faces but still her people. She had to learn. She had to learn about them, had to learn about their lives. She had to become one of them.

“Lothíriel.”

First things first. Tomorrow she would begin to learn to be the Queen of the Riddermark; today she would begin with being a wife.

She turned towards Éomer. He pulled her closer.

“Soon they will have learnt to love and to respect you.”

She wished she had the courage to ask him if he had already learnt to love her, but this would probably be a rather unfortunate place and time to do so. Later. He had said so himself. They would talk later, when they were alone and nobody would be able to disturb or to overhear them.

“You have done wonderfully,” Éomer murmured. “But then, you would not know how to do differently.” He took her hand in both of his and drew it up to his mouth, kissing her palm and then laying it against his cheek. His beard tickled. “You look so beautiful. I wish we could be alone right now, but there are our guests and our people who expect us to celebrate with them.”

He was right. While many of those who had gathered down on the lawn at the foot of the Golden Hall had begun to walk down the path to celebrate their king’s wedding somewhere in the city, others came up the stairs and the terrace was getting more and more crowded.

“I am afraid we have to talk to every single one of them to accept their felicitations,” Éomer announced with a groan underlining his voice.

“There are even more than yesterday,” Lothíriel frowned. “Éomer, I am afraid I have already forgotten the names of most of those you introduced to me then.”

 “Never mind that.” He made a gesture with his free hand. His other still clasped hers. “I am just glad to hear my name did not slip your mind.”

That gave her a pause. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was already beginning to wonder if you would ever use it.”

She thought back, although she really hadn’t to recall the past days. She knew she had not used his name because . . .

“It would not have been proper for me to do so before,” she enlightened him.

“So, we are back to ‘proper’. Why did you not draw my attention to that fact when I used your name?” he inquired curiously.

“King’s prerogative,” Lothíriel replied with a perfectly straight face. “I would never think of reprimanding an outside ruler.”

“I am certain Aragorn will appreciate hearing that.”

“What am I supposed to appreciate?” Gondor’s King had come over to them, putting his hand on Éomer’s shoulder.

“My wife not reprimanding you.”

“Yes, indeed,” the retort came without any hesitation. “I would rather have her reprimand you. You do need it more, after all.”

“My sentiments, exactly,” Lothíriel remarked.

Elessar laughed and took her hand from Éomer’s grasp. He pulled it to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“My felicitations, my Lady. May your union be long and happy.”

Then he pulled his friend into a hug, “And my felicitations to you, brother. Although you have got more than you deserve.”

Éomer returned the embrace. “My dear Aragorn, if we men always married the women we deserved . . . at least you would have a very bad time of it.”

After this exchange of pleasantries everybody else wanted to express their best wishes to the new couple. Beside her family and the few Rohirrim and guests Lothíriel already knew, there were so many strange faces that after a while all of them seemed to look alike and she simply stopped trying to keep them and their respective names in her head. Something else she just had to leave for later.

Whoever had spoken to them went into the hall while Éomer and Lothíriel stayed outside on the terraces. Éomer didn’t appear to be bothered by the fresh winds blowing down from the mountains. In the bright sunshine her velvet gown kept her warm, but Lothíriel had somehow lost the feeling in her feet and the cold began to creep up her legs. She cast a furtive glance down to his feet. He was wearing thick boots under his tunic. She should have done the same. Nobody would have noticed them under the wide folds of her skirts.

Finally the last of their well-wishers had disappeared inside the hall. They were, save the doorwards, alone on the terrace and Lothíriel let herself go for a moment and groaned. Éomer met that noise with an amused smile, but asked with a hint of worry in his voice,

“Are you well, my sweet?”

Lothíriel was so surprised by the use of this term of endearment that she totally forgot why she had felt she needed to groan. She blinked.

“Lothíriel?”

“I am fine,” she managed. “But I think I would like to go inside as well. It is getting rather chilly out here on the terrace.”

“Indeed?” Éomer seemed to consider this, but then shrugged one shoulder. “Probably true when you are wearing skirts. And you should sit down, I think. You have been standing up now for quite some time.”

“I am not going to break down,” she insisted.

“I did not expect you to do so. You are much too stubborn for that.”

Before she had the chance to reply, he had started for the hall and, his hand wrapped around her wrist, dragging her - more or less - behind him. Lothíriel began to doubt that he had a real notion how much more powerful he was in comparison to her. She already had the image before her eyes of being hauled along the centre aisle towards the top table when Éomer came to a halt at the threshold of Meduseld. He released her wrist and offered his arm.

“My Lady Queen.”

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

“My Lord King.”

They entered the Golden Hall, and moving down the wide aisle between the tables, they nodded their greetings to all those who had already taken their seats for the feast and were now getting to their feet again to pay their respect to the Royal Couple.

At the top table the guests of honour; her family and the Marshals and the members of the Royal Council and their respective wives had been seated. As all of them sat next to each other, facing the hall, Éomer had to lead her around the entire table to their chairs at the centre. Her father was sitting on her other side. When she had taken her seat and he sat down again, Imrahil placed his hand over hers.

“Is everything well, my dear?” he asked warmly.

“Yes, Father. I am very well.” She couldn’t help an onset of forthrightness. “I am afraid my feet are as cold as ice,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I definitely chose the wrong shoes.”

Imrahil chuckled. He motioned a serving wench.

“Have some of the mulled wine. That will warm you up.”

Lothíriel was not certain if it was a good idea to have any wine at all. Since her not so fortunate experience after the drinking bout with Amrothos the past summer she had avoided all kind of spirits. But her father had a point. The mulled wine would warm her up.

Lady Cynewyn came up to her and asked if she would like to shed the velvet gown, but for the time being she decided to keep it on.

Before those assembled in the Golden Hall were allowed to indulge in the feast, they had to listen to the customary speeches. Elessar, her father and Éomer himself kept them short; the Marshals both refrained from giving one. Only the head of the Royal Council, Lord Aldhelm, felt he had to say a lot, not everything entirely appropriate for a speech at a wedding but rather for a council meeting. Fortunately Gandalf managed to cut him short without offending him.

The feast began, more and more often made less monotonous by toasts, especially those given by the Hobbits, which were all quite amusing, and by the dwarf, which Lothíriel did not always – or rather mostly – understand. But judging by Elphir’s indignant expression and Amrothos’s outbursts – Erchirion managed to keep a straight face by biting his lips – she came to the conclusion that Gimli’s remarks had to be considered as being rather frivolous.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Éomer and her father watching her with a sort of amused concern, but barely keeping their faces straight. It was somehow very disconcerting not to be able to follow the general conversation at your own wedding.

She managed to eat some pie and salad, and some bread, but despite having meant not to drink more than one goblet of mulled wine, she suddenly found herself already having finished the second. Now she was getting rather warm, at least in general. Her feet hadn’t improved much – if at all. It had gone dark outside and the hall was lit by torches and candles, their flames radiating additional heat to the fire in the huge centre hearth. It was probably time to take off the outer garment.

She tried to catch Lady Cynewyn’s eye. She was quickly granted success and the Lord Elfhelm’s wife hurried up to her chair, bending down so that they could speak in low voices.

“It is getting quite warm,” Lothíriel let her know. “I think I would like to take of the velvet gown.”

“Perhaps you may consider retiring, my Lady,” Cynewyn suggested. “It is rather late.”

Lothíriel stopped short. “It is?” Suddenly her stomach was in knots again and her nerves made their presence felt once more.

“Yes, it is,” the lady confirmed with a perceptive smile. “Winfrith is already waiting for you in the Queen’s chamber. I will accompany you.”

Lothíriel hesitated, not quite certain if it was required to bid an official farewell or if she could just slip out of the hall, hopefully unobserved by any of the celebrating guests. Somehow she had an inkling that Gimli would feel her departure required another of his toasts.

Her gaze went over to Éomer. Of course, he had heard – or at least guessed - what had been spoken between her and Cynewyn. He returned her look and put his hand over hers. Not much had changed. His was still wonderfully warm and hers icy cold.

Cynewyn had grasped the back of her chair and when Lothíriel made a move to get up, she assisted her by pulling the heavy armchair back. Those who were sitting down to the left of her would probably not notice that she had departed, but it couldn’t be avoided that those on the opposite side of the table – not least her father and her brothers - saw her leaving. Well, today even Elphir would not be able to think of an excuse to snoop after Éomer when he followed his wife later.

She knew Éomer was watching her leave. She could feel his eyes on her back until she stepped out of sight through the doors into the corridor behind the hall. The shiver of awareness that went through her was not caused entirely by the much cooler air here.

Soon he would enlighten her as to the questions to which even Amrothos had refused to give her straight answers.

Now she truly knew how it felt to be a bundle of nerves.

TBC

Éomer followed the disappearing form of his wife with his eyes.

His wife.

His consort.

Lothíriel . . . of Rohan.

He smiled.

Never before in his life had he wanted something as desperately as he wanted Lothíriel as his wife. For a pure egoistical reason; he wanted her just for him.

Since he had – admittedly - rather spontaneously agreed to Imrahil’s offer, his mood had gone through very different stages. Right after he had sent the letter with his proposal to Lothíriel he had asked himself, in all seriousness, if he had gone out of his mind when he had done so. No matter what the others: Imrahil, Aragorn, Faramir and Éowyn – the last didn’t even know the Princess of Dol Amroth – said, he had asked a woman, of whom he knew next to nothing, not only to become his wife but consequently the Queen of the Riddermark.

During those days when he had been waiting for her answer he had been torn between the rational conviction that it would be for the best if she refused him and the simple fear that she would do just that. When he had held her consent in his hands his first reaction had been relief. Then he had been overcome by a deep feeling of happiness, one more intense than he had ever known before. But finally, after having read her reply several more times, he had begun to feel disappointment and doubt.

The tone of her letter had been pointedly impersonal and indifferent. He could virtually hear her speaking the words in that cool, reasonable voice she had used when she had explained to him that she considered it her duty to accept an arranged union with a man chosen by her father if it would be for the good of Gondor.

Had that been the reason for her consent? That she felt she had to do her duty to Gondor? The last thing he had wanted was a woman who felt herself to be under an obligation to become his wife.

No, the last thing he wanted was for Lothíriel to consent out of a sense of duty.

He had cursed Imrahil – and Aragorn – for rushing him into this proposal; for giving him rational grounds to justify his decision to himself. Yet he had known from the very first moment that he had not proposed to Lothíriel because it made sense but because he wanted her.

But he had not merely wanted her; at least not just in his bed. It was not that he had asked her to become his wife because that was the only honourable way he could have a woman like her.

He wanted her as his wife.

His wife.

Until then he had never truly considered the question of what kind of woman he wanted at his side for the rest of his life, wanted to have children with. In times as bad as they had been then, one simply did not think about having a family. It was something which he just kept in the back of his mind for the foreseeable future. He had even expected that he might never have a family of his own.

And when he had became king certain parties in his vicinity had given him barely time to adjust to the situation as such. Almost immediately they had demanded that he find a wife and beget an heir. He had opposed those requests on the grounds that it was hardly the right time to search for a wife while Rohan stood on the brink of disaster and was fighting for its survival. The true reason had been that he hated being pushed, and quite certainly, being pushed in a matter that he considered personal. Although he was conscious of the fact that there was next to nothing personal about a king’s life.

Éomer reached for his goblet and took a sip of wine. He grinned to himself. He had to put the blame on his Marshal. It had been Elfhelm who had first mentioned those two words in connection with Lothíriel: wife and queen.

Although he had rejected the idea emphatically then, it had grown roots in his subconscious, very deep and strong roots. And Imrahil had delivered to him all the excuses he had needed on a silver tray. The Prince’s offer had given him the opportunity to kill a whole flock of birds with one stone.

Those who had urged him to take a wife and secure the line of succession, and as such the continuation of Rohan’s existence, would be satisfied. He would please his friends – mainly Aragorn and Elfhelm – who feared he would become too isolated once Éowyn had left for Gondor. It would salve his sister’s guilty conscience; she had halfway persuaded herself that she was selfishly abandoning him and Rohan. He had certainly not wished to affront Imrahil, who – for some reason he still had difficulty understanding – had appeared quite determined to get him to agree to his plan.

But most of all it had provided him with the justification for following those mystifying and powerful emotions that this ethereal looking princess had aroused in him and ignoring his common sense, which was urging him to let reason prevail; trying to convince him that it was not possible to become so completely lost in a feeling for a woman he had met only four times. That this infatuation wouldn’t last.

But this had never been about common sense. He had come to realize that the night he had bidden his farewell to the healer he had left something behind. Something essential: his heart.

He just hadn’t comprehended at once what had happened, because everything had been coming thick and fast in those days. He hadn’t recognized that there was something missing. Not until he had seen her again. Not until he had been forced by her father to decide once and for all if he wanted a life with her at his side or a life without her.

When he received her detached and carefully worded answer to his proposal he had felt thoroughly disappointed. Nothing in that letter had indicated that she might return his feelings in an even rudimentary way. His dismay had caused him to pen a brusque acknowledgement that he regretted having sent almost immediately. But then it had been too late. The messenger had already been halfway to Minas Tirith.

After that he hadn’t heard from her again personally. Not that her silence had surprised him. It had been his own fault. He had never felt comfortable composing letters. Words on parchment somehow always took on a different meaning to those you spoke directly to a person. And belatedly he had to admit that his proposal had not been exactly a masterpiece of prose. No wonder she had answered it so cautiously and with so much restraint.

He had found out that she had written instead to Elfhelm. That had more surprised him than it had hurt him. After his Marshal had found them in what was commonly considered a compromising situation, he would have thought Lothíriel too embarrassed to seek out his friend for whatever reason. Sensible, as Elfhelm always was – he certainly could take some lessons there – he had referred the princess to his wife and over the following months the women had been in regular communication. Whenever he had met Cynewyn, she had told him details about their correspondence, had even given him some of the letters to read. He had felt reassured by their contents. The words did not sound as if they had been written with apprehension. The letters bubbled over with curiosity and demands for information about everything concerning life in Rohan.

They just did not enquire after him.

He had pushed that from his mind. To bring Rohan through the winter had demanded his entire strength, body and soul. But many a night he had lain awake and had wished for her to be there with him. He had begun to count the months, the sennights and finally the days until she would come to Rohan. Until he could tell her what he could not write to her. And all the time he had feared that she would come only out of duty.

And when she had finally arrived and he had looked up into those large beguiling eyes he had nearly breathed a sigh of relief. She did not know how to be indifferent. She would never try to fool him about her feelings. She did not know how to play games. In those beautiful fawn eyes there was as much nervousness as he had been feeling. And he had not been wrong. She felt drawn to him; she came into his arms willingly and as naturally as if it had been a long time habit.

If it had been up to him he would have found the time to talk to her, although he had to admit having her so close caused his body to become rather distracted. And from her remarks he had realized that there were several items which needed to be out in the open between them; that she certainly needed more reassurance than him. After all, they had brought her here, to a foreign land, to wed a man she barely knew and who had not been capable of conveying his feelings over all those months.

Why hadn’t he said a word in all those months? He wouldn’t have reacted so irritably to her question if it hadn’t hit him so squarely in his own conscience. He had begun to understand that she had fears of her own, that she was afraid of being only part of a political bargain. That she was just another woman, for a change legitimised so that she would be able to bear the heir.

And he began to understand that Lothíriel would always speak what was on her mind. To hem and haw was not in her nature. Éomer chuckled. How had she survived in Gondorian society where they seemed to communicate among themselves in a sort of code, never voicing what they truly meant?

“And may I ask what that chuckle is about?”

He turned towards Aragorn, looking into his friend’s amused face.

“My wife.” He liked the sound of those two words.

“Why am I not surprised?" The King of Gondor took his goblet and leant against the back of his chair. “But you have surprised quite a number of people today. I do not think that anybody in attendance at the wedding ceremony was left in any doubt about your feelings for your wife.”

“That was the idea,” Éomer affirmed. “I just hope Lothíriel caught on as well.”

His friend managed a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, looking slightly baffled.

“Well,” Éomer began to explain, absentmindedly removing his circlet and putting it next to his empty plate, “if I have already learnt something about my wife, then it is that she prefers straightforward answers to her questions. And believe me, there are plenty of them.” He rubbed the mark, which the pressure of the circlet had left on his forehead.

Aragorn watched his gesture with a half hidden grin.

“She is young, Éomer. In certain ways very young, much younger than her years.”

The King of Rohan stopped massaging his forehead and looked at his friend quizzically.

“Arwen has spent much time with her over the last months and found her intelligent, self-confident when it comes to her profession as a healer and sophisticated in quite a few areas. But Imrahil’s precautionary measure of hiding her in the Houses of Healing has left her with a certain lack of experience.”

“What sort of experience are we talking about?” Éomer asked, raising one eyebrow in enquiry.

“Her experience in dealing with people in general,” Aragorn replied. “Imrahil and his family joined us quite often for the evening meals, with the consequence that they turned out to be very lively. Lothíriel appeared to be interested in virtually everything and is quite well able to draw the right conclusion from the facts. That is when she proved that her head is much older than her years. But she has also a tendency to take many things you say quite literally.”

“And you had better take literally what she says.”  Éomer stared down at the table. He pushed his circlet back and forth as his thoughts wandered back to that night about a year ago. He wasn’t able to stifle his laughter and when he looked up he saw that Aragorn was watching him with a smile, both amused and bemused.

“You know,” he said to his friend, “I have yet to make up my mind what threw me most off balance that first night I met her; that she slapped me or that she ordered me to take my clothes off and get into a bathtub.”

Aragorn stared at him disbelievingly for a moment as if trying to comprehend what he just heard. Then he looked around to find Imrahil standing at the other end of the table, talking to Legolas and Gimli.

“Oh, do not worry,” Éomer reassured him. “I am quite certain my newly acquired father-in-law knew much more than he let show. Imrahil of Dol Amroth is a shrewd man who knows how to get what he wants.”

“You do not feel manipulated?”

Éomer laughed. “Manipulated? By getting one’s deepest wish granted?” He laid his hand on his friend’s forearm, the laughter giving way to a more serious expression. “You were right, Aragorn. I need her at my side. I just hope it is also what she needs.”

Gondor’s King covered the younger man’s hand with his own.

“May I give you a piece of advice?” he asked, grinning, when he saw a pair of straight eyebrows raised in mock resignation. “Well, I could be your father,” he reminded his friend.

“You could be my grandfather,” he found himself corrected.

“You know, Éomer, I think your wife has the right idea. You need to be slapped from time to time.”

They laughed together.

“Well, what kind of grandfatherly piece of advice do you have to offer?”

“Ask your wife what she wants and what she needs. I am absolutely certain she will give you a straight answer.” His eyes locked on something behind Éomer’s back. “And you can ask her now.”

The King of Rohan turned around and saw the wife of the Marshal of the Eastmark entering the hall from the inside corridor. When Cynewyn caught his eyes, she gave him a quick smile and then went back to her seat, settling down next to her husband.

Éomer did not move for a moment. Then he looked over his shoulder at his friend.

“Do you think you can prevent Gimli from giving any more embarrassing toasts at my departure?”

“Perhaps. But why should I?” Éomer found that the King of Gondor must have spent too much time in the company of the male members of the Dol Amroth family. He had already adopted their customary look of deliberate innocence to perfection. “He was deprived of his – and our – fun when your wife left. Which was, of course, quite right. But you should be able to endure it. After all, it is an old custom to bid the groom farewell with all our good wishes accompanying him.”

Éomer confined his reply to a noncommittal grunt and got up from his chair. He looked fleetingly over to Gimli who fortunately seemed occupied with carving up a huge ham in front of him. He might escape undetected after all. He had nearly made it to the door when Aragorn called after him, loudly and audibly.

“Éomer!”

He turned around, trying really hard not to grind his teeth.

“You have forgotten something.” Aragorn quirked an eyebrow at him, holding up his circlet.

The King of Rohan went back to his friend’s seat and snatched the symbol of his rank out of the hand of his Gondorian counterpart.

“How long are you going to stay in Edoras?” he asked politely.

“Oh, for several days.”

“Good. Then I have enough time to get back at you.”

He was determined to keep his promise, especially when he saw Gimli, whose attention had now been drawn, jump up onto his seat and raise his goblet above his head enthusiastically, so that the most of the wine in the vessel slopped over.

“To Éomer King,” he boomed. “May his efforts tonight be granted success and the Mark blessed with an heir in . . .” He looked down at Merry. “How long do humans take to breed?” he demanded. Fortunately the Hobbit wasn’t quite sure and turned for clarification to his companion. But Pippin was stumped for an answer as well and so the three indulged themselves in a heated discussion about the subject. For some reason, none of them thought it advisable to consult one of the humans in their vicinity.

Éomer decided that this was the right time to make his escape as the attention of most of the celebrating guests was held by the vehement argument which had evolved at the top table.

The next hindrance on his way to his wife showed up in form of his wife’s youngest brother. Prince Amrothos leant nonchalantly against the wall next to the door, smiling at him sweetly. A man was not supposed to smile sweetly.

“Lothíriel’s most prominent trait is her curiosity,” he explained without any introduction. “And she has never been more curious about anything in her life than she is about you… and tonight,” he added. Somehow Éomer had this bad feeling there was more to come. “I took the liberty of giving her some pieces of brotherly advice.”

“Bema grant me mercy,” Éomer muttered in his own tongue. He glared at this pain in the neck he had to call brother from today on. “Tell me, Amrothos. Why do you feel so safe?”

“My sister loves me,” came the modest answer.

“That only shows that she still has a lot of experience to gain.”

When he had made it into the corridor at last, he exhaled heavily. He was very grateful that this was going to be his only wedding. It was just another nuisance, which came with being a king. Nobody expected a marshal to make such a fuss about something that should have been between him and his wife. But then he had himself chosen to make his relationship with Lothíriel very public by turning his vows into a declaration of his feelings. He only hoped that his wife had truly understood what he was trying to tell her. With Lothíriel you could never be entirely certain. Her brain worked, not only permanently, but also, somehow differently.

He walked down the corridor towards the western corner tower of the Golden Hall where the Royal Chambers were situated. When he passed the outer door of the Queen’s Chamber he hesitated. He was tempted to just knock and join Lothíriel right now. He had waited for her long enough. But then again, he could wait a little bit longer and do this properly.

As difficult as he found it, he walked on to the last door in the corridor, the door to the King’s Chamber. Entering, his eyes were drawn immediately to the connecting door between the two bedchambers. Behind that door Lothíriel was waiting for him and being so close to finally having her, he couldn’t any longer ignore the tug in the vicinity of his groin.

It should have been a rather familiar feeling, a reaction he had known from a certain age at the sight of an attractive female. He had always liked women. He liked their form, their smell, and their feel against him. And women had always liked him.

But this was different. This was beyond anything he had ever experienced before. This tug was much more intense. And it was accompanied by another tug, one in his chest. A tug that came from his heart when he thought about her and one that nearly took his breath away when he looked at her. And it became worse when she looked at him. When she blinked those devastating grey eyes at him, he wondered if some entity had arranged things so that the male stopped thinking clearly when the female looked at them in the way Lothíriel looked at him.

As a way to ensure reproduction and the continuation of his House, it had a lot going for it.

He put his circlet, which he still carried in his hand, on the massively carved table in the centre of the room and began to undo the fastenings of his tunic. He looked at the huge four-poster bed where his robe lay across the dark green covers. In his opinion there wasn’t any need for a queen’s chamber. This was his bed and he wanted his wife to be in it with him – every night. He had this inkling that as soon as he finally had her in his arms he would have a problem in ever letting her go again.

He would be a hypocrite if he denied the strong physical desire he felt for Lothíriel. When the travelling party from Gondor had arrived two days ago and he had stepped out onto the porch at Aldburg, his eyes had been drawn to her as soon as she had ridden through the gate into the courtyard. Without any warning desire had whipped through him; hot, sweet and urgent. It left him shaken and half-aroused. It would have been ludicrous if it had not been so bloody uncomfortable. He should have been grateful that he had been wearing his armour and that protocol demanded that he greet Aragorn first. It had given him the few moments he needed to compose himself.

And since then those abrupt fiery rushes of passion were coming upon him with increasing frequency. Each time they crashed through him, they seemed stronger. The anticipation growing within him was almost unbearable in its intensity. He would have to make love to her soon. Very soon. It had to be soon or he would go out of his mind.

And he was afraid that she had not the slightest idea what she was doing to him.

He had taken off his festive clothes and put them tidily folded on the bench at the foot end of his bed. He was not necessarily tidy by nature but he had found it much easier to get into his clothing in the mornings, possibly when in a hurry, if he left them in a remotely neat way before he lay down for the night.

He shrugged on the wine coloured robe. Éowyn had had it made for him together with several other pieces of clothing she had felt appropriate for a king. He had never worn it before. Usually he went from his riding clothes into bed and from the bed into his riding clothes. There was no real need for a robe. He tied the belt and looked down at himself. Tonight he was quite grateful for the heavy velvet as it quite effectively covered the evidence of his desire for his wife. He really didn’t want to alarm her right away.

He was rather uncertain how much Lothíriel knew about the physical aspect of love. She was a healer and had to know about the different anatomy of the genders. She had shown absolutely no problem in ordering a complete stranger out of his clothes or any reluctance to touch him in a rather intimate fashion to make an examination – thank Bema for that loose linen wrap – but she didn’t necessarily make a connection to feelings of desire and lust. In that aspect she seemed to be a complete innocent.

He just prayed that he would do everything right tonight. The last time there had been a virgin in his bed it had been himself. The decision to be celibate after he had agreed to the betrothal had seemed to be the proper thing to do at that point. Apart from the fact that as a king he had, all the time, all eyes on him and therefore little chance to conduct a liaison undetected, he had felt absolutely no desire to bed any other woman. His mind and his body had seemed to be fixated on midnight dark hair, large, grey eyes and a svelte figure. Éothain, who never knew when to shut up, had found it necessary to voice his opinion - that it was rather inconsiderate of him to go without a woman for months and then bed a virgin. Éomer had just thrown him of his study.

He only hoped his friend hadn’t been right.

He knocked at the connecting door.

“Enter.”

That was not Lothíriel’s normal composed voice. Somebody was definitely nervous. He had wondered what it would take to ruffle his bride’s . . . his wife’s smooth feathers.

He opened the door and stepped into the Queen’s Chamber. It was lit only by the fire from the hearth and a couple of candles; one on the stand next to the bed and one on a table where somebody had left a jug of wine and two goblets.

This chamber had not been in use for many decades and had been redone especially for Lothíriel. Not that he thought she would spend a lot of time in here, at least not in that bed on which she sat right now, her legs tucked under her and virtually sitting on her feet.

She looked up at him with her beautiful fawn eyes, and for a moment he felt rather off balance. She wore an expression of dignified insecurity and a long-sleeved, prim white chemise with it. Womanly armour. Did she not know the challenge it presented?

“How do you feel after the day’s events?” he asked.

She looked lovely, her glossy hair falling down her back like a mantle made of mink fur. It was a gorgeous mass but they had to do something about it. It would be in the way.

“I am fine,” she replied, her voice slightly hoarse. Her frown indicated that she was  surprised by it herself.

He went over to the table with the wine. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you. Wine does not normally agree with me, and I have already had two goblets of mulled wine today.” She had managed to force a firm tone back into her voice, but she clenched her hands in her lap and her entire posture could only be described as tense.

Éomer decided that this was probably a good time to start talking. He poured himself some wine, not because he wanted some but to occupy himself with something. He went over to one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the hearth and sat down. Perhaps it was better for the moment to keep some distance between them so she had a chance to get used to the idea that a man – her husband – was in her bedchamber.

She must have read his thoughts.

“I have hardly ever been alone with a man before with my dress on,” she stated. “With my dress off, it is most unusual.”

Éomer chuckled at this attempt of humour

“Are you nervous?” he asked gently.

“Did you think I would not be?” She tried to give her voice an ironic tone.

Éomer smiled in response. “There is nothing to fear.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but still much to be nervous about. After all, I am doing this for the first time.”

His smile broadened. “Yes, I rather expected that.”

“Usually, when I am about to try something new, I gather as much information as possible beforehand,” she explained. “That was not so easy in this case.”

It sounded as if she had done some research. Why wasn’t he surprised? He tried to hide his amused grin behind the goblet. “But you do know what is supposed to occur between us tonight?”

“I am aware of the basics of the manoeuvre.”

Éomer nearly choked on the sip of wine he had just taken. “You are?”

“It cannot be very much different from what I have observed animals doing,” she stated matter-of-factly.

For a moment he just stared. “No, it is not,” he finally managed to reply in a half-strangled voice. Bema! Lothíriel and her observations. “At least . . . basically,” he added after a second thought.

That sweet little frown above the bridge of her nose appeared. “It does not look very pleasant.”

Oh my! Where was this leading? This was not the kind of talk he had in mind.

“What . . . kind of animals have you . . . observed?” he asked carefully.

“The common ones, I would think; dogs, horses . . . and giant tortoises.”

“Giant tortoises?” He couldn’t help it. His voice was a good half octave higher than usual. He coughed and tried again, his voice returning to its usual register this time. “Giant tortoises?” he repeated.

“Do you know what giant tortoises are?”

“I have only a vague idea what they look like as I have never seen one with my own eyes. But I have been told about them.”

“My Aunt Ivriniel keeps a couple,” she explained. “One female and one male. They are more than one hundred and fifty years old.”

If he remembered correctly then ‘Aunt’ Ivriniel was Imrahil’s oldest sister. “Your Aunt Ivriniel keeps a couple of one hundred and fifty years old giant tortoises?”

“Yes. And a boa . . . and some carnivorous plants.”

“That sounds . . . strange.” What else was he supposed to say?

“She is a bit strange. I mean Aunt Ivriniel,” she clarified, “not the boa. That is a ‘he’ actually. His name is Denethor.”

Éomer wondered if he was losing the thread of this conversation. “Denethor? Like the late Steward of Gondor, Faramir’s father?”

“The very same. As you probably know, he was husband to my other aunt, Finduilas, and Aunt Ivriniel did not like him.”

“A perfectly good reason to name a boa - after a brother-in-law you do not like. How does she know he is male? The boa, not the brother-in-law.” He felt he had to make certain that there was no misunderstanding.

“I have no idea. Amrothos just mentioned it in passing.”

“Ah, Amrothos.” Éomer refrained from rolling his eyes. “That explains a lot. I suppose he is quite close to your aunt?” he couldn’t help asking.

“He has always been her favourite.”

“As I said: that explains a lot. – And you observed your aunt’s giant tortoises . . . mating?”

“Yes, I did. Although not recently. I was eight or nine years old.”

“And you remember that occurrence after all these years . . . in detail?”

“Oh yes. It was a rather frightening experience.”

“Frightening?” This conversation was taking a rather frightening turn. “How?”

“I thought he was dying. Or at least that he had seriously injured himself.”

“He? The male giant tortoise?”

“Yes. He made awful noises.”

Éomer took a long ragged breath. “Awful noises?” he echoed.

“That was what drew my attention in the first place; those hoarse roars. And the knocking sound.”

“There was a knocking sound as well?” He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation on his wedding night.

“From their shells. They were knocking against each other.”

“Were they?”

“Yes, he was on top of her or rather on the slant behind her.”

Éomer looked at one of his wife’s delicate hands with its long slim fingers. She held it out in front of her, indicating a certain angle. If this were not Lothíriel he would have been convinced that she was trying to make a fool of him. But she was perfectly serious – and desperately nervous.

He looked up from her hand and met her gaze. Was it possible that those beautiful eyes could get any bigger? There was the customary double blink. He smiled.

“I think I get the idea,” he murmured.

“They are not exactly pretty – the giant tortoises,” she continued in a pontificating tone. “I mean, the patterns of their shells are rather intriguing, but the heads are . . . I would not call them ugly, but they have this long neck with this dirty grey, wrinkled skin, and these glassy eyes and no nose, just two holes. And a large lipless mouth. And he had it wide open.”

“The male giant tortoise?” Éomer asked, not because he needed clarification, but because he thought he just should say something at this point.

“Yes, he had his mouth wide open and made those awful noises.”

“And what happened then?”

“I was about to run to the hothouse, where my aunt can usually be found, to fetch her, but on my way I met Erchirion and Amrothos.”

“Oh my.” That referred to the latter.

“I told them what was happening and Erchirion went to have a look. When he came back he reassured me that it was nothing serious and that the giant tortoise would be perfectly fine after a short while.”

“And that was all he said to you?” he asked with all the solemnity he could muster.

“Yes.” She gave a single nod.

“Then how did you make the connection between what you had just witnessed and the mating of the species?”

“Amrothos explained it to me later that evening.”

“Why did I ask?”

“He explained about the entire subject in general.”

“When you were eight or nine years old?” he asked disbelievingly. How old had that bloody brother of hers been at the time? Being a nuisance must have been his primary goal in life from a very early age.

“I did not say that I understood everything.” She made a pause and frowned. “Actually, thinking about it, I did not understand anything.”

“Has your father ever considered fixing some sort of permanent muzzle on Amrothos?”

When he saw a rather belligerent expression appear on her face he waved off his last remark. It seemed he had to accept that when Lothíriel said that she was fond of her brothers, she meant, particularly, that menace on two legs - never mind that she had cursed him during their wedding ceremony.

“Do you mind if we change the subject?” That came out more irritably than intended, causing one of her blinks.

He looked down at his goblet. He thought it better not to make an attempt to drink any more. You never knew when he might choke in earnest. He got up and took the goblet back to the table. Turning around he looked at his wife who still squatted in the middle of the big bed with her legs tucked under her.

“Lothíriel, may I ask you a question?”

She raised her brows quizzically, but the next moment her face crumpled and she gave a soft groan.

“You want to know why I am prattling such utter nonsense the whole time.”

He wasn’t able to hide his grin. “No, that is not what I was going to enquire after. You are prattling because you are nervous, and I understand that. What I do not understand is: why are you sitting in the middle of the bed – on your feet?”

“Because they are cold.”

“Your feet are cold?”

“They have been cold since this morning, even before I stepped out onto the terrace. I chose the wrong shoes with much too thin a sole. And now it feels as if they will never get warm again.”

He hesitated a moment. Then he went over to the bed and sat down.

“Give me your feet,” he ordered gently, patting his thigh.

“What for?”

There was so much suspicion underlining her voice that he had to grin. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“I want to give you a foot rub. The best cure for cold feet. Ask any rider who comes in after long ride in the middle of the winter, having lost all feeling in his feet. It works miracles.”

“Oh.” She seemed to consider that.

But then, quite abruptly, she unfolded from her squatting position, plopped down next to him on the edge of the bed and swung both her feet without prior warning into his lap. That did very little to help the rather urgent state of his groin. Éomer breathed in deeply through his nose and pushed her feet carefully slightly further southwards.

“Are they so cold you can feel it even through the thick velvet of your robe?” Lothíriel enquired into his reaction.

He swallowed and looked down. She had small delicate ankles and beautiful arched feet, he noticed. He took one between his hands and began to rub it gently. It earned him a giggle. The toes curled.

“That tickles. You have to grip it more firmly,” she advised.

Not only her feet were cold but her lower leg up to her knees. Éomer massaged and rubbed her feet and her calves and she obviously seemed to enjoy it. She leant back on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows, looking relaxed for the first time since he had come to her chamber. Her position caused her thin linen chemise to cling to her breasts; lovely breasts, firm and well defined. He remembered perfectly well how they had felt in his hands and his body tightened further at the memory. He wondered if it would make any difference if they put off talking until tomorrow.

She recognized his gaze and she recognized where it was directed. A blush coloured her cheeks and averting her eyes, she let her shoulders roll awkwardly slightly forward.

Éomer put both her feet on his thigh and covered them with his hand. “Better now?” he asked.

The answer was only a jerky nodding. But then she cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you. Much better.”

“Perhaps you should put them under the quilt before they get cold again,” he suggested, watching her for her reaction.

He saw her swallow and take a couple of deep breaths. Then she looked up straight into his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to retire. We both should go to bed.”

“Yes, I think it is time.” He looked at the cascade of dark hair falling down her back. “Do you usually wear it unfastened at night?”

“No, I braid it to a loose plait.”

“Turn around,” he ordered her again.

“You are going to braid my hair?” she asked surprised, a half-smile on her lips. “You know how to do it?”

“Of course I do,” he answered with deliberate indignation. “I do braid my own hair from time to time  - and that of my horse.”

“Of course,” she replied ironically. With the same kind of quick and elegant movement which had surprised him when she put her feet into his lap, she turned her back to him keeping her feet on the bed.

Éomer ran his fingers through the glossy mass. It was heavy and silky and perfectly straight. Letting it slide between his fingers was definitely a very sensual feeling. He separated it into three strands and braided them to a loose plait which started at the level of her shoulder blades. He certainly wouldn’t mind caring for his wife’s hair more often in the future. When he had finished he put the plait over her shoulder so that it fell over her breast. He bent forward pressing his lips lightly against the back of her head, savouring the faint smell of her hair. Almond and honey.

“I will put some more wood on the fire,” he said in a low tone. He felt her nodding.

Éomer got up, walked over to the table with the wine and blew out the candle. He took some logs from the pile of wood next to the hearth and put them onto the fire, stirring it with the poker. It could still get very cold over night. Not that he needed the additional warmth, but Lothíriel was certainly not used to the colder temperatures of the north. She would need sturdier shoes around Meduseld.

Turning around he saw that she had moved across the bed to its other side but was still sitting on top of the cover eying him with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Bema, he’d never made love to a virgin before and, without anything else, trying not to rush things was something of a challenge. But there was no point in putting off the inevitable. He walked over to the bed and blew out the other candle. Now the only light in the chamber came from the fire – which he had just stirred and which was flickering quite brightly.

He untied the belt of his robe and slipped it off, hanging it on a hook nearby, waiting for whatever there was about to happen. He heard a raspy sound coming from Lothíriel. Looking at her, he saw that her eyes were wide, her lips parted. She gazed at his arousal with what had to be considered a rather alarmed expression. He couldn’t help it, but it looked quite comical. He had to dispel a grin from his lips.

“How did that happen? I mean . . . Why?”

“Why?” How could he have expected that anything involving Lothíriel would turn out the way he . . . well, the way he would have expected it. “My dear wife, you said you knew the basics.”

“But we have not done anything yet! I have not done anything,” she stressed with some emphasis. “And certainly not to . . .” She waved her hand vaguely in direction of Éomer’s groin.

Éomer managed to fight back the laughter that threatened to explode from him. He really couldn’t take any more. She was so bloody innocent. “Lothíriel, I thought you, as a healer . . .”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “but that,” again the elegant wave, “is not what I would have expected.”

Éomer took a slow calming breath. He had heard that phrase before. “I know I am going to regret asking you this. In fact, I regret it already, but what exactly did you expect?”

“I thought it would just get . . . stiff, not bigger! Now I understand why those animals did not look as if they were enjoying the mating. At least not the female ones.”

That finally did it. Éomer let himself fall forward onto the bed and buried his face into the pillow, his shoulders shaking with laughter. After a short while he felt one of his wife’s slim fingers poking into his side.

“Cease laughing,” she demanded, indignation dripping from her voice. “Or at least, get your face out of that pillow before you suffocate,” she added pragmatically.

She had a point. Breathing had become difficult. He raised his head, already red in the face and barely succeeding in suppressing the laughter still rumbling in his belly. Lothíriel lay on her side, bracing herself on an elbow, knees slightly bent, hips curved in graceful, seductive lines. She looked utterly desirable and ready to punch him. More than twelve years experience with all kind of women, even a lifelong experience with Éowyn, hadn’t been able to prepare him for Imrahil’s daughter.

“Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.

He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“Then what are you laughing about?”

He took a deep breath. “You have a lot to learn.”

“I am the last one who would dispute that. But it seemed that nobody wanted me to learn about it. Everybody – even Amrothos – dropped only hints. Nobody was willing to give me a straight answer. Carnal gratification! What am I supposed to understand by that? Wait until your husband illuminates you. And what is my husband doing? Laughing his head off and telling me I have a lot to learn. Well, teach me!”

She looked so beautiful in her outrage that Éomer wouldn’t have minded if she had gone on with her tirade. On the other hand, her unequivocal request happened to tally with his own desire quite closely and he saw no reason not to comply with it.

As a precaution he stayed on his stomach when he stretched out his hand and wrapped it gently around the nape of her neck. Slowly he pulled her closer. She didn’t really resist, but he had to put a bit of pressure against her neck. When their lips where only a mere finger’s breadth apart, he murmured,

“There is nothing in the world I would love more than to teach you . . . whatever you wish to know . . . about making love.”

He covered her mouth with his own. And the rush hit him. Just as hard and fast as it had all those months ago. Without any warning he rolled her onto her back and came down on top of her, bracing his weight on his elbows. He shoved his fingers through her hair and clamped her head very gently between his palms.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked suspiciously, pressing her back deeper into the mattress.

“I think we should begin our lessons with you learning about the difference between a man and a turtle.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers.

“Giant tortoise,” Lothíriel corrected, her voice coming muffled from underneath his kiss.

He smiled against her lips. “Whatever,” he whispered. “I promise you will find that there is quite a big difference.”

He kissed her again, slowly. This kiss was light and questioning; the next one was firm and questioning. She still held herself rigid, but there was a fine trembling in her body that told him of her gathering excitement. He could not recall the last time a woman had shivered in his arms like that. He realized his own hands were not completely steady. He gathered her closer and ran his palm down the length of her side, sculpting those delicate curves he remembered so well.

“You are so slender,” he said, raising his head to look down at her. “I feel as if I could break you in half if I was not careful.”

Lothíriel gazed up to him, swallowing hard. “Then you will have to be very careful, will you not?”

“You have my word on it. I will be very careful with you. Just trust me, my sweet. Let go of all your fear and trust me.”

“I do not fear you.”

“You have no reason to. You never will. Do you trust me?”

He could see the, now so familiar, frown over the bridge of her nose which meant that she was seriously considering his question.

“Yes, I do, and I do not think that I will ever have a reason not to trust you.”

“No, you never will have. I will always cherish you and I will do my best to keep you safe.”

His fingers moved slightly on her throat, pushing aside the silky strands of her dark hair. He leaned close again and kissed that particularly sensitive spot directly behind her right ear. He was rewarded by a soft moan. She took such a deep breath that he could feel it as a breeze on his cheek and then she timidly touched his jaw. He turned his head and his beard rubbed over the vulnerable skin on the inside of her wrist. Her fingers trembled. Éomer smiled again when he felt those tremors going through her.

He drew his forefinger down the curve of her neck. She lifted her face up to his; her whole body seemed to follow his on its own accord, arching against him rather involuntarily. He bent his head again and took her mouth, kissing her with a slow inviting passion. Another one of her soft moans escaped the depth of her throat. When he opened his own mouth and invited her inside she hesitated. But then he sensed how her curiosity overcame her just before her tongue touched his. She tasted him cautiously.

One of his hands tightened tenderly on the nape of her neck, the other went to the drawstring of her chemise, pulling it open; his fingers slid over her collarbone and then slid deeper taking the garment with them. Gently his hand curved around her breast.  She tensed and her breath quickened.

“Relax, my sweet. I am not going to rush you.” Éomer raised his head slightly to look at her. “We have got all night.”

He gazed down into those huge grey eyes, which were now dark and bottomless. He felt her move beneath him, but couldn’t have said if she was trying to get away or to get closer. He waited for a sign from her.

“Éomer.” She shivered and her hands brushed over his sides, over chest and to his shoulders. “Kiss me.” Her voice was a mere breath. He guessed the meaning of those two words more than he actually heard them.

“Kiss me,” he countered.

She looked slightly startled, but with only a heartbeat of hesitation her hands began to move slowly from his shoulders up his neck to the back of his head, her fingers spearing through his thick hair, her eyes never leaving his. She tugged at his hair, drawing him down but at the same time lifting her face up so that their lips met.

He kissed her once more, using everything he had to seduce her into response. He was not sure what he expected but he knew what he wanted. When she melted in his arms and tightened her hold on his neck, kissing him back with unfeigned and inexperienced passion, it would have been pure triumph he felt, had it not been tempered by the sheer enormousness of his sense of relief. Until this moment he had not even realized how badly he had needed her response, needed her to mirror his desire.

He felt her hands leave his hair, felt her stretch beneath him. Reluctantly his mouth separated from her lips and he propped himself up on one of his elbows to look at her. She had both arms extended above her head.

“Take it off,” she whispered. When he didn’t responded immediately her tongue soothed nervously over her lower lips. “I want to be closer.”

He smiled, pushing himself up above her on his knees. She kept her eyes on his face. He gathered her chemise in his fists, slowly raising the hem to her calves, to her thighs. She lifted her hips slightly and it slid past her bottom and on upwards. Her body arched and curved in unconscious sensuality to assist him. Éomer lifted the thin linen further, gathering it in his fingers as he went, slowly and steadily uncovering her waist, her breasts, her shoulders and drawing it over her head and arms to cast it aside.

For a moment he didn’t touch her with anything but his eyes, memorizing her and sculpting her in his mind.

“You are staring,” she whispered, as breathless as if she had been running.

“I am admiring,” he corrected. “You had an advantage over me. You saw much more of me than I had ever had the chance to see of you.”

She understood what he was referring to. Her blush spread not only over her cheeks, but further down her neck and over her breasts. She was so lovely, so utterly beautiful and he felt a rather strange and primitive sense of satisfaction, that no other man would ever see her like this.

She smiled tremulously. “I may have seen more, but not everything. Do you remember? You sat on one part.”

“There will be no more secrets between us.”

Her eyes slid down his body and coming to rest on his groin, she swallowed convulsively. He caught a flash of anxiety in her eyes. He smiled gently.

“Trust me, my sweet,” he murmured. “There is nothing to worry about. This is not about mating.” He lowered himself down beside her and took her into his arms, nestling her against him. “I am going to make love to you.”

They lay on their sides, facing each other. His fingers lightly traced the delicate indentation of her spine, settling at the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. Her breathing increased and he could feel the breezes of her gasps against his lips.

“Éomer,” she whispered. She touched the side of his face, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I love you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes locking with hers until he felt they must be one person. And then the strangest thing happened. Laughter bubbled up inside him. He was overtaken by the pure joy of the moment.

“I hoped that you would,” he said, fighting against those waves of laughter. “I have hoped for it more than for anything else in my life.”

Lothíriel looked at him with her large eyes, in equal parts confused and amused. There was a lot they needed to say to each, but not now. Now was the time to make love. When she parted her lips to speak, Éomer took her mouth with heated passion. But almost immediately he altered the kiss, made it less demanding, more coaxing and intimate, probing and persuasive.

She gave one of those soft, husky sounds that told him of her own desire and set his senses vibrating. Like its echo he groaned deeply. He wanted her so much that it virtually hurt. He had promised himself that when this moment came he would take his time and savour the experience. He knew the risk of rushing things. But the unprecedented hunger was an ungovernable force that threatened to overwhelm his will.

He rolled onto his back and took her with him. His arms closed around Lothíriel and he pulled her across his chest. He slid his fingers into her dark hair, catching her face between his hands and bringing her mouth down to his. She returned his kiss with a sweet urgency that made the blood in his veins pound. His fingers in her hair tightened.

“This is going to be good,” he said in a hoarse tone of voice, not moving his lips from her mouth. “I promise.”

FINI