Well, this is my fifth scenario on how Éomer and Lothíriel met. I have included a bit more in this one as there were some things I have wanted to write about Éowyn and Faramir. Also, after ‘Counting the Days,’ I thought it was about time I wrote something a bit more serious – I managed it for about three chapters. After that, well, you will have to judge!

LBJ

Chapter 1 – The Cloak

Tomorrow would not be the same as today.  Éomer thought he would feel it more than anyone, except Aragorn of course. Gondor would have a new King, and he himself would have to start getting used to the idea that he was a King as well. They had called him King when Théoden died on that bloody battle ground, and they called him King now. Maybe he would not really feel he had taken on the role until the previous Lord of the Mark lay interred in his green barrow. Perhaps then would he be able to accept that the title was rightfully his.

Éomer wondered if he wanted tomorrow to come at all. He was happy here. Surrounded by friends, old and new. He looked across to Minas Tirith. The rays of a dying sun were picking up the crystals in the stone blocks and turning the whole of the west side of the White City into a shimmering pink edifice. No, he should not be thinking like this. Too many had fought and died for him to resent tomorrow coming. Tonight he would enjoy the comradeship of their last camp and in the morning he would follow Aragorn into a new future.

“Éomer.”

He looked up at the sound of Aragorn’s voice. The aspiring King of Gondor was standing in the doorway of his tent, beckoning him over. Well, you could hardly call it a tent: pavilions were what they called them here. They had been sent out from the City to Cormallen, and then loaded onto the ships with everything else and erected again here for just one night. They were huge silken structures designed to house the Captains of the West in a manner befitting Gondor. The ones that had been given to him, Imrahil and Aragorn could have accommodated half an éored. Now they were all arranged in a circle on the Pelennor, with the companies of Gondor and Rohan radiating out behind them like the spokes of a giant wheel. In the midst of the inner circle a huge fire was blazing. He had been sitting alone in quiet contemplation, but as he got up to see what Aragorn wanted he saw the Hobbits leaving their tent and making for the fire. It would be another lively evening.

Aragorn was grinning and holding the flap open for him, “Come and look at this.” 

Éomer ducked under his friend’s arm and stepped onto the richly woven rugs that covered the ground. The tent was very much like his own, with a cot, some chairs, a cabinet and a table covered with a standard. There was a suit of mail on a stand, in fact it was held up almost as if someone was wearing it. There was also a cloak around the shoulders of the ceremonial outfit. At least Éomer thought it must be ceremonial, it would be useless for anything else. The mail was black, but the cloak was white. Pristine white. He glanced at Aragorn trying to conceal his mirth. The Ranger said nothing but raised one eyebrow which drew attention to the laughter that was barely hidden in his deep grey eyes.

Éomer started to chuckle softly, “Where did that come from?”

“From the deep vaults beneath Minas Tirith, I imagine. I think Gandalf organised it. He has been showing a decided leaning towards the theatrical lately,” Aragorn went to the cabinet and took out a wineskin and two goblets. All three items were decorated with the White Tree of Gondor.

Éomer surveyed the outfit with a thoughtful expression, “You must allow him that, after all his carefully laid plans have come to fruition. Mind you,” he said laughingly, “the once ranger can probably get away with it. A dedicated warrior like me would look totally ridiculous.” He took the proffered goblet and raised it in the air to connect with the one Aragorn was about to drink from.

“Éomer, you do not fool me. There is much more than just the warrior in you and it’s a wonder he hasn’t found you something similar.”

“Ahh…”

Aragorn burst out laughing, “He hasn’t?”

“No, not exactly. But my armour disappeared for twenty- four hours and when it was returned I hardly recognised it. In fact I had forgotten that the leather was once coloured at all. And,” he shook his head disbelievingly, “I have a new cloak.”

“A new cloak. Not a white one?”

There was an amused snigger, “No, I don’t think anyone would seriously put me in a white cloak. I have a brand new ceremonial royal cloak. It came all the way from Edoras.”

“Someone fetched one?”

“Yes, but I understand that Elfhelm arranged it. Although why, with all the other things he has to do, he would send a messenger all that distance to fetch me a cloak, I can’t begin to think.”

“Can’t you?”

Éomer smiled ironically, “I think I hear activity outside. Are we going to join them? It is our last night.”

“You are sad about that,” It was a statement, not a question.

“A bit, I suppose. The last few weeks have been a respite. A building up of strength before the future has to be faced. That future will be hard for the Riddermark, at least in the short term.”

“It will not be as hard as it could have been. And you are not alone, Éomer. Gondor will honour its debts.”

“There is no debt. What we did was done for ourselves as well as for Gondor. Gondor owes us nothing.”

Aragorn clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “We will work together in all things in the future. Neither of us will be alone.”

Éomer grinned, “I have been talking to Elladan and Elrohir. They are riding with me when we leave, to meet up with their kin. “You,” he poked Aragorn in the ribs playfully, “will not be alone for long. How did it go…? ‘She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor…’ what some men have to do to secure a wife.”

“You just watch it, my young friend. I wager they are already lining one up for you.”

Éomer snorted, “When I want a wife I shall find my own.”

Laughing together the two uncrowned Kings left the tent to join the, now large, party who were gathered around the fire. The four hobbits were sitting on a big log chattering happily together, as were, of course, Legolas and Gimli. Imrahil was talking with Elrond’s two sons and his own sons, Erchirion and Amrothos, were sharing another log. They were resting in amicable silence; their long legs were stretched out towards the warmth of the fire. Gandalf was standing on his own with his back to everybody else, his white robes catching the light of the fire. His arms were folded and he was staring at Minas Tirith. The City was pink no longer. The sun had set and its recent presence only remembered by the violent streaks of colour it had left in the western sky. It would be a starry night.

Gandalf turned around at the sound of their voices, “Ah, I am glad you are here. I want to make sure you know what you are doing tomorrow.”

Aragorn winked at Éomer, “We are all primed up. We have gone through it once or twice before.”

“Hmm…,” Gandalf sounded doubtful. “In spite of what you think, pageantry is very important. It would not do for anything to go wrong so there is to be no shenanigans.” He fixed his eyes on Pippin, “And that applies especially to you, Peregrine Took.”

“Gandalf, I am sure everyone will do their utmost to make the crowning of our new King a spectacular and memorable event,” Imrahil was always a diplomat. “And you need not worry: from the other side, Faramir will have it all under control.”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied thoughtfully, “I know I can rely on Faramir.”

“It will be good to meet him properly,” Éomer remarked, “the last time I saw him I did not think he would survive.”

“I imagine his romance with your sister has aided his recovery somewhat,” Pippin piped up in his usual cheery fashion.

“Pip!” there was a strangled cry from Merry. Ten pairs of eyes swung around to the two young hobbits and then swivelled further to fix on Éomer. The eleventh pair, Gandalf’s, soared skywards.

Éomer worked hard to show none of the surprise he felt or the bolt of anguish that shot through him.  He immediately realised that they were all waiting for his reaction. He wondered what they were expecting. At least it explained something.

“Merry,” he said in a neutral voice, “do I understand that there was more to my sister’s decision not to join us in Cormallen than you actually told me?”

“Yes… I mean no,” Merry was looking most uncomfortable.

Éomer deliberately smiled at him, using the sort of smile that normally crossed his face when he was about to ensure that an Orc and its head parted company, permanently and immediately, “Yes or no, Merry?”

“Um… they became very friendly when they were convalescing,” the young hobbit was clearly embarrassed with the whole group hanging on his words as well as being wary of Éomer, “And Faramir asked me for all I knew about the Lady Éowyn and well…,” he hesitated a moment,  “…she asked me all about him. They spent a lot of time walking and talking in the garden together,” he finished lamely.

Éomer tried to keep a straight face and put on a stern voice, “And you thought to tell Pippin about this and not me?”

“Éomer,” Imrahil stepped in, “let me assure you that if it is true that an attachment has been formed between your sister and my nephew, and we are not certain of that, then you have nothing to be alarmed about. Faramir is an honourable man and only good will come from such an alliance.”

“It is certainly certain,” commented Gandalf. “I have always been certain and they are now certain. There is nothing else to be said about it.”

“It’s certain then,” Amrothos muttered under his breath.

“Of course,” Gandalf carried on, addressing his remarks to Éomer, “it would have been better if they could have told you themselves.” The wizard took the opportunity to glare at Pippin, “But there is nothing for you to be worried about, nothing at all.”

“Gandalf’s right, my Lord,” Sam could not keep quiet, “I don’t know much about such things and of course I have never met the Lady Éowyn, but without Lord Faramir we could have come to a sorry end. A true gentleman of quality, he is. Isn’t that right Mister Frodo?”

Éomer intervened before Frodo could answer. “I am well aware of how Faramir helped you. And it did not escape my notice that when the two of you recovered sufficiently that the first person you asked about and wished to see, after your companions, was Faramir.” He looked across at Aragorn, “and if my sister has found true happiness with an honourable man, then none will be more pleased than me.”

“It would put light into my heart to see your sister joyful once more,” The clear voice of Legolas floated over to Éomer.

“Hear, hear! And now we have got them sorted out and married off, can’t we open that wine?  A dwarf could die of thirst around here.”

Erchirion got up from his log and made for the wine cask, “Let me oblige, Master Dwarf, I am with you on this.”

“Good, a man after my own heart. But you had better give one to yon king first,” Gimli jerked his head towards Éomer, “he looks to have had a shock.”

Erchirion took the empty goblet from Éomer’s hand and refilled it from the cask near the fire. He smiled as he passed it back, “My cousin is a good man, and my sister thinks very highly of him. He was very patient with her when she was young.”

Éomer nodded, and sat back down nursing his wine. It was true he would be nothing but pleased if it turned out that there was to be such happiness ahead for his sister. And from what Gandalf had said he would have to accept that it was highly likely. He sighed to himself; he would just be so darned lonely. He might have guessed Aragorn would have known what he was feeling as his friend sat down beside him and said softly,

“You will be lonely for a while, Éomer but this will be for the best. It is what Éowyn needs. I hated to see her so desperate.”

“I know that,” Éomer placed his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder giving it a squeeze. “I realise it will be best for all the reasons we know about. But that will not make it any easier in the short term.”

“Something may happen: you may not be alone for long,” Aragorn had a tilt to his eyebrows and a grin on his lips.

“Don’t start. I meant what I said,” Éomer scowled at him. “I will be in for it as soon as I get home and I don’t want to hear anything about it now.”

“Well, let me warn you, just in case you haven’t realised,” Aragorn was trying to look sympathetic but it didn’t quite come off, “the unattached ladies of Gondor will all be targeting you at the celebrations tomorrow, so you had better be prepared.”

“They can target all they like. In eight days we leave for Rohan and I doubt there are any who could keep up,” Éomer answered with a grin.

Aragorn laughed, “Well, if any could, I suppose it would be a good way to find a wife for a Horselord.”

“My sister could keep up, but unfortunately she is staying in Dol Amroth,” Erchirion had come up with a jug to refill their goblets again.

“Yes,” Imrahil confirmed having walked over to join them, “I had hoped Lothíriel would come and meet you all but she writes to say that she cannot be spared at the moment.”

Imrahil looked to be addressing everybody, but Éomer had the distinct impression that the information was directed solely at him. Bema, the sooner he got back to Rohan the better.

“I wrote to Nienna and asked if she would come for the festivities, and she is.” Amrothos gave out this piece of information as if he was expecting a thunderbolt to descend on him. What actually happened was that his father and brother stared at him in complete astonishment their mouths hanging open and, not recognising the significance of the utterance, no one else took too much notice. Except Legolas who remarked thoughtfully,

“Nienna was one of the Queens of the Valar.

“Not this one,” Erchirion was now chuckling, “Nienna is the lovely girl my brother has been sweet on since he first saw her playing with her dolls. He just would not admit it before.”

“Does this mean what I think it means, Amrothos?” Imrahil was now definitely looking pleased.

“Yes, Father, it does,” his son held his eyes and then waved his hand in the general direction of the Morannon. “Being out there made me think. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“Have you spoken to Adian?” Imrahil asked looking concerned.

“I did before I wrote to her. He had no objection whatsoever. Quite the opposite, I think,” the young prince grinned. But then he suddenly looked worried, “I am sorry if I should have told you my plans first, Father, but once I decided I wanted to do it right away.”

Imrahil shook his head, “No, you did the right thing. I am sure you know how I feel about it, I could not be more pleased.”

“Good, good,” Gimli got up raising his goblet, “another one sorted. That calls for more drink.”

TBC

My grateful thanks to Eirwen for looking over this for me. LBJ

Chapter 2 – The Crown

There was an air of expectancy around the camp, even though it was still dark. Breakfast was being eaten amidst a final flurry of polishing and preparation. Gandalf was stalking around inspecting the main players in the event, most of whom were accepting his interference with good grace. Éomer was trying to keep out of the general furore. He had been up earlier than anybody else, and had been washed and dressed well before his esquire had come to help him don his armour. After the hanging around he was now impatient to get the whole thing over with.  He was not fond of pageantry and all that went with it, and he wanted to see his sister. He also, he admitted to himself, wanted to take a good look at Faramir. He knew he should be pleased for Éowyn, and he was pleased. He just wanted to make sure she really knew what she was doing this time and was not looking for some kind of escape. He was sure that once he saw them together he would be able to tell if it was right or not. He knew his sister well.

The sun was just rising as he finished his meal and handed plate and cup to one of the Gondorian servants. His esquire was leading Firefoot towards him, the huge grey letting out a soft wicker of greeting as he spied his master.

“They are all starting to line up, Lord,” the young man advised him.

“I am ready, Haldrad,” Éomer nodded towards Firefoot, “did he give you any trouble?”

“No, Sire. He is getting used to me. He seemed quite pleased to see me this morning.”

Éomer sighed as he took the reins from Haldrad and ran his hand down his horse’s strong neck. It was something else he had to get used to: not always being able to totally look after his own steed.

He mounted up and trotted over to join Aragorn and Imrahil. The three of them were riding at the front of the host with Gandalf and the four hobbits, who for the first time were looking a little overawed. The Dúnedain were forming a guard. Éomer swept his eyes over the bunch of tall, dour, grey-clad men, imagining what this day must mean to them after years of lurking in the shadows and ranging the wildernesses of Middle-earth. He glanced at Aragorn, starting, as he realised that the former ranger was looking very different than he did the night before. He was looking much more serious and, Éomer appreciated, very regal. He was not sure if it was the imposing outfit he was wearing, black, silver and white, tended to look quite majestic, he decided, or if he had just not noticed Aragorn’s rather kingly countenance until now. Suddenly his friend grinned at him and the effect was spoilt, he just looked like Aragorn dressed up.

They waited until everyone had lined up behind them and then Gandalf gave the signal to move forward. Minas Tirith was emerging out of shadow to face the new day. A very different day. The early sun was sparking on the white stone, later it would become glaring. Éomer could already see the crowds of people that were flanking the wide area outside the City walls. He could make out some sort of barrier across the gateway and a few figures standing in front of it, but as yet they were too far away to make out their identities, although he guessed one must be Faramir.

As they got nearer he realised one was indeed Faramir. He stood tall and stately. His long black hair was moving with the wind, but he himself was immobile waiting for his new King to approach him and ask for entrance to the City. Éomer cast his eyes to the right seeking out Éowyn. He saw Elfhelm first. The tall blond Marshall was easy to pick out amongst the dark Gondorian nobles. Éowyn was not standing next to him, as he thought she would be, for between them was another young woman. One with black hair. Éomer passed his eyes over her seeking out his sister, who was, when he focused on her, not looking at him at all but had her eyes fixed on Faramir. So much for missing her beloved brother, he thought ruefully. As the thought entered his head however Éowyn withdrew her gaze from the Steward and sought him out. Although she was still a distance away he could tell she had spotted him and she turned to her dark haired companion and made some remark. The girl looked in his direction and presumably replied to Éowyn. Éomer wondered who she was and kept his eyes on her as they rode closer. The wind was getting fresher and she was having trouble keeping her long hair out of her eyes. He watched unashamedly as, with unconscious grace, she took what looked to be a ribbon from her pocket and reached up with both hands to smooth her hair backwards and tie it behind her. The action caused her breasts to lift delightfully, and Éomer immediately felt his male interest stir. There was something very attractive and elegant about her. Then he chided himself, he had not even entered the city and here he was ogling an unidentified young woman. Worse still, from her prominent position between his sister and Elfhelm, she was no doubt a young noblewoman, the sort it was definitely better not to ogle.

 It was not as if he was really in need of a woman, there had been plenty of them at Cormallen. They had been attracted there like wasps to jam. But whatever fancy names they called themselves in Gondor, a whore was a whore and he had never found them very satisfying. He liked to talk, as well as make love to his bed partners.

He glanced back towards the unknown girl, it would not hurt to look and enjoy. She seemed to be searching the rows behind him. All of a sudden a radiant expression lit up her face and she waved excitedly to whoever she had spotted. Éomer turned around, not being able to resist seeing the object of her interest. He was in time to witness a big grin covering Amrothos’s handsome features and the end movements of an enthusiastic wave. Of course, that is who she would be, Amrothos’s intended. He couldn’t remember her name, except it was something to do with a goddess. He felt a shaft of disappointment which he immediately recognised as stupid seeing that he knew nothing about her; apart from having been told that she was Adian’s daughter. He was one of Imrahil’s most experienced and senior knights and Éomer had become quite friendly with him. He sighed; if she was promised to the young Prince of Dol Amroth then he would not be learning much else. He turned his gaze away to concentrate on the proceedings and pushed her from his mind.

It was certainly a magnificent spectacle: the clear blue sky and the climbing sun making the various colours of the uniforms and the many different standards even more striking. Something about the colours struck a cord in him and he realised that he would be home just in time to see another spectacle as the green fields of the Mark were transformed into a carpet of blue when the masses of cornflowers made their welcome appearance. A wave of homesickness hit him hard and for a moment he let his mind drift back to the few days before they had left. He had departed in haste. They had done the job they had come for and then lingered here while body and soul mended. Now he was in haste to return. But first he had to see this through. He had to witness Aragorn crowned and claim the throne of Gondor. After all, that was the point of it all. He looked across to the man who he now loved above all other men. Bema, was it really Gandalf’s idea to dress him in a white cloak? Éomer hid his mirth behind his gauntleted hand – a ranger in a pure white cloak – it must be a sign of change. It would not be the only change; change had come fast and without mercy for him. The Lord of the Mark looked down at his own cloak, the intricate bright gold and red embroidery caught the sun and the jewelled clasp winked at him. You are a King, it said. He grinned to himself, he knew why Elfhelm had arranged for a Rider to travel four hundred miles and back again to collect a cloak: so that the Riddermark would not be disgraced amongst all this splendour. White cloaks indeed. Once again he tried to concentrate on the ceremony.

Aragorn was dismounting and approaching the barrier to be met by the Steward of Gondor, Faramir. Éomer was pleased to see that Faramir looked his King  straight in the eye, and to Éomer’s mind, showed nothing but pleasure that he was about to lose his authority. He spoke his part clearly and with conviction and was genuinely astounded when Aragorn gave him back his rod of office and proclaimed that his position would remain.

Éomer hid his smirk whilst listening to the long list of titles bestowed on the former ranger and watched with interest as the ornate crown was brought forward. It did not surprise him that Aragorn asked for Gandalf to place it on his head or that Frodo was given the honour of carrying it. Without either of them none of this would be happening.

‘Behold the King’

It was done. Gondor had a King again. King Elessar mounted his horse and rode towards the barrier which was flung aside to allow him entry to his city. Éomer followed him through the hordes of people that were now crowding forward to get a better view of their new monarch. His eyes searched out Éowyn and he found her only yards away from him, he grinned at her and then his gaze fell on her dark haired companion. The young woman looked at him openly with a friendly smile. Éomer caught his breath as he realised quite how lovely she was.  He noticed that she had sparkling clear grey eyes just before she bowed her head slightly to him.

He came to a halt once having reached the main square just inside the city gates and looked around for Éowyn and Elfhelm. He was just in time to see Amrothos ride through the gateway and immediately sweep the dark haired girl up onto his horse and give her a resounding hug. He dismissed the faint twinge of envy he felt as ridiculous and decided that the Prince’s understandable behaviour would be overlooked, even in Gondor, on a day such as today. Suddenly he felt a tug on his leg. He looked down into the laughing eyes of his sister.

“You’re back then? I don’t know what took you so long seeing off a few Orcs.”

Éomer wanted to hug her. He had thought he would never hear that voice again, “If I have any cheek from you, I’ll let you walk all the way back up to the Citadel.”

Éowyn took no notice and reached up to be hauled on top of Firefoot.

“Elfhelm!” Éomer held on to Éowyn with one arm and clasped the Marshall’s arm with the other. “Is all well?”

“Better now that you are back, my Lord,” the Marshall answered with a grin. Elfhelm looked around. “We had best move out of the way, everyone is trying to crowd in here.”

The square was filling up with relatives and friends eager to meet the returning army.

“Well, you will have to walk,” Éomer laughed.

“I am sure I will be able to keep up,” Elfhelm indicated to Aragorn and Faramir who had only got a little way up the first street. The whole road was lined with people and filled with flowers, making progress very difficult. They had not gone very far before Éomer realised that a great many Rohirrim were interspersed between the Gondorian crowd and most were calling out greetings to him and Éowyn. Also that Éowyn was very popular and greatly admired by the citizens of Minas Tirith after her bravery on the battlefield. He briefly wondered if they would be pleased if she did end up marrying their beloved Steward. He then speculated on if she would bring the subject up herself but found he could not resist giving her a helping hand.

“Faramir did well in the ceremony.”

“Yes,” she replied. “He has also been very helpful to us in dealing with all the Rohirrim in the City.” She looked towards Elfhelm for confirmation.

“We have worked well together,” the Marshall agreed. “He is a good man.”

Éomer put his features into neutral. “I understand that the two of you kept each other company whilst convalescing, Éowyn?”

Éowyn swivelled around and tried to read his expression. He gave nothing away. “We did spend some time together, yes. In fact,” she went on, “I thought you might like to get to know him better so I have arranged for us to go riding in the morning. In the hills above the City. You will enjoy it.”

Éomer managed to keep a straight face until she turned around again. But then he caught the glint in Elfhelm’s eye and he winked at the Marshall. “I am sure I shall,” he whispered softly in his sister’s ear.

There was not much opportunity to talk on the way up through the City as the crowd were running up the various shortcuts and appearing again on the higher levels. Eventually though they reached the relative peace of the stables. Éomer wanted to see Firefoot settled himself, although most of the others had handed their mounts to the stable hands. Elfhelm and Éowyn leant over the door of the stall and watched him.

“What is there planned for today?” he asked Elfhelm as he brushed Firefoot off and checked his stall for any hidden dangers.

“Aragorn… I mean King Elessar,” Elfhelm corrected with a grin, “Imrahil and Faramir have meetings with the Gondorian elders and nobles most of the day. I have arranged for you to take the noon meal with our own people. Those who fought in Anórien and stayed in the City would like a chance to talk to you and perhaps hear a bit of what happened out there,” he waved his hand towards Mordor. “After that I thought you may wish to visit our wounded. It would please them to see you. You will have plenty of time to relax before the big celebrations tonight.”

Éomer nodded his agreement with these arrangements, “What about you, Éowyn?” he asked. “Will you come to the Healing Houses with me?”

“No, I have been most days. I am popping down into the City straight after the noon meal. We are going to buy some shoes, ribbons and lace.”

“We?” Éomer enquired, trying not to show his amazement at the thought of his sister buying ribbons and lace. Now he was convinced!

A strange, rather mischievous look took over Éowyn’s countenance. “I have made a very dear friend. In fact, Brother, you looked to be particularly interested in her as well. You could hardly keep your eyes from her.”

That jolted him, but he was sure she was exaggerating. He had only looked a couple of times. “If you are referring to the young woman who was standing next to you at the ceremony then Amrothos told us about her, so naturally I was interested to see what she was like.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows and said wryly, “Totally understandable, of course.”

Éomer decided it was best to change the subject and started a conversation with Elfhelm, while he finished with Firefoot, about the arrangements for the vast number of horses that were being corralled outside the city gates.

“Now that’s done,” Éomer said as he watched the big grey munching contently, “I would like to get this armour off if there is something else to put on; it seems that I have worn nothing else for months. Have you seen Haldrad?”

“He went straight to see his brother in the Healing Houses. I did not think you would mind as I can help you with your armour,” Éowyn answered him.

“Like old times then,” Éomer smiled at her. He was pleased as he would quite like some time on his own with his sister.

“Come on,” she grinned grabbing his arm, “You need to change before the meal. There are some clothes ready for you in your chamber.”

“I will meet you at noon, my Lord,” Elfhelm confirmed, “I would like to make sure there are no problems with the accommodation for our extra riders.” The Marshall stared at Éomer for a moment and then pointed at the saddlebags over his shoulder, “Shall I arrange for those to be sent to your quarters, my Lord?”

Éomer raised his eyebrows to his hairline, “Don’t you start that. My new station does not mean that I am not capable of looking after myself. And as we are on the subject, when we are alone my name is Éomer. Is that clear? And my sister does not count,” he grinned.

A slow smile spread over Elfhelm’s face, “It’s good to have you back, Éomer.”

Éowyn held his arm in a more ladylike fashion as they left the stable and made their way through the tunnel towards the Citadel. The area outside the main entrance was thronging with people and Éomer groaned at the thought of being waylaid. It would be noon before they got through that lot. He had not reckoned on Éowyn though. His sister abandoned her formal bearing and suddenly jerked his arm and pulled him to the right under the shadow of the wall. It was so unexpected that he nearly lost his balance.

“Where are we going?” he asked as soon as he had regained his footing.

“Through the public gardens and then into the private ones. We can get into the corridor outside our chambers from there.”

They followed the path along the bottom of the wall which led into a large garden There were a few people walking but Éowyn guided him the other side of a tall hedge and they followed this until she led him through a gap which brought them in front of an arched stone gateway. A Citadel guard was on duty. The guard smiled as soon as he recognised Éowyn and then quickly saluted when he must have guessed who her companion was.

They went through the gateway into a beautiful fragrant garden. Éomer could see that the lawn sloped gradually upwards until it met the wall. Stone seats, protected by railings were set to give views over the Pelennor. There was an aura of peace. He looked down at his sister, “You seem to have become familiar with the layout of the place. I found it difficult to find anything in those few days before we left.”

“Faramir gave me a tour. He showed me the short cuts and the back entrance. He loves the seclusion of this garden.”

“Does he now?” Éomer could not hide his amusement as Éowyn must have realised what she had said and her face turned bright pink. That’s what he loved about Éowyn, she could not hide anything and she always spoke without giving any thought to her words.

“Éomer I…,” she broke off unable to voice what she wanted to say.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Éowyn?” They had reached a large carved wooden door within the outside wall of one of the wings at the back of the Citadel. Éomer opened the heavy door still waiting for Éowyn to reply.

She went to go through but then stopped suddenly, “You know don’t you?”

Éomer gently took his sister’s arm, “Come on, show me where we are going. We can talk when you remove my armour.”

The door had opened into a wide corridor, Éowyn took the first branch on the right, and went up to the first door, “This is yours, I am the next along and then Elfhelm. Yours is the biggest and best, as it should be of course,” she stated, rather tongue in cheek. She put her hand on the handle to open the door but at that moment a figure rounded the corner from the main corridor. They had heard no footsteps.

“My lord Éomer, Lady Éowyn.” The man bowed so low Éomer thought he would topple over. 

“This is Felcon, Éomer,” Éowyn introduced the Gondorian. “He is acting as steward to you and Elfhelm.”

“My Lord, everything is ready for you. Yours clothes have all been pressed. Would you like a bath and some help with your armour?”

Éomer took a deep breath, the last thing he wanted was to offend anybody but he hated this fuss, “I will have a bath later, before the festivities tonight. My sister will help me remove my armour,” that will probably shock him, he smirked to himself. “I will just have a jug of hot water now for a quick wash.”

“Certainly, my Lord, I shall see to it immediately.” There was no flicker of anything other than compliance on the man’s face and he retreated the way he had come, silently. Éomer followed his sister into the chamber and stared.

“Lavish, isn’t’ it?”

“It certainly is,” He looked around the huge room: there was a very large four-poster with hangings in red and gold. Ceiling to floor windows overlooked the gardens, they were draped with some kind of fine fabric for privacy and there were rich embroidered curtains to pull across at night. Most of the stone floor was covered by a vast cream rug woven into which were designs of animals and birds in blue and gold. There was an enormous carved wooden wardrobe and a matching chest of similar proportions. On top of the chest was an assortment of clothes. Amongst them Éomer could see a dark green velvet tunic with the Rohan Horse on the front and a dark red wool one of a simpler design. There were some shiny boots alongside the chest; he thought he recognised them as his. “Where did that lot come from?” he asked Éowyn, not being able to hide his surprise.

“From Edoras, of course. I sent a letter to Fréowyn with the messengers asking her to organise some suitable things. Elfhelm wanted you to have the cloak for the ceremony but I thought it was best to keep the rest here or you would be stuffing the tunics into your saddlebags and wading in the river in your boots. You have to hold your own tonight with all those dressed up Gondorians.”

“That is why you are off buying ribbons this afternoon, is it? With a Gondorian to help you? Or is there another reason, Éowyn? Perhaps you wish to impress someone in particular.” Éomer suddenly felt sorry as he saw his sister’s face take on a hunted look, he reached towards her and drew her against his chest. “Come on, Éowyn I am only teasing you. Don’t you think you had better tell me?”

“I am not telling you anything until we have removed this armour,” she muttered, “it is not comfortable.” She looked up at him and managed a smile, “It is clean though; I did not know it was this colour.”

He grinned, “I had forgotten. I think Gandalf worked some of his magic. Let’s get it off then.” He took off his sword and laid it on the chest and then started unclipping his vambraces whilst Éowyn expertly removed the heavy pauldrons. Then she unbuckled the even heavier cuirass. Once it was unfastened Éomer took it off himself. He could remove the whole harness on his own if he had to but it was much easier with help. The hauberk was especially difficult as it was fastened at the back. He was soon standing in just his breeches and shirt.

“You look surprisingly clean,” Éowyn remarked. She sniffed, “you smell of camp fires though.

“You should have seen me after the battle at the gate. Well, perhaps not,” he grinned. “Luckily a lot of stuff arrived at Cormallen on the supply ships and I have had plenty of baths in the streams.”

Éowyn looked surprised, “I thought the camp was the height of luxury and that there were certainly baths.” 

“Oh, there were, but it was just easier to take a dip. After the rivers around Edoras the water felt like a bath anyway.” At that moment there was a knock at a door in the wall opposite the window. “That will be your hot water,” Éowyn informed her brother. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and a pretty rather buxom girl of about twenty entered the room, she bobbed a curtsey, “My Lord, I have brought you some hot water.”

“Thank you…?” Éomer waited for her to give her name.

“Idril, my Lord. I shall be assisting Felcon in attending you. Is there anything else?”

“Not now but I would like a bath later this afternoon.”

“I will arrange it, my Lord.” She bobbed another curtsey and disappeared back through the door.

“Bema, I don’t need two of them,” he growled.

“Go on,” Éowyn gave him a push, “go and wash before the water cools.”

Éomer followed the girl into the adjoining bath chamber. Luckily she had exited through another door, probably to a servant’s passageway, he surmised. He looked around quickly; he wanted to talk to Éowyn before the noon meal. He took in the fact that the whole chamber appeared to be lined with marble and that there was a very large tub on the floor. There was also a long washstand with a bowl and two jugs of water on it. Steam was rising from one of the jugs. Éomer poured in a generous measure of hot water, a little cold and then reached for a bar of soap. He splashed water over his face and neck lathered the soap in his hands and gave himself a quick wash. Then he noticed a small scrubbing brush and used it to give his hands and nails a treat. Grabbing a small drying cloth he rubbed it over his face and returned to the bedchamber.

“That was quick,” Éowyn remarked with a grin.

“I was not that dirty, and I am only eating with my riders.”

“And me.”

“And you…,” he said slowly, “and it’s you we need to talk about.”

TBC

Chapter 3 - The Speech

“How did you know?”  Éowyn was studying the pattern on the rug.

Her brother twisted his mouth into a half smile as he became aware that she was screwing up part of her dress and winding it around her fingers in a totally distracted fashion. She was not finding this easy and he could not help chuckling, “Well, Merry mentioned it to Pippin and, in all fairness to the young rascal; he did manage to keep it to himself until last night.  Then he suddenly blurted it out around the camp fire.”

Her head shot up, “So everybody knows?”

“Yes, just about everybody.” He studied her for a moment trying to gauge her reaction, “And just about everybody was tripping over themselves to assure me that Faramir is a worthy man and will make you a fine husband and that I have nothing to worry about.”

“He is Éomer,” her eyes opened wide and she continued in a rush, “he is gentle but he is a skilled warrior. It is obvious that he is much loved by the people and he is respected by his men and…”  Her voice was getting louder and Éomer stopped her by putting his hand in the air.

“Whoa…, Éowyn. You don’t have to convince me what a fine man he is. Apart from any other recommendation I spent day after day with his Rangers on the way to the Black Gates.” Éomer took a step towards his sister and wrapped his arms around her pulling her hard against him. “You are the most precious thing I have. I only want to know that this is right for you and if you have committed yourself to him then it is what you truly want.”

“I have committed myself and it is what I want,” she mumbled into his chest. “He will speak to you before we return home. I would have told you straightaway but I thought you ought to get know him first.”

He hesitated, but it had to be said. He would not be doing his duty as her brother if he just ignored what had gone on before. However some things were hard to say, even to his sister. He ran his hand up and down her arm trying to convey to her the depth and the sincerity of his concern. He could feel her trembling, ever so slightly, beneath his fingers, “Éowyn, forgive me, but I have to ask you this. It was not long ago that you were in love with another. How do you know that this is the real thing?”

She slowly raised her head until she was looking directly into his eyes. “It is because of that experience that I do know. Faramir makes me feel good. All of the time. Even when I am not with him,” she smiled. “I realise now that what I felt for Aragorn was infatuation brought about by the circumstances of our meeting and the situation we were in. It is easy to imagine oneself in love with someone who played such a huge part in saving the Riddermark from disaster.”

Éomer felt the knot in his stomach unravel slightly at the sense of her words. He had not really realised it had been there, but it had been. The thought of his sister being so desperate, that she would marry in haste to escape what she perceived to be a miserable existence, had been haunting him. He gave her a hug, “Now I just have to get used to the reality that you will not be beside me helping me to sort out all the problems in the Mark.” He let loose one of his well known grins to lighten the atmosphere.”

Éowyn wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him hard, “That is the other way I know. I hate the thought of leaving you alone, and of course it will not be immediately, but it makes no difference. However much I love you, Éomer, I know I want to be with him.”

He tried to ignore the empty feeling that had replaced the knot in his stomach. For a moment he wondered what else life was going to hurl at him. “That’s just how it should be,” he whispered in her ear.

Suddenly Éowyn let go of him and pushed him away slightly with a giggly laugh, “And who’s to say you will be on your own. My handsome brother was always popular with the ladies. They will be falling over themselves now. I bet when we get back to Edoras they will be all lined up at the top of the steps waiting for you to choose.”

The noise that came from his throat could have been mistaken for the groan of a dying man. Almost automatically, he ran his fingers back from his forehead, pushing his long tawny hair away from his face, “Éowyn, I congratulate you. You have made a very important point – I will choose. And you had better have made it clear to anyone who has an interest in this – I will definitely not choose any that are lined up for me!” He touched his finger on the end of her nose and continued more gently, “I am absolutely determined to find my own.”

“Humph…” Éowyn was looking very doubtful.

“Humph! What’s that for?” he asked, laughing at his sister’s dubious expression.

“You will not find a wife in a tavern, you know. Not a suitable one anyway,” she grinned.

“I am just relieved that you think I will still be allowed to visit the odd tavern. I was coming to believe that a totally boring existence was being planned out for me.”

Éowyn put her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his chest, “Éomer, you are now the King of the Riddermark, and life will never be the same again for you. But you must make of it what you will. You must not let them completely run your life. Make it clear from the beginning that although duty and our people come first, you have a life as well. Most will understand.”

She was right, he did not expect to be in this position but now that he was he would do the very best he could for the Mark and its people. They had suffered the last few years and he was determined that everything that could be done would be done to restore prosperity, but the loss of his personal freedom threatened to overwhelm him. He would need his good friends around him. He would need a wife who could see past the crown. He put his hands on Éowyn’s shoulders and pushed her slightly away from him. The last thing he wanted, after all she had been through, was to load any of his worries onto her. He whipped up the dark red tunic from the chest and hurriedly put it on, “I will be fine. Come on, it must be nearly noon. There are many I wish to talk to.” He grabbed his sister’s hand and pulled her towards the door. He did not wish to be late.

“Éomer, Éomer!” Éowyn was fumbling in the small drawstring bag she wore on her belt, “You cannot go with your hair in that mess. Stop a moment. I have a comb somewhere.”

Éomer took no notice and exited the door into the corridor, still holding Éowyn’s hand, so his sister was forced to make an effort to comb his hair whilst being dragged along.

“You will have to let me, you do not know the way,” she said triumphantly, stopping suddenly and shooting out her arm to hang on to a pillar.

Éomer came to a halt and eyed her indulgently, “Go on then. I shall not get any peace until you do.”

“You will have to find a wife before I leave you,” it came out rather strangely as her lips were pressed together with the effort of trying to remove some of the tangles.

“Ouch! That hurts.” Éowyn was tugging unmercifully at his, admittedly, rather unruly mass. “Let me tell you that I do not need a wife for this. I am quite capable of presenting myself clean and tidy and with well brushed hair. When I want to, that is,” he grinned somewhat boyishly.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Yes, prove it tonight. Come to the festivities with washed hair, scrubbed hands and shiny boots.”

He looked down at his riding boots, which were definitely not shiny and said wryly, “I should have no trouble with the third request. I shall just change these for the pair in my chamber.”

“Then you just need to make sure you are back in time to take a proper bath, wash your hair and trim your beard.”

“What is this, Éowyn? Are you afraid I may give a bad impression to your future countryman, or is there something else?”  He couldn’t see her face, because she was behind him, but he felt her body tense, “There is, isn’t there?  Damn it, Éowyn, I do not expect to be hassled by you of all people.”

“I just think you should give a good account of yourself. It will be the first time you have appeared as our new king.”

He did not believe her but he was fed up with the subject. “Have you finished, because I think we had better get on?”

“It will do for now. I will trust you to make yourself presentable tonight,” she told him magnanimously.

“Thank you,” his sarcasm was so thinly veiled his sister could not fail to miss it although she showed no reaction. He sighed, it was obvious that there was somebody she wanted him to impress, and since he would have no choice but to meet whoever it was, it would be best to ignore the whole thing for now, “Alright, Éowyn, where are we going?” He favoured her with a smile to show she was forgiven.

“Elfhelm has organised a light meal in the second hall. He has asked your friends, the senior riders from every Éored and chosen many others who he thinks deserve to be there for whatever reason. There is not room for everybody, but all the rest will see you on the ride home.”

“That’s not going to be totally straightforward.” It was something he had not yet addressed and had to talk to Elfhelm about. “We do not have enough horses to get everyone mounted.”

“Erkenbrand is sending as many as he can round up. Hopefully they will arrive tomorrow which will give them a few days rest. They are not all fully trained, of course, but they will get our kinsmen home. I think Elfhelm has calculated everything. He is making arrangements for the wounded.”

At the thought of the wounded Éomer put his hand on his sister’s arm and stopped her a moment, “Éowyn, how is Aelfhere?” He knew his friend had survived and he had been told he had recovered, but even so he hesitated to ask. The last time he had seen him he had been laying in the Healing Houses with the lower part of one leg missing. Instantly his mind went back to the Pelennor. His own éored had left the others behind and were in danger of advancing too far into the enemy lines. He had looked around to regroup his men and at once had spotted Aelfhere. It was obvious he was in trouble: the idiot had stormed forward without any heed, as always, totally ignoring any danger to himself, his only objective to carve through the Southrons, despatching as many as possible. His personal skill had left him isolated and surrounded. Éothain had got there first. The three of them had done their growing up together at Aldburg and Éomer could suddenly see, as clear as if he was there now, three young lads with flying blond hair racing bareback through the tall swaying grasses; their ponies catching the excitement of the moment, as intent as their riders on winning. He sighed; the ponies had long given way to warhorses but Shield was dead by the time he himself had reached his friend. After he had been given the standard by Théoden, he was the natural target for all and it had taken him time to beat his way through the melee. When he got there he had found that the big roan, true to his name, had protected his master from the worst of the onslaught, but in his dying throes had crushed the bones in his lower leg beyond even the skill of Gondor’s healers to mend. His attention had then been taken then by the imminent arrival of the Black Ships and the next time he had seen Aelfhere it had been on a cot along the passage from his sister.

“Éomer,” Éowyn broke into his reverie, “Aelfhere has been riding. He has been out a few times.”

“Riding?” His first reaction was one of astonishment but then if his other wounds had healed there was no reason why not. A skilled rider could manage well on a good horse without the bottom of one leg.  “But how is he, Éowyn?” Éomer did not wish to imagine the mental anguish he was sure would grasp him in the same situation.

“Talk to him yourself. I think you may be surprised.”

Éomer nodded curtly, and concentrated for a moment on where he was going. The corridor seemed endless, but then Éowyn indicated a left turn and he soon found himself in parts of the building that he recognised from his previous stay. There were people about now, nobles mostly, although none he knew. But there were also plenty of soldiers and even some ladies. Most of the women had dark hair but he did not find any sparkling grey eyes. Damn, where did that thought come from? He was so disgusted with himself when he realised that he had been unconsciously looking, that he must have let out some sound from deep within because Éowyn looked up with a question in her eyes.

“Something in my throat,” he mumbled

Everyone they passed stopped and bowed and he heard mummers that included his name and the words: Rohan and king. “How do they know who I am?” he whispered to his sister.

“I would say you are pretty distinctive,” she enlightened him with more than a smile in her voice. “Also, many will be able to identify you after witnessing the coronation this morning. And you are with me. I am quite a familiar figure around here now.”

They crossed an inner courtyard; it was all stone with just the relief of a small fountain, towards some large doors that Éomer knew to be one of the entrances to what was known as the Second Hall. Two men, whom he recognised as members of Elfhelm’s éored, were guarding the door. As they saw him approaching one turned and called to someone in the hall.

He felt a little apprehensive. It had been different at Cormallen; there they had been relaxing and recuperating after two bloody battles. Although the men were calling him Éomer King, the matter of an official crowning of no significance to the Éorlingas who would follow the last of the male bloodline of Eorl the Young without question, it was a camp and, as such, informal and close knit. Here, he would face his kinsmen for the first time as their future ruler. Here would be friends, but also, Lords of the Riddermark of much greater age and experience than himself.

A warm soft hand crept into his and long slim fingers entwined with his own rough ones. He looked down into the trusting eyes of his sister. She smiled softly, “Are you ready?”

He nodded. Suddenly he was ready. The two guards bowed their heads and the Lord of the Mark stepped confidently through the wide doors.

The hall was full and all rose as one and spoke with one voice, “Éomer King!”

His kinsmen had spoken and, if he had ever wanted to, there was no going back. Elfhelm stepped towards him with his hand outstretched and behind him were others he trusted and respected and with that he knew he would not be totally alone.

“I thought there are probably some you may wish to talk informally with and then you could speak to everybody just before we eat,” Elfhelm suggested after all the official greetings were over.

“Make a speech, you mean?” his king grinned.

“Well, they are only used to hearing you shouting encouragement and orders on the battlefield. It might surprise them.”

“It will probably surprise me,” Éomer said wryly. It was something he was going to have to become familiar with but before that there was something else he must do and he leaned towards Elfhelm and asked quietly, “Where is Aelfhere?”

“Over there, on that table in the corner with Éothain.”

“Excuse me then.” Éomer walked towards the table Elfhelm had indicated and no-one waylaid him, probably realising where he was going. As he got closer a tall broad shouldered man rose. Éomer could see he was holding onto the table edge with one hand and that there was a wooden crutch propped against the chair. He looked a little gaunt, but the open grin and the honest eyes were just the same. Éomer held out his hand, which his friend took and clasped heartily, “Aelfhere, its good to see you.”

“And you, Éomer King.”

“Éowyn told me you had been riding. How did it go?” Éomer had decided that it was no point in being anything other than straightforward. If it was him he would hate others to have to tread delicately around the subject.

“To be truthful, I don’t see any real problem. Riding itself will not be much different. It is, of course, not so easy to sword fight or throw a spear without being able to stand up in the stirrups, but once they fix me up with my false foot, then I do not foresee any great difficulty. I will limp a bit when walking but I am confident riding and fighting from horseback will be almost as it was.”

“False foot?” Éomer could not help his astonishment showing.

Aelfhere laughed, “Yes, they are fixing me up with a wooden leg. Well, part of a leg,” he grinned. “Actually, it is already made, that’s how I know I will manage well. With boots on you would not really know. I cannot wear it yet as the new skin is too fragile but I am hoping you will allow me to come back with you when you collect Théoden King’s coffin. They say it should have had long enough to heal by then and be ready for a final fitting.”

Éomer looked him squarely in the eye, “You can certainly come back with me. You can come back as a member of my Guard. Éothain is getting one together and I need men I can trust.”

Aelfhere’s eyes drew together, “You do not have to do that, my Lord.”

“Oh, yes I do.   You are one of the Riddermark’s most formidable warriors. You will be doing me a great favour.”

Aelfhere bowed, “Then I am honoured, my Lord.”

“We won’t be going home for another week. I imagine that crutch of yours will get you to one of the City’s many taverns?”

 There was a loud chuckle, “It certainly will, my Lord.”

“Good. I just hope we can persuade Éothain to come with us.”

“I can hardly leave my king to tread the sordid alleys of Minas Tirith without me,” Éothain had not missed the word Tavern.

“My Lord, the meal is ready.”

Éomer turned to find Elfhelm at his elbow.

“You mean I have to make my speech?”

TBC

For Lia – I promised her this when she returned my very tatty dead sea creature! LBJ

Chapter 4 – The Bath

“Shall I walk back with you, Éomer?”

“You had better. You never know where I might end up.”

Elfhelm laughed, “It is a bit confusing, but you will have sorted it out in a couple of days.”

Éomer was not too sure. He had known the way back from the Healing Houses all right but now they had reached the building which contained the royal apartments and the guest rooms he realised it was still a maze. All the corridors were fashioned from the same stone, all were straight and the only difference was that some were wider than others. His sister certainly knew her way around though, but then she had had an expert guide.

“What do you think of Faramir?” He thought he might as well ask, after all Elfhelm had spent a lot of time with the man.

“As a warrior, as the Steward, or as your sister’s future husband?” Elfhelm was looking distinctly amused.

“Just tell me what you think!” Éomer barked at him, his impatience clearly showing.

“I think that she could hardly do better. He is a rather calm person which makes him quite an antidote to Éowyn. On the other hand he is a very strong willed man, which is what I feel she needs.”

Éomer digested this assessment, “I do not know from personal experience but that fits with what I have been told.” He sighed, “I just wish he was not from Gondor.”

“If you are asking for my opinion then I feel it is no bad thing. No, do not look so surprised,” Elfhelm caught sight of Éomer’s raised eyebrows, “you think you wish her to stay at Meduseld, but this union could be for the best.”

Éomer paused in his stride and took a long dumfounded look at the older man, “How can you think that?”

“Because you will eventually take a wife. Éowyn has had Meduseld to herself for many years. It could be that she would not like to be usurped by a Queen and your wife, whoever she turns out to be, will probably want to organise things her way. You know the old saying about two women in the kitchen.”

“The nearest Éowyn ever gets to the kitchen is the doorway,” Éomer immediately quipped back. “She likes to give her orders from there.”

“That’s true, I know,” Elfhelm conceded with a grin, “but they are her orders. No one else’s.”

They walked in silence for a while during which time Éomer sorted out his thoughts. “What you say certainly has some merit of truth,” he said at last, “but Éowyn would not necessary live at Meduseld if she married within our own people.”

“I cannot imagine her living in a village on the Wold.”

“No, I suppose not,” Éomer chuckled, “and since she seems quite certain in her own mind, that this is right for her, then I suppose it is not much point in me worrying about it. As long as she comes home when we leave next week, that is.”

“I am sure she will.”

That reminded Éomer of something, “We need to have a proper talk about the arrangements to get all our people home. I definitely wish to leave in a week.”

“Well, we will talk in detail over the next few days, but there are horses arriving tomorrow. Faramir has arranged for a train of pack animals from Lossarnach to carry the supplies.”

“Good. We came with just oatmeal. I do not want to travel back with such meagre rations.”

“There is no chance of that,” Elfhelm laughed, “Your future brother is being very generous.”

“What about the wounded? Some of those we have just visited do not look ready to leave.”

“I have agreed with the Warden that they will stay until we return for Théoden King’s coffin. They are getting treatment here not available in our own land. The funeral cortège will, necessarily, be slow, and the wains will travel at the same pace.”

“I estimate it will take about fifteen days for the cortège to travel the four hundred miles,” Éomer mused.

“I agree. But on top of that there are many less seriously wounded who will be riding home with us next week. They will not be able to ride at our full pace. You may wish to travel ahead and leave the slower ones behind,” Elfhelm suggested.

“I certainly do not,” Éomer retorted adamantly, “We started out together and those of us who are left will go home together.”

Elfhelm smiled, looking reassured, “I thought you would say that.”

“I am just sad we have to leave any wounded behind but I can see it is for the best.” That was one more thing to put on his mental list, he thought: improve the skills of the healers in the Mark. The men he had just visited would not have survived if they had received those kinds of injuries in the Riddermark. “I am absolutely amazed with what they are doing for Aelfhere,” he added as his thoughts jumped to his friend. “I must admit I did not think he would make such a good recovery.”

“He will recover even more now he has something to aim for. It was good of you to offer him a place in your guard, Éomer.”

“Believe me; I would rather have Aelfhere at half strength than many others fully fit. Not that I think he will be at half strength, if he is to be believed.” Éomer looked around, “I recognise this; we go down this corridor and turn left.”

They were nearing the left hand turn which would take them into the side corridor, where their respective chambers were situated, when a door into the main passageway opened and Felcon appeared. “My Lords,” he bowed deeply, “the Lady Éowyn has returned to her chamber to commence her toilet for tonight’s celebrations.” He addressed Éomer, “She asked me to remind you to collect her in plenty of time, my Lord.  With that in mind, shall I arrange your bath now, my Lord?”

“Yes, please do. I would not want to keep my sister waiting,” it was still quite early and Éomer briefly wondered how long he was supposed to take over a bath. The man disappeared silently after giving another low bow.

“How does he do that?” Éomer asked mystified.

“Do you mean: how does he bow so low without toppling over; how does he appear at the very moment he is needed or how does he walk without making any noise on these stone floors?” Elfhelm laughed.

Éomer shook his head in bafflement, “All three, I suppose. I find it unnerving.”

“You are not thinking of asking him to relocate to Meduseld, then?”

“Good grief, Elfhelm, Haldrad is enough. Fréowyn is perfectly capable of organising me a bath and arranging for my clothes to be washed.”

Elfhelm chuckled merrily, “I was just checking to see if all this was all going to your head.”

“Well, it’s not,” Éomer retorted sharply. He laughed suddenly and gave the Marshall a friendly slap on the shoulder, “Come and check out the wine in my quarters. It will take them a little while to carry all the water judging by the size of that bathtub.”

“I would be glad to,” Elfhelm quickened his step noticeably. “I am sure they have left you nothing but Gondor’s best.”

As the two Rohír entered Éomer’s chamber they could already hear sounds of activity behind the connecting door to the bath chamber. A smile appeared on Elfhelm’s face and Éomer shrugged his shoulders, grinning at him. “Perhaps we could make use of their spying network, he laughed.” 

“We had better broach the wine with no more delay,” Elfhelm indicated the covered jug and goblets that had been placed on top of a small inlaid table.

Éomer poured two very generous measures, passed one goblet to his Marshall and raised his own goblet in the air, “Let us toast the future of the Riddermark.”

Elfhelm raised his goblet to touch his king’s and both men took a long deep draught.

“Elfhelm, let me tell you how much I appreciate all that you have done over the past weeks. To know that you had everything under control here has made a difficult time much easier for me.”

“And to know that our country will be is such good hands as yours has made it easier for all of us,” the Marshall replied.

Éomer said nothing. There was nothing to say and anyway at that moment there was a knock on the connecting door and Idril appeared. She bobbed a curtsey and looked towards Éomer.

“My Lord, your bath is ready.” She moved her eyes between the two men taking in the wine goblets, “The water is still quite hot, Lord so there is plenty of time. I have left some jugs by the bath for you to rinse your hair, but I will be happy to assist you if you would like me to.”

Assist him? Éomer stared at her for a moment. There was definitely a twinkle in her eyes. Béma! “Um… no thank you. I will be able to manage myself.”

“Very well then, my Lord.” She opened her mouth slightly and ran her pointed pink tongue side to side between her teeth, “If you need anything, anything at all, just ring the bell.” Another smile and a curtsey and she exited through the door.

Éomer kept his eyes on the door for a moment and when he was sure she was gone he turned around to Elfhelm. The Marshal was almost shaking with suppressed laughter. “Did she mean what I thought she meant?” he asked incredulously.

“Probably, the Gondorian servants have proved to be extremely accommodating.”

Éomer’s eyes widened and he jerked his head in the direction of the bath chamber, “Have you?”

Elfhelm shook his head not holding back his laughter now, “I imagine she would consider me old enough to be her grandfather. You on the other hand….”

Éomer appeared to give the matter some considerable thought and then replied in as serious a voice as he could muster, “The age may be right but I prefer them a little slimmer. She is rather…cuddly.”

“When you get to my age, cuddly is better. It gives me something to rest the old bones on.”

“You, old bones!” Éomer snorted. “But you may have a point; parts of them need to be a bit cuddly.” Before he could stop it an image of well shaped breasts, a trim waist and grey eyes flashed into his mind. He was immediately angry with himself. That thought could go straight back where it belonged. “Right,” he said louder than he had intended, “I had better take that bath before the water gets cold.”

Elfhelm looked a bit surprised at the change of direction and drained his goblet. He made a move to leave but then looked as if he had remembered something, “Éomer, did you have a bath last time you were in the City?”

“Are you enquiring into my hygiene habits, Elfhelm?”

“No,” he laughed, “just tell me.”

“Well, I didn’t. When I wasn’t with Éowyn I stayed in Imrahil’s quarters. I cannot even remember taking my armour off, although I suppose I did. All the hot water available anywhere was needed for the wounded.”

“That’s what I thought,” Elfhelm moved towards the bath chamber. “Then you will need an explanation.”

“An explanation of what?”

“The bathing habits of Gondorian nobility.”

Éomer was so bemused he said nothing and just followed Elfhelm into the adjoining room. For a moment all looked normal: steam was rising from the large bath; there were four jugs of water on the floor alongside of it; there was a stack of drying cloths on a chair; there were various combs and brushes and a tin of tooth powder on the wash stand. His gaze then went to a low wooden bench on the other side of the bath tub and he cast his eyes over the strange array of objects laid out along its length. He looked up at Elfhelm knowing that there was a question on his face.

“As I said,” the Marshall grinned, “an explanation is needed.”

“Well, I recognise the bar of soap and the scrubbing brush.”

“That’s a start then. It will be oil, to put in the bath water, in that bottle.” Elfhelm picked up the glass bottle and removed the stopper holding it to his nose, “It’s not bad. It smells like the pine woods in spring.”

“I could have worked that out for myself,” Éomer muttered, “but what is this?” He had picked up a flat, pale straw coloured object about a foot long. It was slightly scratchy.

“It’s a gourd. In fact it’s a dried gourd called a luffa.”

“A gourd. What is a gourd?”

“I think our nearest thing is probably a marrow. These are something similar. They grow in the south and once the flesh is removed the fibrous inner is used for washing. It will change shape when you put it in the water.”

Éomer immediately threw it into the bath and watched with interest as it expanded and became cylindrical in shape.

“You rub soap on it and then it’s good for reaching down your back,” Elfhelm informed him. “It’s good for scratching your back, too.”

“Really, and this?” He was now holding a small piece of what he had thought was some kind of pale grey rock. It felt too light in his hand to be rock, though.

“That is pumice. It comes from volcanoes. No, not from Mount Doom,” Elfhelm laughed when he saw Éomer’s face, “from long ago.”

“What do you do with it?” Éomer asked rubbing his fingers over it.

“Just that really,” Elfhelm replied. “You rub your hands with it. Evidently the ladies of Gondor are not keen on a warrior’s rough callused hands caressing them. That will not get rid of the calluses but it will make them smoother.”

Éomer grinned, “Does it guarantee that there will be a lady to caress?”

“Try it and see,” Elfhelm gave him a wry look.

There was one item left. It was nearly the same colour as the luffa but it was round and full of holes. “That’s a sponge,” Elfhelm informed him when he picked it up.

“A sponge?”

“Yes, it is really good for washing. It lathers up the soap better than anything else I have known, and it holds a huge amount of water so it’s ideal for rinsing it off afterwards. I am surprised you did not come across one when you stayed with Imrahil. They come from the warm waters around Dol Amroth.”

“Do you mean the sea?” Éomer asked doubtfully. He was becoming aware that Elfhelm was enjoying himself. His next statement confirmed it.

“Yes. It is a sea creature.” Éomer looked at him open mouthed and the Marshall obviously could not resist a smirk. “Right, I will leave you to it or the water will be cold. He gave a little bow, “I will see you tonight, my Lord.”

He left rather speedily and Éomer stared at the object in his hand for a moment and then dropped it back onto the bench. He did not know if Elfhelm was pulling his leg or not but thought he most likely was.

As soon as the Marshall was gone he returned to the bed chamber to remove his clothes. Having done so, he strode naked back through the open door to the bath, picked up a comb from the washstand and tugged it through his long locks. Luckily Éowyn had removed the worst of the knots. He was just going to ease himself into the warm water when a thought struck him and he gathered up the pile of drying cloths that were on the chair and deposited them on the end of the bench. He jammed the chair under the handle of the door that led to the back passageway. He was not particularly bashful, but he had no wish to instigate anything with a young servant. Whether she was innocent, or possibly not so innocent, it could lead to trouble.

Surveying the items on the bench again he selected the bottle of oil, took off the top, sniffed it and poured a measure into the bath. Hopefully it would get rid of the smell of camp fires. When he finally stepped into the tub he found out two things: the water was still hot and there was plenty of room even for his large frame. He ducked down and totally immersed himself without sending too much water over the side. It would be better to wash his hair first, he decided, and reached for the bar of soap. Luckily it smelt the same as the bath oil. It took more than one go before he could work up a good lather. It was just fortunate there were marble floors as the suds were flying everywhere. But the servants knew their job and the jugs of clear water were in reach to rinse it all off. Since there was no flannel around he reached for the luffa and smeared it with soap. He started to scrub his body with it, Elfhelm was right about it:  he found it easy to get right down his back and it was useful to be able to wash all the way down his long legs and even his feet without much effort. And yes, he had to admit it was rather nice – the sort of abrasive feeling was very pleasant.

Now though, the part of him out of the water was covered with soap. He eyed the sponge with suspicion. He was sure Elfhelm had been joking and that it was some other kind of plant, but he picked it up gingerly, none the less. It certainly had no legs, and since he had come to Gondor he had eaten plenty of sea creatures with legs. Also, there were crayfish in the rivers of the Riddermark which were good to eat. But it had no fins; neither did it have a shell, so how could it be a sea creature? Elfhelm must have been teasing him. Even so, he drew his knees up towards him and made sure it went in at the far end of the bath. It certainly was not swimming. It was not doing anything much really. Perhaps it was slightly bigger and it looked softer, but the luffa had changed shape, and that was a plant. Somewhat reassured, he reached forward and made a grab for it. Water shot everywhere. Elfhelm had spoken the truth about that; it certainly absorbed a large amount.

Now that he was clean he reached for one of the drying cloths, rolled it up and shoved it behind his head. It was not often he got the chance to relax in a bath and the water was still lovely and warm. He closed his eyes.

Damn! Éowyn would kill him. Éomer stood up quickly and managed, by leaning over precariously and stretching out his arm, to flick a comb from the top of the washstand without getting out of the bath. He would have to comb his hair properly before it dried or it would be even more of an unruly mess than usual. He pulled the comb through his wet hair, and when he was sure all the tangles were out and it would dry reasonably tidily, he went to sit down again. There was a soggy wet mass in the bath. Bugger, the headrest had landed in the water when he had got up so hurriedly. He fished it out and twisted it around and around to get out as much water as possible. There was enough on the floor already.

Taking another cloth from the bench he sat down again, sighing audibly. It was his sister’s fault: wanting him to look presentable because she obviously had some female ready for him to meet.  And there was not much point in wondering who she was and what she was like as he would find out soon enough. The trouble was, Éowyn was probably perfectly correct, and when they would not be exactly lined up at the top of the steps outside Meduseld, the speculation would already be rife. And although he did not really want to admit to the truth, let alone voice it, he was well aware that whilst he had reacted fiercely when Aragorn had mentioned them picking him out a wife, if he wanted to choose his own, then he would have to find one fast.

He tried to think of something else for a moment but then groaned out loud when he couldn’t. It would be stupid not to acknowledge that the Mark was in urgent need of an heir. Not long ago there had been a King and two possible male heirs. Now there was just a King. And on a personal front he would be lying if he denied the fact that he enjoyed the company of women, very much enjoyed it actually. There was the rub: relationships that had been of no importance to anyone but the parties involved when he was Third Marshall would take on a much greater significance now he was king. As much as it pained him to say it, he would very soon require a wife. Since he was quite relaxed, the opportunity to think about possible candidates was tempting. But were there any? There had to be. It was just that none sprang to mind. He was fairly well acquainted with most of the nobles’ daughters in his own land, and could not imagine himself married to any of them. He wanted a proper loving wife, not just a queen. He was totally unfamiliar with any of the nobles’ daughters in Gondor. Even the one Éowyn apparently had up her sleeve. His first reaction had been irritation when Imrahil had mentioned his daughter but she could be a possible candidate. The only problem with taking a look at her was that she was in Dol Amroth. Would his kinsmen want a dark haired Gondorian as Queen, anyway?” He decided to be honest with himself; he was definitely attracted to Amrothos’ intended. It had been immediate. Something about her had stirred him. Perhaps he was just attracted to black hair. Even the ‘ladies’ at Cormallen had not been so dark. He guessed there would be others in Gondor with hair of a similar colour, if the men were anything to go by. He should definitely have a look around tonight. Of course, a union with a dark haired woman would have consequences for the Riddermark. Even though Éowyn was fair, a true daughter of Eorl, his own hair was darker than usual. That was no doubt a legacy from Morwen of Lossarnach. Another dark haired Gondorian in the mix and the Lords of the Mark might not bear any resemblance to their people. No, he would look at home. He grinned to himself, perhaps he should go on his own quest – travel around the land in disguise. One thing he was sure of: he wanted a wife who wanted him, not a crown.

Éomer shivered suddenly. The water was getting cold and he had better get out. He reached for a large cloth and his eye fell on the pumice. He was probably in for a lot of hand kissing tonight and he did not want to upset the fastidious ladies of Gondor. He examined his hands, the nails were clean, as he had scrubbed them earlier, but his palms and fingers were ingrained with dirt. He looked over his body for some delicate skin; he couldn’t find any but compromised by running his fingers up the inside of his arm. They were certainly rough. He picked up the pumice and started rubbing at his fingers and palms. True, it did not remove the calluses a warrior’s hands needed to be hard anyway, but it smoothed them off. It also removed months of muck. Finally satisfied he stood up and wrapped a large cloth around himself, took another and used it to dry his arms and legs. He opened the tin of tooth powder, smiling at the number of times in the wild he had used the end of a mashed up twig to clean his teeth. Finishing with his teeth, he glanced along the washstand. His eyes landed on a razor. Of course, his beard, he had to trim his beard. With everything in reach it didn’t take much more than a moment. Perhaps he ought to think about taking a Gondorian servant back to Meduseld. A last comb through his hair and he could get his clothes on.

Standing in breeches and shirt, he studied the velvet tunic. The white horse stood out starkly against the dark green. He had not seen that particular item of clothing before and Théoden had certainly not worn it. It must have been made for Théodred. There was nothing to do but to wear it and try to live up to his cousin’s memory. He put it on and reached for the shiny boots. His hair was still wet and it was still not quite time so it made sense to go outside for a bit. He had liked the look of the garden and his hair would dry much quicker.

Éomer left his chamber and headed for the door that led to the private garden. It was already slightly open but when he pulled it wide and looked out he could see no-one. Good, he did not wish to talk.  It was natural to head directly for the view over the Pelennor but as he approached the nearest seat he realised that he was not alone as he had thought.  To his left, where the wall turned in a curve, a woman was standing looking out.

Her long black hair was caught in a sort of net of ribbons and jewels, but even so, it reached down her back. She was wearing a blue dress which was tight at the waist and then flared out gently, skimming her hips. Although she was turned away from him, he recognised her immediately.

TBC

With thanks to Eirwen for her patience after I kept changing things. LBJ

Chapter 5 – The Meeting

Indecision was foreign to him and he felt the irritation rise as he hesitated. The best thing to do would be to retreat quietly back the way he had come. He could go and knock on Éowyn’s door. She would probably be fully dressed by now.  It was definitely the most sensible thing but he did not move. What if she saw him retreating? It would look rude and there was no reason not to talk to her. They were out in the open, in full view of anyone gazing out of the windows; it would not constitute a breach of propriety. The only reason not to stay was the presence of some unchaste thoughts that had entered his head the moment he had set eyes upon her and which were, rather annoyingly, still lingering. No, that was not enough reason: he was not some moonstruck youngster. He should be able to have a perfectly amiable conversation with an attractive young woman who happened to be promised to a good friend. On the other hand it might be wise to keep well away and concentrate his thoughts on the array of ladies that were sure to be presented tonight.

He had still not made up his mind what to do when she turned around and caught sight of him. Her face immediately lit up with that totally open and genuine smile he had witnessed outside the city gates. Once again his breath caught. She was beautiful. Fate had made her wishes known, and he had heard someone say recently, probably Gandalf, that she was a mistress not to be ignored.

“My Lord Éomer!” she exclaimed her soft voice containing nothing but pleasure. “Have you come to look at the view?”

“That and to allow my hair to dry,” he grinned. Her easy unaffected manner was contagious.

“Ah yes, Éowyn told me she had threatened you.” Without moving her head she ran her eyes up and down his body, momentarily assessing him. Then those wonderful grey orbs came to rest on his face. They had been sparkling before but now they were twinkling merrily. All of a sudden the collar of his tunic which had felt fine when he put it on became exceedingly tight. “I imagine you will pass muster. You look alright to me, anyway.” She was obviously not at all overawed by being alone in the presence of a strange man. But of course she was friends with his sister and virtually betrothed to a brother in arms. She would look upon him as a friend also. It was a good job she could not read minds.

“It is my sister’s mission in life to ‘tidy me up’. I decided to cooperate today.” He smiled apologetically, “I am sorry, my Lady, Amrothos told me your name and I remember you shared it with a goddess. I am pretty sure it began with…N, but that is all I can remember and Éowyn never mentioned it today. Although she said she was going shopping with you.”

Éomer thought he saw a faint flash of surprise cross her face but it was gone before he could be sure. “Oh, I thought he had stopped using that one. He called me Nessa when we were young and it sort of stuck. My given name is rather a mouthful it is….No,” she laughed; we will be formally introduced tonight. Nessa will do for now. A little informality is good sometimes, don’t you think, my Lord?”

“I personally think a little informality is best most of the time,” he retorted good humouredly, “so my name is Éomer.”

There was that assessing look again although this time he knew it wasn’t his clothes she was thinking about. “I imagine you have been rather overwhelmed by the change in your status.” She looked over towards the River Anduin and Cormallen, “It would not be so noticeable out there with your men, but I expect you felt it as soon as you reached the City.”

How did she know that? Grief, he hoped she couldn’t read minds. He was staring at her thinking of what to say when she carried on.

“You will get used to it, you know.” She smiled and changed the subject looking away from him out over the wall, “Now you are here, you can show me where Éowyn slew the Witch King, and how far you got through the enemy ranks before you saw the Black Ships.”

“You are interested in the battle, then?”

She gave a quiet laugh, “I am a soldier’s daughter and it was discussed all through the midday meal. It is almost impossible to be brought up in Dol Amroth without developing some interest and knowledge of warfare.”

Éomer took a few steps towards the edge of the wall. He kept some paces away from her but with complete naturalness she moved to stand very close to him. His nostrils immediately picked up a sweet exotic scent. “You smell glorious,” he said it without thinking.

“Why, thank you. It is a perfume made from the flowers of a tree called a Frangipani. I imagine that is new to you as well.” She reached up a little, put her had lightly on his arm and sniffed his hair, “You smell good too. I always think the scent of pines is very manly.”

He swallowed, the touch of her hand had been feather light but his arm felt on fire. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was flirting with him, but when he looked in her eyes they were completely guileless. She just seemed to be naturally friendly. Her closeness however was not helping his determination to remain detached so he moved closer to the wall. It didn’t help because she came with him. Their shoulders were touching, or rather, her shoulder was touching his arm, and she was looking totally unconcerned about it. But of course she would be: he held no interest for her.  He could not resist covering that beautiful face with his eyes for a moment. Her skin was wonderfully smooth and tanned to a pale creamy brown. She had long black eyelashes and her lips were ….

“They are already building up the walls where you rode through. Where did you sound the horns?”

Éomer started and dragged his eyes away from her face. He looked towards the North, “We all got right through without being challenged but if the walls had not been already down it would not have been so easy. Théoden sounded the first blast just as the wind changed.”

“Amrothos said it was the best and most welcome sound he has ever heard.”

Éomer smiled ruefully, “I think the best sight in my life was seeing Aragorn’s Standard unfurl on the lead ship, but next to that it was probably the ranks of blue and sliver that marched out from the City.”

“And the worst sight was seeing Éowyn lying on the battleground?” There was a silence for a moment. “It is better to talk about it, you know,” she said softly when he didn’t answer. “It will be healthier for the future.”

“You are right,” he hesitated, “and you are also right - it was the worst sight of my life. But the best words were when Imrahil told me she was not dead. Our relationship will always be special because of that.” Eomer looked out over the Pelennor, “You can just see the mound where Snowmane is buried and the fell beast died.” he pointed slightly to their left, “but it was way down there, only a mile from the Harlond, where I saw the ships.”

She followed his gaze around to the right, “You got so far?”

He nodded, “To be honest I was very lucky. Tactically, it was a very bad move and I endangered my men needlessly.” He sighed, “In fact one of my closest friends lost the bottom part of his leg.”

“You blame yourself for that, Éomer?”

He thought for a moment. “No, not for that. Aelfhere was as reckless as me that day. He would as likely as not have been injured in some way.  However, the sight of Éowyn lying dead, as I thought she was then, wiped the last shred of rational thought from my mind. As I said, I was lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”

“Luck plays a heavy role in all our lives. Your friend, Aelfhere, how is he?”

“Surprisingly well. Both mentally and physically, I think.” Éomer allowed himself to fix his eyes on her face again. He could not really imagine why he was talking to her like this. A young woman he had only just met. “You have expert healers in Gondor. It appears he will manage quite well with a false foot. I asked him today to join my guard.”

The clear grey eyes locked with his. “Because you really do feel guilty or because you feel sorry for him?”

“No…, he said slowly. “Because before all this, if I had ever imagined that I would need a guard, then I could not have countenanced him not being part of it.”

She nodded once as though that was the answer she was expecting. “My father said you would make a good king.”

“Did he? He shows more confidence than me.”

“That is how it should be. If you were so sure of yourself you would be nothing but a bore,” she threw him an amused grin. “I imagine you are looking forward to returning to Rohan.”

“I am, but my sister may be thinking differently.”

“Ah, she told me that you had found out. She has been worried about your reaction. I have only been a few days in the company of both of them, but they seem well suited.”

“Everyone tells me Faramir is and good and honourable man.”

“Oh, he is. She could not do better for a husband?”

“You know him well?” He thought she looked a little taken aback by the question, but she answered quickly enough.

“I had not seen him for a couple of years but before Gondor was quite so much under the shadow, he made many visits to Dol Amroth.”

The mention of Dol Amroth brought the bathing experience back to Éomer’s mind. He hesitated for a moment but then thought that she would not actually laugh at him. She would be a little amused maybe. “Nessa, can you tell me what a sponge is?”

Her eyes widened slightly and he caught her lips twitching but she answered him without actually breaking into laughter. “It is a sea creature. We use them for washing.”

“So I was told. But I thought Elfhelm was teasing me. It looks like no creature I have ever seen.”

“They do not swim but are fixed to the sea bed. They are definitely alive, before we harvest them, that is. I have always thought that they seem to be something between a plant and an animal.”

“Oh, they are dead?”

Nessa looked as though she just had to giggle at that. So he amused her even more by saying, “I threw it in the bath but kept well away, ready to jump out. I was worried it would start swimming around.”

“Then you were very brave to have put it in the first place.” She wasn’t laughing because her lips were pressed tightly together in a very determined effort not to.

Éomer swallowed again as he fought an overwhelming urge to touch her. He desperately wanted to run one of his newly cleaned and softened fingers over those lips, to ease them apart and then bring his own lips down to capture hers. He had to turn away whilst he frantically sought for some neutral subject to talk about that would take his thoughts elsewhere. He would converse for a few more minutes and then make his excuses. Turning back he found that her eyes were still full of amusement but she had managed to hold back her laughter. “Did Dol Amroth suffer much in the war?” he managed to get out.

“The villages along the coast were badly hit but Dol Amroth itself is well fortified.” She had adapted to his quick change of topic with no noticeable surprise.

“What’s it like? Imrahil has invited me but I doubt I will have time to visit for quite a while.”

“Well, it is a fortified City, not dissimilar to Minas Tirith, but on a much smaller scale. The family and many of the Swan Knights live in the inner bastion, and the townsfolk and soldiers in the lower parts. There is water on two sides, so the sea is a big part of our lives.”

“But the Corsairs did not trouble you?”

“No, on one side we have the protection of a reef. That means,” she went on to explain, “that we have a very shallow bay and any boats would have to come over sharp rocks. Then the harbour is in a natural inlet which is easy to defend. We always have watchers in the towers and if there is any threat the bells are rung and we raise big chains across the harbour entrance. During the war though, the people came to the City from the surrounding countryside for protection. We were full to bursting.”

“And you have come here, which is full to bursting with Rohirrim.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “and many of our people also. They came for the celebrations some weeks ago. My father wanted me to join him but I had duties at home.”  A soft contented look set on her features, “I was determined not to come but then Amrothos wrote to me, begging me to change my mind. I could not disappoint him.”

“You have always been…close to him?” He could not stop himself from asking.

She nodded; “We were playmates when we were little and got up to all sorts of mischief together. Now I think that possibly I love him more than any other being. Perhaps even more than my father. I feel guilty about that sometimes, but my father was rarely home.”

“It is natural,” he said quietly, wondering why he was still here. The empty void, that had been in his stomach since had realised that his sister would really be leaving him, had filled with stone.  “I imagine it will soon be time to appear in the hall. I must see if Éowyn is ready.”

She made to turn, as though to make her way back inside, but then stopped and those gorgeous eyes sparkled again. “I know the Rohír has a mighty reputation as a warrior. I know there are few to best him on a horse, but can he dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yes, dance?”

He grinned in spite of the feelings of despondency that were assailing him, “It has been known.”

“Good. I shall use that fact that I am friends with your sister to force you to ask me before all the others besiege you.”

“I will ask you more than once if I am allowed.”

She pursed her lips as though she was working something out, “Luckily the fact that you are a friend and comrade of my father will permit that.”

She did have a lovely smile, he thought. It was almost mischievous. “Nessa, do you ride?”  It was out before he could prevent it.

“I ride very well, but my horse is at home. We came by ship” she now had her head delightfully cocked on one side waiting for him to elucidate.

“If I find you a horse will you come riding with me tomorrow? My sister and Faramir also,” he knew he should not be saying this but somehow felt powerless to stop himself.”

“I would like that very much. You need not worry about the horse; Amrothos has a spare I can borrow.”

“He will not mind?”

“No,” she laughed, “we are always swapping mounts.”

“No, I meant he will not mind you coming riding with me?”

“Why should he?” There was that faint look of surprise again. “He knows you will look after me and Faramir will be there.” She looked towards the sinking sun, “I must rush. There are still a few things to do. I will see you in the hall, my Lord.” She dropped him the briefest of curtseys and almost ran back along the path towards the building. She had lifted her skirt slightly so she would not trip and the net of heavy glossy hair swung from side to side.

Éomer stared after her for some considerable time. Long after she had disappeared through the door. What had he done? He should have walked away, not asked her to ride with him. When had he lost control of the words emitting from his mouth? He ran his fingers through his hair. Damn, how stupid could he be? She was such a friendly person that she saw no harm in it. Of course, if his feelings for her were just friendly, there would be no harm in it. Except they weren’t, they definitely weren’t. More time spent in her company would only compound the problem, for him anyway. He had no doubts about that.

“Éomer! Éomer!” He looked around to where the voice was coming from, although he had recognised it immediately. Éowyn was waving at him from the doorway. Béma, was that Éowyn? She was wearing a green, sort of floaty dress in a flimsy material, but what he noticed most was her hair.  Her fine blonde tresses had been twisted into a knot on the top of her head and the rest of the length of it hung down her back like…well like a dressed horse’s tail.  The knot was threaded with ribbons. They looked like silk he noticed as he got closer and they matched the dress. The style showed off her fine bone structure. She looked stunning.

“What have you been doing?” she said crossly as he reached her.  “It is late. You should be there in good time.” She started to automatically brush down his tunic although there could be nothing on it.

“I came out to dry my hair and I got talking to your friend Nessa.”

“Your hair looks shiny and clean,” she reached towards him and sniffed, “and you smell nice. But you must have run your hands through it again. I thought you would so I brought a brush.” Before he could protest she reached up with the brush she was carrying and started to make long strokes through his hair. “Who is Nessa?”

“Éowyn, that’s enough!” he must have sounded as irritated as he felt because she stopped and looked at him with a certain amount of surprise in her eyes.

He tried to soften his voice. It was not her fault he was so disturbed. “Éowyn, I did not know you had such a short memory. Nessa is the young woman you went shopping with this afternoon.” He smiled into her eyes, they were full of hurt. Chastened, he ran his finger down her cheek, “And if she had anything to do with the way you look tonight, then you must go with her again.”

“She did, and I will,” his sister grinned looking slightly mollified. “But her name is not Nessa it is…”

“Oh, I know, it is her pet name, the one that Amrothos uses,” he interrupted as the realisation of what he actually had to do hit him as hard as a blow from an orc’s cudgel.”

“Come on,” he pushed open the door and ushered her inside, “I have to speak with him before the feast starts.”

TBC

Well, I am glad that you enjoyed the last chapter. Nessa will not appear again for a while – but when she does!  A big thank you to those that reviewed and I am sorry but ‘real life’ has prevented me from replying personally this time. Luckily this was already written. LBJ

Chapter 6 – The Discovery

“Will you slow down!” Éowyn was being dragged along and almost had to run to keep up with her brother’s long strides. She still had the hair brush in her hand and plonked it on top of the head of a marble bust of Cirion they happened to be passing.

“I am not sure the worthy Steward would like that, and anyway you should show respect. It was he that ceded us Calenardhon,” Éomer threw her an amused grin.

“You would not stop so that I could return it to my chamber. I can hardly take a hairbrush into Merethrond,” she replied indignantly. “And why are you in such a hurry anyway?”

“I told you, I have to speak with Amrothos before the feast starts. He will probably be drunk afterwards.”

 “What do you have to say to Amrothos that is so urgent?”

“I need to ask him if he would like to come riding with us in the morning.” It was the only thing he could think of that would extricate him from the embarrassing situation he had stupidly put himself in.

“Why should you want to ask Amrothos? You are supposed to be getting to know Faramir.” Éowyn succeeded in slowing her brother down by the recently learnt tactic of throwing her arm around a convenient pillar.

Éomer stopped and let out a deep sigh, “Because I asked Nessa to come, so now I obviously have to ask Amrothos.”

A smug grin spread slowly over his sister’s face, “I can understand you asking…Nessa, but please enlighten me, Éomer, why do you feel you now have to ask Amrothos?”

“Éowyn,” he came back rather sharply. “Are you particularly dense this evening. I cannot go riding with her….unchaperoned.”

“But Faramir will be there,” Éowyn looked baffled. “And if Amrothos comes then he will want to bring Nienna and there will be so many of us you will not get the chance to talk to Faramir. He will be busy with his duties tonight and ….”

“Whoa… Éowyn,” It was Éomer’s turn to look mystified, “Who is Nienna?” The name sounded familiar to him but he could not place it. The unexpected wallop that hit him solidly in the back took away any chance of him remembering where he had heard it before. He choked on air, fell forward a pace or two and started coughing.

“Well, laddie,” there was a gruffly muttered growl. “I mean, well, Éomer King. You have smartened yourself up a bit. That’s what having a woman does for you.”

Éomer turned around, Gimli was now grinning heartily, at least Éomer thought he was grinning. It was hard to tell: what with the Dwarf’s beard and his own watering eyes. “What woman?”

“This beautiful one here, of course.” Gimli took hold of Éowyn’s hand and relocated it somewhere near his mouth.

The wide corridor was suddenly crowded as following Gimli out of a side passage came Legolas and four chattering hobbits. That was not quite right as only three were chattering, Éomer observed. Frodo appeared to be quiet and was lagging a little way behind. Éomer immediately had an idea what was bothering him, he knew very well himself what it was to be suddenly thrust into the limelight. For Frodo it would be even worse. The prospect of being a guest of honour in the great hall of Merethrond tonight after weeks spent in the wilds with just Sam and that gruesome Gollum for company would be daunting. He had spent time recovering in the relative peace of the camp at Cormallen but Éomer had noticed that he still looked wan and pale.

Éomer wanted to get on but greetings between friends naturally took a while, then Gimli and Legolas started an argument about the glittering hoard of Scatha the Worm. It was sparked off by remark Legolas made about the Éothéod after noticing the hairbrush on top of the bust of Cirion way back down the corridor. Éomer heard mention of the dragon’s tooth necklace and the demise of Fram and deemed it better not to enter the fray lest relations between himself and one particular Dwarf, were severed.

The chance of getting a quiet word with the youngest Dol Amroth prince before the feast was receding fast, Éomer realised with tempered resignation. Merry and Pippin had waylaid Éowyn and were asking her opinion of their fancy attire. They had ordered it in Cormallen and it had been waiting for them when they arrived in the City. They were both vying vociferously for her attention. His sister was feeling the different materials and commenting enthusiastically on the vibrant colours of the outfits. Éomer, who personally preferred to wear something more subdued, had never realised quite how diplomatic Éowyn could be.

Sam, who was wearing a sumptuous but tasteful outfit in rich brown velvet, turned around to check on his master, who having caught up once was falling behind again. Éomer touched his arm and whispered quietly. “Is Frodo well, Sam?”

Sam shook his head, “He is tired, my Lord. It has been a long day already and it will be a lot longer yet. He had no rest because Merry and Pippin spent the whole afternoon talking nonsense and preening in front of the mirror. I think he is worried about the feast tonight. His stomach will not take all the rich food.” Sam shook his head again, “The sting from that ‘orrible stinking spider affected him worse than we thought.”

Éomer waited for Frodo to catch up, his own problems fading to insignificance for a moment. He might tower over the hobbit in height but in nothing else, he reflected. “Frodo, I will tell Aragorn that you may wish to retire as soon as the official part of the evening is over and I will arrange for a steward to attend you as soon as we get to the hall. You can tell him what you will be able to eat.”

“I do not wish to be a nuisance, my Lord”

Éomer just managed to restrain himself from ruffling Frodo’s hair, “You will never be a nuisance, Frodo, not in Gondor or Rohan.” He grinned at the hobbit, “you will be in trouble though, if you insist on calling me ‘my Lord’, and that goes for you too, Sam.”

“It’s all right for Mr. Frodo,” Sam shook his head again, “but it doesn’t seem proper for me. I could call you Éomer King, I would be happy with that.” 

Éomer gave up; he was never going to win that one. He caught Frodo’s eye and winked at him. “You do that, Sam, if you are more comfortable.”

The lively party quietened down as they left the building to cross the Place of the Fountain towards the steps that ascended up to Merethrond, the huge feast hall of Minas Tirith. It was not yet dark but there were braziers lit around the courtyard and torches on the walls of the hall. The area outside the entrance was thronging with people, mostly men. Many of them were his own countrymen and Éomer guessed that they were putting off going inside for as long as possible. Greetings were called out but he did not wish to stop. He could be sociable afterwards. The crowd was hugging the doors but as by some prearranged signal the whole lot of them parted to form a pathway up the steps. There were outright stares of curiosity and wonder by the Gondorians amongst them. It was without a doubt the closest look most had had of a dwarf, an elf and four hobbits. Walking thorough the bowing nobles Éomer realised that he had a lot to do before he took his place. He wanted to talk to Amrothos but before that he needed to find a steward. He did not want Frodo to be at all embarrassed or ill at ease.

The first person he saw when he entered the immense hall was Erchirion. He was studying a huge piece of parchment on which was drawn some kind of seating plan. The prince swept his eyes over the group and raised his eyebrows. “Ah…, my esteemed cousin, the Steward, will be a little annoyed with me. I was supposed to send someone to ask you all to come in the other end of the building and join our new King and his entourage. You are supposed to enter the hall together when everyone else is seated. I forgot,” he grinned not looking the least apologetic.

Éomer ignored this, he couldn’t see it mattered which way they came in. He took Erchirion aside and asked him to find a steward. The Prince immediately collared an immaculately dressed retainer standing behind him. The man stepped forward, bending himself in half in front of Éomer. He declared himself to be at the service of the King of Rohan. Éomer explained Frodo’s requirements; one thing he had noticed was that you never had to tell a Gondorian servant anything twice. The man bowed again and assured him he would attend to the Lord Pherian personally. That done Éomer turned back to Erchirion, “Where is Amrothos, I cannot see him?” The hall was full of people milling around and squeezing between the tables trying to find their seats but he could not see him or Nessa anywhere.

“Look for a dark haired beauty and he won’t be far away. I have never seen him so attentive,” Erchirion snorted. “This is going to change him for ever.” He looked as though he found he found his brother’s behaviour surprising. Éomer didn’t at all. The Prince joined him in surveying the huge mass of guests. It was not easy as the vast majority of them had dark hair. Their eyes swept from person to person and it was not long before their interest was noticed by some of the company, notably the ladies amongst them who were starting to edge distinctly nearer to the two men. This caused Erchirion to chuckle wickedly, “I wonder how many we could snare between us.” The Prince watched the scenario of the slowly advancing female throng for a further moment and then murmured in Éomer’s ear, “Do you think they are aiming for me or you? I am better looking but then… you are a king, so perhaps we should share.”

Éomer, who would have under normal circumstances found the situation, and Erchirion, quite funny, could only manage a groan. He had some inkling of what he might be in for once the meal was over and the dancing started and he was definitely not in the mood. He just wanted to find Amrothos and forget about his disastrous conversation with Nessa. He would have to keep away from her on the ride in the morning.

Erchirion gave up and shook his head, “I can’t see him in the hall; he’s probably in the antechamber with the rest of the family.”

Éomer nodded and hurriedly followed Éowyn and the others before the stalking pack of predators could reach him. The group were being led down a side passage towards the back of the hall. It was separated from the main atrium by filigree stonework and looked to be used by the servers. The passage came out next to some double doors that led into a large antechamber. The doors were open and Éomer could see Aragorn talking to Faramir and a couple of others he recognised, from their frequent and bothersome visits to Cormallen, as high lords of Gondor. He looked around as he entered, determined to talk to Amrothos before he became involved with any one else but Aragorn spotted him and waved him over and the same moment Gandalf appeared from nowhere and took the hobbits aside. Gimli grabbed hold of Legolas and steered him towards a table holding wine and goblets he had already spotted. Éomer had no choice but to take his sister’s arm and make his way towards Aragorn and Faramir.

Faramir looked across when he saw his liege wave and Éomer was pleased to see a definite catch in the man’s breath and a rudely abrupt break off of his conversation with his neighbour. Faramir stared unashamedly at Éowyn his eyes moving up and down her. The whole group followed his gaze and his sister turned a very pretty shade of pink. Good, the man had passed the first test. He had no wish to see Éowyn married to a cold passionless fish.

Aragorn was the first to take Éowyn’s hand and raise it to his lips. Éomer watched fascinated as his sister dropped into an elegant curtsey. When had she learnt to do that? More importantly, who had taught her? He rather felt he knew the answer to that one. He was then amused when he caught sight of Aragorn’s hands: someone had obviously instructed their King in the use of the pumice.

Faramir inclined his head towards him, “My Lord, it is a great pleasure to welcome you to Minas Tirith and Gondor. Éomer noticed there was a faint flash of amusement in his eyes. “I am sorry that I was unable to greet you in a fitting manner last time we met.”

Éomer set steely eyes on him, “I may overlook it since you happened to be unconscious at the time,” he said in a deliberately expressionless voice. He took the steward’s outstretched hand and subjected it to a grip that would have crushed a warg’s skull. Faramir’s calm grey eyes met his squarely and there was no visible sign of discomfort on the other man’s face. Before the Rohír could challenge the Steward further there was a painful jab in his ribs.

“Éomer, cease that!” Éowyn hissed in his ear.

With a few embarrassed shuffles and with various mutterings of apologies the two Gondorian lords remembered they had duties elsewhere.

“Lady Éowyn,” Aragorn could hardly contain his amusement, “you do not have to worry. I rather feel the honours are about equal. But perhaps I should try and persuade your brother to stay here longer. He has a knack of getting rid of annoying advisors.”

Éomer let go of Faramir’s hand and broke into one of his characteristic grins, “Annoying already? Then I am glad to be of service,” he inclined his head slightly to Aragorn, “I shall rely on you doing the same when you come to Edoras for Théoden’s funeral.” He turned to Faramir, speaking to him as if the last few moments had not happened, “I imagine we will have the pleasure of your company as well. Good.” He grinned again, “I understand Éowyn has arranged a ride in the hills in the morning; it will give us chance to talk about the arrangements.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” Faramir replied sounding totally unperturbed. “I shall look forward to it.”

“So shall I, if you stop calling me my Lord.” Éomer’s gaze was suddenly fixated by catching site of Amrothos and Imrahil over Faramir’s shoulder. What was riveting his attention was that the young prince had a lady on his arm. A lady he did not recognise.  She had dark hair, but it was quite curly, not straight. She had the grey eyes of Dol Amroth. She was very lovely, but she was not Nessa.

“Oh,” said Éowyn who had followed his gaze, “there is Amrothos and Nienna. You will be able to ask him now, Éomer. Although there really is no need as Faramir is going to be there.”

“What do you want to ask me?” Amrothos was obviously blessed with good hearing. Luckily Éomer was spared having to answer for a moment as Imrahil thought that his first duty was to introduce Nienna to the Kings of Gondor and Rohan.

Éomer took her hand in a daze. She had a charming smile, a sweet voice and she smelt lovely, but it was not Frangipani and he felt nothing but relief.

“Well, Éomer, what did you want?” Amrothos asked again as soon as the introductions were over. “I have just spoken with Erchirion and he said you were looking for me.”

Éomer opened his mouth but when nothing came out immediately his sister butted in. It was a good thing because he hadn’t known what he was going to say.

“He’s asked Lothíriel to come riding with us in the morning so he wants you to come as chaperone. I told him Faramir would be enough but…”

“But he doesn’t trust himself with my sister?” Amrothos, interrupted chuckling loudly, “I am not sure I trust him with my sister…I shall definitely come.” He turned to Nienna, “I have already promised Lothíriel my spare horse but we can find another for you.” He glanced towards Faramir who nodded in agreement. The Steward looked as if finding a horse was an easy task compared with the hundreds of other things requested of him.

Éomer felt he must say something. There was only one thing he wanted to say. He focused on  Imrahil who was giving a good impression of being very pleased with life and with the King of Rohan in particular, “Where is your daughter?” he asked politely, surprised that his voice sounded so normal.

“She is helping Erchirion. He appears to have difficulty concentrating on the task in hand with the result that the guests will most likely end up sitting on each others laps. Lothíriel will sort it out,” he said confidently.

“How gratifying to have such a beautiful and accomplished daughter. She must be a great help to you, Imrahil. I understand she is an expert rider, as well. Capable of keeping up a good fast pace all the way to… let’s say all the way to Edoras shall we?” Aragorn had more than a smirk on his face. He addressed his remarks to the Prince of Dol Amroth but managed to look at his Rohirric friend out of the corner of his eye at the same time.

Éomer decided that Gimli had the right idea; a large measure of wine was definitely needed. His brain was beginning to feel fried, in fact it felt on fire, and only a dose of strong spirit was likely to douse the flames. He wanted to think. He wanted to think without any interruptions and that was as about unlikely as… well he couldn’t think what. In the past few months the most unlikely and unimaginable things had happened: Lost kings hiding in the grass; trees that talked and moved; Halflings that walked into Mordor. Mistaking one woman for another was way down the scale of unlikely things. In fact it was probably far more likely than his sister learning to curtsey and wearing silk ribbons in her hair. That thought reassured him. He was not going mad. Getting goddesses mixed up could be considered quite normal. But he still wanted to think. He wanted to go over what they had talked about. How could he have not realised? Imrahil’s daughter! No wonder she was so relaxed in his presence she….he stopped as something else elbowed its way into the forefront of his mind. He had thought she was flirting with him but he had dismissed it as nonsense because she was in love with Amrothos. But she was not. Of course, it was true that she may be just a very friendly person, but… a warm feeling spread through him. Perhaps he did not need the wine quite so much after all.

TBC

Chapter 7 – The Feast

“You know, Éomer, it is a lot easier to see a scuffmark on the toe of your boot than it is to see the remains of a meal on the part of your beard that lies immediately beneath your nose.”

Éomer could not believe he had scuffed his boots already. He looked down: the toes were shiny and clean. He was just about to rub his hand over his mouth when he realised that it was Gandalf speaking and what it was that the wizard meant.

“Sometimes,” Gandalf went on, “the clearer our eyes see things, the cloudier our minds become.”

“I am sorry, Gandalf, I do not follow you.” He knew he should have grabbed a drink when he had the chance. Now he would have to wait until he sat down.

“Put it this way, if something is forbidden to us, then we do not have to give it thought, as we cannot have it. But if we are allowed to have something then we have to decide if we wish to take it.”

Not only were the wizard’s lips quivering with amusement but his white bushy eyebrows had a definite tremble. Éomer found he could not say anything. What was the point anyway when Gandalf probably knew what he was thinking? Béma, he had been worrying about his future lack of privacy but he had always imagined his thoughts would be his own.

“But,” Gandalf did not seem bothered by the one sided conversation, “I remember telling Théoden one day that you were a man of clear mind, so you will have no difficulty deciding what to do. Now,” the wizard looked around to check the whereabouts of the other members of the group, “everyone is waiting for us. We must go in. And don’t worry about Frodo, Éomer; he is sitting between Aragorn and me. He will not be allowed to overdo things. Just keep an eye on Pippin, will you?”

Éomer smiled for the first time since he had been introduced to Nienna. He should probably be ecstatic but the warm feeling had gone and now he only felt a kind of numbness. Gandalf’s typically obscure utterances didn’t help either. Clear mind? It was now decidedly foggy. “I will try, Gandalf, but I make no promises. He reminds me of one of your fireworks – you think they have gone out but suddenly they explode into life.” Éomer laughed, feeling light-hearted again, “I shall keep a jug of water handy.”

“I did not have all the right elements at Cormallen,” Gandalf said, rather petulantly for a wizard. The keeper of Narya, Ring of Fire, was clearly affronted at the suggestion his fireworks were anything other than perfect. Éomer grinned at the Istari, it was good to be able to get ones own back occasionally.

“I shall remember that, young king,” the twinkle was back in Gandalf’s eye, “now come on there is no time for all this chatter.

He couldn’t see anyone sitting on anyone else’s lap when he entered the hall. Lothíriel…he was sure he would always think of her as Nessa, must have made sense of the seating plan. He scanned the tables nearest the dais. As he thought she was sitting quite close, next to Erchirion, with Amrothos and Nienna opposite her and Elladan and Elrohir along from them. He could not immediately see who was on the other side of her as his view was blocked when the whole hall rose as soon as Aragorn stepped up onto the platform. The top table was laid for the remaining eight companions, one of whom was new the King of Gondor. There was also himself, Éowyn, as the slayer of the Witch King, Imrahil and Faramir who was master of ceremonies. The banners of Gondor, Rohan and Dol Amroth had been erected behind their seats and the banners of all the feoffs of Gondor had been raised down the inner side of the long hall. Éomer had to admit it was an impressive sight: not only was the table decorated with candles, fruit and flowers but there were massive candelabras suspended from the high vaulted ceiling. They had been lowered on chains to hang above each table. The main door was closed but the side doors were partly open and retainers were stationed by each one; they would need to push them wide once the dancing started, Éomer thought as he ran his finger around his collar. Théodred must have had a thinner neck.

He took his place next to Aragorn. His sister was next to him with Imrahil on her other side. As soon as they were seated his eyes were drawn instinctively to the - as he now knew - Princess of Dol Amroth. She was not far away and she looked over and caught his eye. She gave him one of her lovely smiles. It did not go unnoticed by her two brothers and Erchirion whispered something in her ear. He knew he couldn’t keep looking, as much as he wanted to, so he glanced along the table he was sitting at. It was slightly curved, a sort of half moon shape so he was able to see his fellow diners. Looking to his right he caught sight of Pippin and Merry. The two hobbit’s eyes were wide with anticipation of what was arrayed before them. They seemed to be surveying and discussing every dish. Éomer grinned to himself, he was well aware of their trenching abilities. Well, they would have to wait. They couldn’t even start the appetisers before Faramir had said his piece and welcomed everybody. Just as he thought that, Pippin’s hand shot out and filched a small raised pie. It was so quick that Éomer was sure no one else would have noticed it. The pie was passed to Merry and immediately Pippin did the same thing again. He watched fascinated as both hobbits surreptitiously put their hands to their mouths and shoved the complete pies inside. Their cheeks were bulging as they tried to eat them without anyone seeing.

It was probably a good job they had taken some nourishment as Faramir’s speech went on for a quite a while. He introduced them all and gave the audience a brief resume of everyone’s contribution to the victory. Éowyn went pink again and he himself did not quite know where to look when his leadership was mentioned. Well, he did, and she was looking straight at him. He ran his finger around his collar again. Faramir went on, forgetting nobody: Théoden; the Rohirrim; the soldiers of Dol Amroth; of Minas Tirith; of all the feoffs; his own rangers; the healers and numerous others. Éomer perceived that two more pies had disappeared from the platter nearest to Pippin sometime during the speech.

At last Faramir raised his goblet, firstly to Victory and then to the King. They could eat. The Steward certainly had no trouble expressing himself, which was a good thing in his position. Éomer allowed himself a brief sputter of a chuckle wondering how he would approach asking for his sister’s hand. The King of Rohan drained his own goblet. He really needed that. The cup was immediately replenished by the server behind him. Éomer put it straight to his mouth.

“Thirsty?” Aragorn remarked slightly amused.

“Some days do that to you,” Éomer did not elaborate.

“They do indeed.”

Gondor’s new king was looking at him speculatively but he had no intention of anyone finding out what a darn fool he had been unless it was inevitable. Gandalf knew. But then Gandalf seemed to know everything. At least the wizard was tight lipped about most of them. Éomer still wanted to go over it in his mind but he could hardly sit next to Aragorn and ignore him.

“So, you have asked Princess Lothíriel to ride with you tomorrow?” his friend went on with that knowing smirk he was so good at.

“She and Éowyn have become friendly,” Éomer replied in as non committal a way as he could manage.

“Ahh…,” Aragorn managed to instil a wealth of meaning into that small word.

Luckily Éomer was spared having to think of some retort by the arrival of the hot dishes. They had been well catered for at Cormallen but the Citadel chefs had excelled themselves. As well as mounds of pink seafood with, Éomer noticed, numerous legs, there was roast goose, suckling pigs and venison pies plus many other fine meats and cheeses. The pastry on the pies was embellished with decorations depicting White Trees, Horse’s Heads and Swan-ships. The table groaned under the weight of the variety of salads and hot vegetables in rich sauces on offer. Éomer heard Sam exclaim loudly when a huge dish of steaming minted potatoes was put in front of him. He was pleased to observe however that, amongst all the sumptuous food on the table, the Gondorian steward had put a plate of plain sliced chicken, bread and a bowl of soup in front of Frodo. Éomer helped himself to some pie and some goose and then thankfully found that he could think: Aragorn was talking to Frodo and to Gandalf beyond him and his sister and Imrahil were in deep discussion about their mutual kinswoman: Morwen of Lossarnach.

The King of Rohan put a piece of goose into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He admitted that his thoughts were rather more muddled than usual but if he kept chewing he would not have to speak and could perhaps sort them out. He could pretend he was listening to the music, although it was a little insipid for his taste. He sighed, Imrahil’s daughter! Gandalf was right; he now had to decide what to do. The main thing to think about was whether or not she was as attracted to him as he was to her. He had thought she was flirting but perhaps she was not. She would have been brought up to be polite and charming to everyone and that charm could have, and probably did, translate to such friendly openness with someone more or less of equal rank,  who was the brother of a friend and on top of that was a close comrade of her father and brothers. No, there was no reason for her not to be relaxed in his company. So basically he had no idea if she was remotely interested in him at all.

Nobody had spoken to him so he quickly speared a piece of pie and potato and transferred it to his mouth. The next thing to decide was how much he was attracted to her. Well, quite a lot really. He had thought she was …Nienna when he first saw her at the coronation, and although he had tried to push her from his mind he had failed dismally. Outside in the garden, when he had no reason not to think that she was other than Amrothos’s intended, he had wanted to kiss her. Very much, and probably more than kiss, if he were honest. But it was not only that, he stabbed his fork into another piece of pie, he had talked to her. He had talked to her easily and without embarrassment about his mistake in the battle, his sister and that dratted sponge. Thinking he had no right to pursue her in any way he had decided to forget that and make sure he was not alone with her again. But now, although he did not actually have the right to pursue her, there was nothing stopping him flirting with her. And whereas he definitely could not mess with Imrahil’s daughter, and would not want to, as he had far too much respect for the prince, he could at least discover if she had, or was likely to have, any feelings for him. What if she did? He had a duty to find a queen for the Riddermark and provide an heir or preferably more. He tugged at his collar at the thought of a begetting an heir with the Princess of Dol Amroth. It was getting extremely hot in the hall. He took some salad; the vegetables were still sizzling in heated metal dishes.

Could there be anyone better? He had inwardly groaned when Imrahil had mentioned his daughter, probably not admitting to himself even then that she was likely, judging from the family members he had already met, to make an ideal queen. But he wanted a wife, not just a queen, and what’s more he wanted to find that wife himself. He knew that, but what he did not know was if he had found her. He must look at this sensibly: it was too important an issue to be decided by the feelings she stirred in a certain area of his body. It would be stupid to deny that he could go to Imrahil and discuss the matter with him. Well, not that particular bit maybe, but the possibility of a union. That, he understood, was how they did things in Gondor. But he did not want that. He expected and wished his wife to want to marry him. The most sensible thing to do would be to spend some time in her company over the next five or so days and if he still felt the same and thought she was not adverse to him then he would invite her to accompany the funeral cortege to Edoras with her father and brothers and they would have plenty of time to get to know one another. That was without a doubt the most sensible thing to do and he felt much relieved now that he had decided on it.

Éomer cut up another piece of goose, raised the fork to his lips and glanced over to where she was sitting. A white hot searing pain shot through him. It hit him squarely in the chest and was such as he had never felt before. Nessa was leaning away from Erchirion and looked to be talking intimately with the person on her right. For the first time he realised who it was: Beren, Erchirion’s friend and the heir to Lebennin. The young man was about the same age as himself, good looking, pleasant company and a capable warrior. Up to that moment Éomer had liked him a lot.

“Are you alright, Éomer? You look ill,” his sister sounded concerned. “Aren’t you hungry?”  She eyed the piece of meat still on his fork.

“I’m fine,” he muttered and put the portion of goose in his mouth to prove it. Éomer chewed for a moment and then picked up his goblet and took a large gulp of wine. It was the only way the meat was going to get down.

“Well, you don’t look fine,” Éowyn persisted, “and you should not eat and drink at the same time. It is bad for the digestion.” Luckily for her brother, Imrahil remembered something else he wanted to tell her and she turned back to the prince again.

The meal seemed to go on forever and he managed to get down a little more food, have a conversation with Aragorn and come to terms with what had upset him – he was jealous. He had not recognised the feeling at first because… well, because he had never felt jealous before. Not in regard to a woman, anyway. He supposed he had been a bit jealous when Éothain, being older, had a warhorse before him. But that was natural. This was not. He had very sensibly decided to try and get to know the princess a little better. Give her chance to know him and then, perhaps, speak to her father. But instead of that the moment he had looked across and saw her head close to Beren’s it had hit him. His reaction had left him shaken, having been totally unprepared for the shaft of raw emotion that tore through him. He had wanted to stride over there, take her hand, and drag her outside and then…then what? Kiss her senseless, that’s what. Of course, all that was after he had connected his fist with Beren’s aristocratic nose and spread it all over his handsome face.

In all his deliberation he had never given thought to the fact that her affections may be already engaged elsewhere. But surely his sister would know. She would not have tried to push them together if that was so. And Imrahil had been dropping hints, but then she could have kept it from her father. Although there would be no reason to do so, Éomer admitted to himself, as Beren would be a fine match. He could see no reason why Imrahil would object, especially as Lebennin was closer than Edoras.

He looked over again. Nessa was talking across the table to Nienna. Perhaps he was overreacting. Erchirion was good friends with Beren and she would know him well. But it still bothered him that his assumption that he could walk up to Imrahil and claim his daughter’s hand may be totally misplaced. If he wanted her, and it was fair to say it looked as though he did, then he was going to have to do something about it. The irony was that he had never had to do anything like it before. He couldn’t really remember ever having to chase a woman. Well, he would have to do it now and learn as he went along.

“Éomer,” his sister’s voice brought him out of his reverie, “you haven’t eaten much and the puddings are coming.”

Good, that meant he did not have to eat anything else. “I have had enough,” he indicated to the steward that his plate could be removed.

The dishes were cleared and great bowls of syllabub, trifles and fruit fools were put on the table. These were followed by juicy ripe peaches that the servers piled high on silver platters. Imrahil said they had come from the hothouses of southern Belfalas.

“Éomer,” Éowyn seemed unable to leave him to think, “I hope you don’t mind but I have promised the first dance to Faramir, as it’s rather special. We can dance the one after that.”

“No, I don’t mind,” he said absently. Then a wide grin suddenly spread across his face, “I have arranged to partner…Lothíriel for the first one.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Well, you don’t waste any time, I’ll grant you that.”

“If you must know, Éowyn, she asked me.” Why had he forgotten that? His brain must be totally fogged. Eomer sat back in his chair and relaxed for a moment feeling confident that he at least had a chance. He looked along the table just as Imrahil leant forward to reach the water jug. “Oh no!” the exclamation startled everyone around as he caught sight of Pippin through the gap. The miscreant hobbit was trying to extract the largest and juiciest peach from the pile in front of him. Unfortunately it was nearly at the bottom. Éowyn turned to follow Éomer’s words and his gaze and brother and sister watched open mouthed as the whole pile tipped sideways towards Imrahil and peach after peach plopped heavily into the large bowl of syllabub next to the prince.

Blobs of the soft creamy pudding flew everywhere. Imrahil looked as if he had been out in a snowstorm. He jumped up swearing vehemently, his normal composure hidden somewhere under a layer of sticky goo. The table was covered but luckily Éowyn had been mostly protected by the prince’s bulk and Éomer had been sitting back out of the way. He could not resist looking over to the table where Imrahil’s offspring were sitting. He was not disappointed. Amrothos and Erchirion were almost doubled up with mirth but he noticed, with some amusement, that Lothíriel had her lips tightly clamped together in a valiant effort not to laugh.

“I thought you were keeping an eye on him, Éomer. Your mind was no doubt elsewhere.” Gandalf sounded most annoyed for a wizard and he shot past with his white robes flying behind him like sheets hung out on a windy day. He reached the stunned hobbit and picked him up bodily by the scruff of his neck, “Peregrine Took! You and I are going to have a few little words.”

Imrahil, after apologising to Éowyn for his verbal tirade, followed Gandalf out of the hall and an army of servants descended on the mayhem. Éowyn’s dress needed a little dabbing with a damp cloth but she was able to stay and try the trifle. The remaining dishes of syllabub were ignored.

The feast drew to a close with a short speech from the new King of Gondor which included an announcement of the betrothal between Amrothos of Dol Amroth and Nienna, daughter of Adian, Captain of Swan Knights. To Éomer it was an unexpected but welcome end to the day. He chose not to dwell on what his feelings would have been if things had been different.

The majority of the tables were being pushed along the sides of the hall to make way for dancing and the musicians were waiting to take over the dais. Most of the ladies, including Nienna and Nessa, he observed, took the opportunity to exit the hall to refresh themselves. Éowyn mumbled something about checking her dress and disappeared. Éomer jumped down onto the floor of the hall and made his way over to congratulate Amrothos. It was something he could do whole heartedly.

The two princes were still laughing over their father’s misfortune. Erchirion looked up as soon as Éomer approached. He had even more of a wicked grin on his face than usual. “Ah, Éomer, I understand that there is a ride being organised tomorrow. How nice. I thought I might join you and,” the grin got even wider, “as I am unlikely to find a suitable lady, one who is able to stay on a horse, that is, I thought Beren could keep me company.”

Éomer briefly wondered if the murder of Imrahil’s second son would start another war but decided, reluctantly, not to risk it. Instead he smiled and tried to look pleased, “Of course, the more the merrier. Hopefully we can be away quite early.” He was rewarded by an expression crossing both Erchirion’s and Beren’s faces which left no doubt that ‘early’ was not what they had in mind.

Amrothos however joined in the conversation. He had a definite dreamy expression on his face, “I would like to go not long after dawn and show Nienna how the early sun hits Mt. Mindolluin.”

Erchirion choked on air and stared at his brother as if he had just suggested walking back to the Black Gates. “You had better not go to bed then,” he snapped, “with the trouble we usually have getting you up in the mornings.”

Éomer guessed that Erchirion was finding this new Amrothos difficult to deal with. The youngest prince suddenly stood up and he realised that the ladies must be returning. He turned around to find himself face to face with Imrahil’s daughter. She was smiling at him in that lovely open way and he had to remember to breathe. The music had not yet started but he was going to waste no more time, “Nessa, I believe we agreed to have the first dance.”

TBC

Chapter 8 – The Dance

The reaction to his words was even greater than he had been expecting. He heard Erchirion’s intake of breath from somewhere behind him and he imagined the prince was drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable.

“My Lord, who gave you permission to address my sister in such an…informal way? I understand that, as yet, you have not been properly introduced.”

“Erchirion, please, there is no need….,” Lothíriel looked annoyed at her brother’s interference but Éomer answered before she could complete her sentence.

“We met this afternoon,” he said unperturbed and in as kingly a voice as he could manage. “It is true we should have been formally introduced before dinner. However that was not possible. I understand, Prince Erchirion that you were not doing your job properly,” he winked at Lothíriel dispelling the image of the affronted ruler. “Princess Lothíriel had to be despatched to your rescue therefore she was not in the antechamber and our introduction did not take place.”

“Serve you right, brother, for being so high and mighty,” Amrothos was chuckling merrily at his brother’s discomfort. “But what I want to know is,” he turned to his sister, “why did you tell him you were called Nessa?”

“Yes, why did you?”  Erchirion appeared to have recovered his sense of humour but he looked at Lothíriel enquiringly.

“I didn’t,” she retorted, “one of you must have mentioned it. Éomer…King already knew, didn’t you?” She fixed her clear eyes on him waiting for confirmation.

Éomer did not actually want to lie, but luckily he did not have to as Erchirion glared at his younger brother, “I imagine you told him during one of your maudlin drunken sessions around the camp fire. I don’t know what’s got into you.”

“I did not mention it at all. But what if I did? If Lothíriel does not mind, then I don’t see it’s got anything to do with you. We are all friends and since when did you care about propriety anyway?” Amrothos was obviously not going to let his older brother intimidate him.

Éomer was happy to let the argument develop for a moment and contented himself with watching Nessa who was, in turn with Nienna and Beren, watching her brothers with incredulity as they thrashed out whether or not it was allowed to call a friend’s sister by her pet name. He did feel just a tiny bit guilty being the cause of the disagreement, but not much. He had, admittedly, deliberately used the nickname to claim an intimacy with their sister but guessed that Erchirion was being intentionally provocative to annoy him. Luckily the music started and before anything else could be said that he would not be able to be truthful about, he bowed to Lothíriel, “Princess would you do the honour of dancing with me?”

The voices stopped and two heads swung around waiting for her answer.

“I would be delighted, my Lord,” she took his arm and they moved out onto the dance floor. “You did that on purpose,” she murmured sweetly as soon as they were out of earshot of her brothers.

“Did what?” he asked innocently.

“Called me ‘Nessa’.”

“Do you mind?”

“Do you mean – do I mind that you did it deliberately or – do I mind if you call me Nessa?”

“Both.”

The conversation ceased abruptly as they joined the set for the dance. Éowyn and Faramir were already waiting for them to take their places and Éowyn was barely able to suppress what Éomer knew to be a grin of pleasure at the sight of them together. He acknowledged Faramir with a slight nod and the dancing began. He had not danced anything other than Rohirric dances for the past few years and not many of them during the difficult times in the Mark, but his growing up had been plagued with lessons of things pertaining to Gondor, and dancing was one of them. Now he was glad, except that it was one of those stupid dances where you were only able to converse with your partner for a moment when you met at the end of the sequence.

He took her hand, it was cool. She had long slim fingers and they felt soft and yielding when held by his own hardened warrior’s ones; the pumice could not undo years of ill treatment and neglect. He wanted to pull her closer and slip his arm around her waist but unfortunately they had to keep at a distance whilst they paraded sedately around the outside of the circle. Three steps away from each other, execute a turn, and three steps together followed by a bow. It was the only chance to make the odd remark

The first time he asked her for the answer with his eyes and she whispered, “You can call me Nessa in private.”

The second time he managed to say, “Does that mean we can meet in private?” He was rewarded with a stifled giggle and the next steps together gave him the answer, “We could try.”

“When?” He could hardly wait for the sequence to come around again. At last - one; two; three; bow. He raised his head from the bow and looked into her eyes.

“Much later.”

The music stopped.

Éomer took her arm and pulled her away from the other dancers slightly, knowing his sister would be expecting him to partner her next, “How long before we can dance again?” he asked quickly.

“Number five should be just about right. You will enjoy that one better.” Her eyes were sparkling with laughter but he couldn’t ask what she meant as Faramir and his sister were ready to change over.

“I haven’t danced with my beautiful cousin for many years,” Faramir said smoothly as he led Lothíriel away.

“Well?” Éowyn demanded as soon there was some space between them.

“Well, what?” Éomer took his sister’s arm and they joined the other dancers.

“What do you think of her?”

“Who?”

“Who! Lothíriel of course,” Éowyn was losing her patience.

 “Éowyn, I only met her today. It is too soon for me to form an opinion,” he retorted.

“Hummph!”

Luckily for Éomer the second dance was much noisier than the first and involved some clapping. It was impossible to carry on a conversation.

 For the third dance he partnered Nienna and enjoyed a few pleasant words about the difference in the climate between Dol Amroth and Rohan. He wondered how two young women could be so much alike but so different and why one should affect him so much and the other not at all. The music for the fourth started up and as Nienna was taken away from him he watched Beren leading Lothíriel onto the floor. He resisted grinding his teeth and could not think of any suitable excuse to challenge the young man - whom he really did quite like - to a duel so he resolved to sit it out. Turning to make his way back to where Erchirion was sitting he came face to face with a Gondorian noble he knew slightly.

“Ah, my Lord, perhaps you would allow me to introduce my daughter.”

Éomer felt sorry for her. She looked decidedly embarrassed and as if she would rather be anywhere but in the middle of a dance floor being shoved in front of a king. He took pity and led her out for the dance. She was pretty, not very tall and was so nervous she could hardly get a word out of her mouth. He could watch Beren and Lothíriel over the girl’s shoulder and after giving up on conversation spent the whole time trying to assess if they looked pleased to be dancing together. Luckily, the sequences kept the couples well apart for most of the steps and their hands only barely touched. The music ended and he sensed his partner’s relief when he was able to return her to her father.

He thought Erchirion was scowling at him when he claimed Lothíriel for the promised dance. He soon realised why: it was necessary for the man to hold one of the lady’s hands against her shoulder and slip the other around her waist. Ten steps one way and then ten steps the other, three twirls and then a lively reel around the ring.

He wondered if she could feel the heat of his hand through the thin silk of her dress. He certainly felt on fire – the dancing position gave him a wonderful view of a very attractive cleavage.

“Did you know number five would be this?” he asked intrigued. If she did it would surely mean something even if it was only that she was perhaps a bit flirtatious.

“I did. There is a programme in the lobby for those that care to look.” She did not sound at all discomfited by admitting that she had chosen a dance which would allow him to hold her.

Encouraged by her directness he asked expectantly, “How long before I can dance with you again?”

“At least four. Any sooner and it would be frowned upon.”

“Then do you remember the number of one that is very energetic and will make us hot and thirsty?”

“Number ten. But why that one?” she asked with an arch of her fine brows.

“Because,” he lowered his voice, “if you do not promise any dances to anyone else after that, then I can escort you outside with a drink to cool off.” A faint smile appeared on her lips but they were into the twirls and then he had to wait until after the reel to hear her answer.

“Number ten, then.”

“Good, I must pay attention and not loose count.”

“On the wall at the end,” she waved an elegant hand towards the entrance, “the numbers are put up.”

He had not noticed but the number of every dance was displayed quite prominently. The Gondorians thought of everything.

He resolved not to keep watching to see who she was dancing with next: it would only annoy him, so he decided to seek out some of his friends. It was a good move because after he broke from Lothíriel, he could feel many eyes upon him. Feeling much like a stag must do when being stalked by a tribe of determined Dunlendings, he exited the hall into the side passage before any could catch him for the next dance. The passing servers eyed him curiously but he took no notice, let them think what they liked, and he emerged unscathed back into the main atrium at the farthest end of the hall from the dais. He had become aware of, by the noise mostly, of a large group of Rohirrim at that end. It included Elfhelm, Éothain and Aelfhere.

“Ah, my Lord.”

Elfhelm noticed him first and went to stand up but Éomer waved to him and all the rest of the group to remain seated.

“Phew,” he plonked himself down in a convenient chair and thankfully took the cup of wine that was shoved towards him.

“Do we take it that Gondorian dances are not to your liking, my Lord?” Éomer stared at his marshal who took no notice and carried on, “or do we take it that they are only to your liking when your partner comes from Dol Amroth?”

There was a buzz of stifled laughter around the group. How the hell had they come to that conclusion so soon? Éomer groaned aloud which brought forth some not so stifled laughter.

“My Lord,” this from Éothain, “Lady Éowyn has told me you will be riding in the hills behind the city tomorrow. You do realise that you must take a guard, myself and at least six others.”

“Éothain,” he was not going to let that go, “besides myself there will be Faramir, the princes Erchirion and Amrothos and Lord Beren. I am sure that we can protect ourselves and the ladies.

Éothain shook his head, “I am sorry, Éomer,” he said forgetting the title. “We do not know how safe the surrounding countryside is, and the Riddermark only has you. We cannot risk the last of the blood of Eorl. Elfhelm and I have discussed it,” he looked around the group which contained some of the Mark’s most senior riders, “we are all in agreement.”

This time he did grind his teeth but he knew it was no use arguing. He also knew they were right. The Mark faced difficult times after the horror of the past years, without him, it would be even more difficult. His freedom would be severely curtailed until the cribs in the Golden Hall were full of squawking babes. Funnily enough that thought was not so strange now, as it might have been once.

“Very well, I suppose you are right,” he reluctantly admitted. The whole group relaxed and someone filled his goblet again.

“Éomer King!” a gruff voice boomed in his ear. “You need to help us out.” Gimli was holding three or four wineskins; they were clutched against his massive chest. “This elf here,” he indicated Legolas who was standing slightly behind him with a benevolent smile on his serene face, “cannot tell a good wine from a bad. I need you to settle an argument. I’ve four here for you to try.”

Éomer glanced at the wall to his left, it was number eight. Suddenly a wicked thought came into his head. “I am sorry, Gimli,” he said apologetically, “I am needed elsewhere. I am not good on wine anyway. But,” he looked towards the other end of the hall, “Prince Erchirion and Beren are experts. Beren especially, I believe they grow a lot of grapes in Lebennin.” He saw Legolas raise his eyebrows at this: salt plains not being the best environment for growing vines. Luckily Gimli had no idea. “I am sure they will be able to help you out.”

“Of course, of course, you are right,” Gimli boomed. “And I always could rely on that pretty prince when it comes to wine.”

The dwarf strode back down the hall but Legolas leant down and whispered in his ear, “Vines in Lebennin, eh? You will owe me.” He chuckled and followed Gimli towards the prince’s table.

Number nine was hoisted on the board and Éomer thought he had better move. He drained his goblet and got up, “I will see you in the morning then, Éothain. It will be nice and early so if you are coming with me, then go easy on the wine.”

“It will take more that this thin stuff to stop me being ready,” Éothain announced confidently.

Éomer retraced his steps down the side passage. When he emerged into the main hall he could see Gimli pouring out goblets of wine and passing them to Erchirion and Beren. His eyes searched the mass of swirling couples. The movement and the kaleidoscope of colours could give one a headache, he decided. Fresh air was definitely needed and if it wasn’t for a certain princess he would probably have made his escape or at least stayed the other end of the hall. He eventually spotted Lothíriel, she was dancing with Aragorn. He waited for the dance to end and then moved towards them.

Aragorn had a grin on his face, “I may not give her up, Éomer. She dances divinely.”

“I think Faramir has some people lined up for you to meet. He’s over in the corner.” Éomer jerked his head to where the Steward and his sister were conversing with a group of stuffy looking nobles. Éowyn looked bored but no doubt she would get used to it, given time, he decided.

Aragorn followed his gaze, took in the scene, and burst out laughing, “Nice one, I’ll give you that.” The high king bowed to Lothíriel, “I will leave you in safe hands then, my Lady.” He went off still chuckling.

“You are good friends?” she asked her lovely face showing only amusement.

“Yes. Well, most of the time,” he grinned. Looking towards the dais he saw that the musicians were picking up their instruments again. He then spotted Imrahil who was leaning against the wall, sipping at his wine and watching them with a thoughtful expression on his face. He had the distinct feeling that the Prince would not mind if he took his daughter outside for a breath of air. “Come on,” he took her hand, the music is about to start.”

They joined one of the lines of couples. It was an energetic dance which involved a series of lively twirls and then a reel in turn down almost the length of the hall. Éomer thought the steps must have been borrowed from one of the Rohirric romps. It was impossible to talk with the loud music and the clapping but hopefully he would get the chance for some meaningful conversation outside. He could not wait: his collar was getting tighter all the time.

Others were making their way through the doors after the end of the dance and servers were holding silver trays on which were mugs of fruit cup. Éomer took two and passed one to Lothíriel. “I think everyone else has the same idea.”

“It is certainly hot in here. I have never seen so many people in the hall.”

“Have you spent much time in Minas Tirith?”  He realised he had no idea of what her life was like.

“Not for the past few years, but I used to come with my mother when she was alive. There were a few feasts – for Boromir’s birthday and things like that. My uncle Denethor did not celebrate much though. My aunt died before I was born but evidently he never got over it. It must have hit him hard when Boromir did not return.”

Éomer made to say something about Denethor’s madness but stopped himself, after all he was not the only ruler who had lost his mind. Luckily Théoden had found his sanity before it was too late. He changed his words, “Why did you not come to the City when your father asked you?”

She hesitated a moment and he guided her towards part of the wall, away from the main crowd, which afforded a seat and a view down into the streets below. She sat down, elegantly sweeping her skirt beneath her and resting her hands in her lap. He remained standing resting one foot up on the wall and leaning on his knee, looking down on her whilst he waited for her answer. “I felt I was needed at home. There was a lot to do,” she said at last.

“But you came when Amrothos wrote to you?” He felt that there was more to it but she was obviously not going to say.

“Yes, Nienna and I have been friends since childhood. She was happier to make the journey with me along.” She chuckled, “I was just glad that my brother figured out what he wanted most. It has taken him long enough.”

“Gandalf told me that sometimes the clearer our eyes see things, the cloudier our minds become.”

“I think that is often true but it is also true that sometimes we see things clearly and our mind has no doubts.”

He had no chance to ask her what she meant because they both turned when they heard a stifled giggle coming from the large bush to their right. Éomer quickly brought his foot back to the ground and strode to pull the branches aside, “I might have known,” he declared fervidly.

Merry and Pippin were sitting crossed legged under the bush. Between them was one of the large silver serving platters. It was piled with all kinds of pies, tarts and fruit. There was also a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread.

“Ah, my Lord,” Pippin spoke through a mouthful of tart. “They do not seem to provide supper around here. We had to find our own.”

He sighed, perhaps expecting a moment alone in a place like this was too much to ask for, “Lothíriel, have you met these two mischief makers.”

She got up and walked towards the bush, “No, but I saw what they did to my father. I have not been so amused since…since someone told me a story about a sponge this afternoon.”

Éomer shot his head around to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling with merriment and she had her lips clamped together. He had to resist the urge to pull her into his arms, Béma; he had never had this trouble before. “You two might as well stay there. You can meet Princess Lothíriel another time. He let go the branches and covered the hobbits up again. Murmurings of ‘Did you hear that, Merry? A princess, no less,’ coming from behind the greenery.

“Shall we sit a little farther away,” he suggested quietly, “we may at least be able to manage some kind of a remotely private conversation.”

“I would not count on it,” she laughed looking towards the many guests who were strolling around the area between the hall and the walls. But she moved along the wall a little before she sat down, smoothing her dress under her with one hand and pushing back some stray strands of hair that were threatening to blow in her eyes.

Éomer fixed his gaze on her for a moment before impulsively blurting out his thoughts, “You have the most beautiful hair. Why did you not wear it loose tonight?”

Lothíriel’s hand stopped and she stared at him transfixed. He thought he had made an unforgivable blunder but she suddenly smiled, “I do most of the time but it is not practical for dancing.” She gave him one of her thoughtful assessing looks, “What do you do with yours in battle? Do you braid it like most of the Rohirrim I have seen?”

He shook his head relieved that she had not taken offence, “No, I usually tie it back with a leather thong, much like you did with yours at the coronation this morning.” If she was surprised that he had taken so much notice then she did not show it. The thought of her graceful action that morning unexpectedly caused a wave of desire to flood through him. He took a deep breath to steady himself but her soft laughter reached him.

“A Horselord with a ponytail, somehow I think that must be fitting.”

He grinned grateful to be distracted, “So that is what Éowyn’s new hairstyle is called.”

“Surely not a ponytail,” she laughed catching his good humour, “more like the proudly held tail of the finest bred of Rohan’s horses. She looked lovely.”

“She did indeed,” he said softly, suddenly wistful that his sister’s burgeoning beauty would be lost to his homeland. Before he could say anything else, however, he became aware that Lothíriel’s attention had been taken by something or someone behind him. He turned around to seen Amrothos and Nienna strolling towards them.

They were holding hands, looking into one another’s eyes and laughing. With Lothíriel standing the regulation distance apart from him, Éomer felt considerably envious of their intimacy. Jealousy and envy, until this night both emotions had been virtually unknown to him. It was a strange day.

TBC

Chapter 9 – The Ride

It seemed an age since he had awoken cocooned amidst sweet smelling white linen sheets. In fact it was so long ago he couldn’t really remember the last time. A thought, intriguing in its newness, eased its way into his semi conscious state: when he returned to Edoras he would be expected to sleep in that huge bed in the King’s chamber. It was even bigger than this one and he lay still for a moment whilst he tried to work out how many kings had actually slept in the carved wooden edifice over the past centuries. He named them as far back as Folcwine and gave up. It was too early. It didn’t matter anyway – he had no choice other than to sleep in it as it was just as much a part of Meduseld as the roof or the intricately laid floor. He just would make sure he had a new mattress. One thing they were not short of in the Riddermark was horsehair. He wouldn’t be surprised if Fréowyn hadn’t already organised it, the house keeper was always efficient and usually made his best interests her priority. He was not sure why he was a favourite, although he guessed it could have something to do with him and Éowyn being orphaned.

 Thinking of Meduseld made him eager to be home, he had been away too long. Returning would bring joy and sorrow: joy that Edoras and Meduseld could be reinstated to their former glory with the removal of the evil influence of the traitor, Grima and sorrow that it would be him doing it alone and he would not be helping Théoden and Théodred to restore the pride and dignity to a ravished land. He sighed. It would not all happen at once, he had to have patience and patience was not one of his strong points. In fact he felt totally impatient now and wanted to get on with today. He wanted to go riding, talk to Lothíriel, talk to Faramir, sort everything out and then go home. Somehow though, he did not think it would be that easy.

The room was still black. Éomer wondered what time it was and looked towards where he knew the tall windows to be. He had left one of the heavy curtains open slightly so that the dawn would wake him. He stared at the wall of ink searching for a glimmer of light. There was none. It must be just before dawn as he felt no need for further sleep: probably because he had not been too late to bed. His head was clear, even though he had joined his riders for a while after Lothíriel and Nienna had retired. Amrothos was insistent that he also wanted an early start so the two ladies had made for their beds. It had been a long day for everyone.

He could not resist a smirk to himself as he wondered if Erchirion and Beren had clear heads. When he and Amrothos had returned to the hall after escorting their respective partners back to the guest quarters, each providing chaperone for the other, he had been pleased to see a crowd around the prince’s table, all evidently enjoying the spectacle of a dwarf and an elf in fierce disagreement over the merits of different Gondorian wines. He had kept well away, not wanting to get involved. So had Amrothos, which surprised him, as at Cormallen the young Prince had shown evidence of enjoying drinking as much as he evidently enjoyed fighting. Perhaps love did that to you, he mused. Ah, he could see light. The hot water would arrive soon but he had a moment to mull over the night before – his feelings hadn’t changed. In fact they had increased after spending more time in her presence but whether that was a good or a bad thing he wasn’t sure. Good if those feelings were likely to be returned and bad if they were not. At least he was returning home in a few days and if they were not reciprocated he could bury his disappointment in the vast numbers of tasks he had already set himself and forget about a Gondorian princess with silky black hair, sparkling grey eyes and a sense of humour. At least he hoped he could.

A few muffled noises from behind the door to the bath chamber alerted him to the fact that his washing water had arrived. Before he could get out of bed however there was a knock on the door and Felcon appeared silhouetted in the doorway by the light of the lamps that were necessary at this hour.

“Good morning, my Lord. You wished to be woken early. The lady Éowyn asked to be called as well.” The man made his way to the curtains as Éomer murmured an answer. He pulled back the heavy drapes letting in more of the pale morning light. “Are you sure you do not wish to take a bath, my Lord?”

“No, thank you, Felcon, it would be better when I return from riding.” He had no wish to brave the rigors of a Gondorian bathing session this early in the morning.

“Very well, my Lord, then I will bring your breakfast after you have washed. If you are wearing your leather tunic, my Lord, you will find it in the wardrobe. I took the liberty of having it cleaned and oiled last night, along with your riding boots.”

“Did you? I doubt you were able to make much impression on it.” The tunic had been screwed up in his saddlebag for weeks.

“The leather is good quality, my Lord. It responded well.”

“Right, then that’s fine.” He did not know what else to say, never having had much conversation about a tunic before, but then he remembered something just as the man was going out of the door. “Oh, Felcon, that green velvet one,” he indicated the tunic he had been wearing the night before and which was now thrown haphazardly over the chest, “the collar is a little tight. Could you arrange for a seamstress to ease it a bit?”

“Of course, my Lord.” The man retrieved the garment and bowed before removing himself from the chamber.

Éomer had just finished dressing when Felcon returned with his meal. The leather tunic had certainly ‘responded’. In fact he wondered if it was his at all. But it fitted and so did the linen shirt that had been left with it. That was definitely not his but he could not be bothered to question its provenance. He sat at the table eating his breakfast of oats, bread, cheese and fruit. He was hungry which was not surprising considering how little he had eaten the night before. He was just finishing the last mouthful and reaching for his tea when there was a tap at the door.

“Come in.”  The door swung open to reveal his sister. “It’s not often you are ready before me, Éowyn are you keen to ….whatever are you wearing?  He stared at the blue dress she had on, it did not look like silk but it had a definite sheen. “We are going riding not dancing again.”

“You have obviously not seen a Gondorian riding dress before,” She sounded quite put out. “I can hardly be seen in the soldier’s breeches I wore on the way here.”

“No, I suppose not.” He had to repress a smile. At one time she would not have cared a damn. “You do look very elegant, I suppose and the colour suits you but won’t it get in the way?”

“No, look,” She moved to show him how the skirt parted, revealing soft grey doeskin leggings and black leather boots. “Luckily Lothíriel brought two with her and we are about the same size. I am having something made to travel home in but it is not ready yet.”

“Strange that she brought two riding dresses but no horse,” he idly remarked.

“It’s not strange at all. There are plenty of horses around; it is more difficult to find the right dress.”

“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, Lothíriel wasn’t taking any chances. I have never seen so many clothes. If she brings that many for a short visit, then you will have to add a new storeroom onto Meduseld when you actually marry her.”

Éomer was draining the last of his tea; the coughing fit brought on by his sister’s startling announcement lasted until she thumped him hard on the back a few times.

“Éowyn!” he got out as soon as he was able, “have you entered the realms of fantasy? At this moment there is no conceivable reason why I should marry or wish to marry Princess Lothíriel, or for that matter any reason for her to consider marrying me.”

“If you say so.”

Éowyn spoke as if she had some knowledge not available to him. He decided to ignore her words: in that mood she would take no notice of anything he said anyway. He snatched up his sword from the chest and buckled it on, deliberately avoiding eye contact with his sister. He picked up his knife and attached that to his belt and then walked over to the bed to get the one he kept under his pillow. He could feel Éowyn’s eyes on him as he felt for it, found it and stuck it down the back of his right boot.

“You will have to stop doing that when you are married too. I can’t imagine any wife wanting to put her hand on a knife in the middle of the night.”

Éomer took a deep breath, remembrances of an annoying younger sibling resurrecting themselves with unusual clarity. She would never shut up from the earliest age. He had often wondered if she had been born talking. “Come on,” he said crossly, “or they will all be waiting for us.”

********************

Amrothos was saddling his stallion as they entered the stable yard. “Good morning, Éowyn, Éomer.” The Prince was remarkably cheerful considering the hour, "I have already saddled Nienna and Lothíriel’s mounts,” he indicated to where two stable lads were holding a grey and a bay gelding. “Faramir is tacking up Windfola, you will have to do your own,” he grinned at Éomer. “Oh, and Éothain said he would meet you down at the gateway. He obviously thought you could manage to get through the City safely on your own,” he chuckled.

“What about your brother?”  Éomer could not resist asking.

“Sore head, but determined to come. They will be here in a moment. So will the ladies, I hope.”

Éomer nodded and went deeper into the stables to find Firefoot: he stopped briefly to greet Faramir. The man looked different this morning, he decided. He was dressed in a leather tunic much like himself and looked younger and not quite as severe as the night before. Faramir finished with Windfola and Éowyn took the horse to lead him outside. Both men followed her with their eyes.

Faramir waited until Éowyn had gone before he spoke, “Éomer, I know we will be seeing a lot of one another in the next few days, with the number of meetings that are planned, that is. But I would like the opportunity of a private conversation with you sometime. I imagine you probably know why.”

To give the man his due, he sounded neither nervous nor bothered by the prospect of asking a king for his sister’s hand in marriage. That was all to the good since he did not have much time for wimps. “I have nothing planned outside of the meetings you mentioned, I suggest you arrange a convenient time and let me know,” Éomer said in an unusually pleasant manner. After his conversation with Éowyn that morning the prospect of her relocating to Gondor was becoming more appealing. Faramir, however, showed neither surprise nor relief at the King of Rohan’s changed attitude but just nodded and turned to finish tacking up his own horse. Éomer watched him for a moment, the Gondorian was whispering in his gelding’s ear, and the horse was reacting to his master with a considerable amount of nuzzling and soft sounds. The Rohír wondered whether to comment on the obvious bond between the two of them, but decided that it would seem as if he thought only the Rohirrim had such affection for their horses and instead strode off to find his own.

“Haldrad, what are you doing here?” The young lad was grooming Firefoot. Éomer had to admit that the dark grey coat was gleaming.

“Oh, Good morning, my Lord. I have been sleeping here. Quite a lot of us are. We are taking turns. These local stable lads are alright, but we thought it best if there was always a few of us around.” He gestured to Firefoot, “He’s quite used to me now, but I thought you probably wanted to tack him up yourself.”

Éomer took an apple from his pocket and enjoyed the familiar feel of the leathery lips rubbing briefly against his hand before the horse crunched the crisp fruit between powerful teeth. He checked over the stallion for a moment before reaching for the saddlecloth that Haldrad held ready for him. “How is your brother, Haldrad?” he asked as he smoothed the cloth over Firefoot’s broad back.

“Recovering, my Lord. They can do wonders here. He will have a few scars and will limp a bit but he will manage fine.” The serious look was replaced by a smile. “He is coming with us when we leave.”

“Good, I am glad. Pass me the saddle will you.”

Once Firefoot was ready Éomer led him out into the stable yard. He arrived in the open air just as Lothíriel and Nienna were entering through the gateway. They were accompanied by a very green looking Erchirion but no Beren. Éomer did his best not to stare, but even at this time of the morning the Princess of Dol Amroth, in his opinion, was certainly worth staring at. She was wearing a dress the colour of which he could only liken to that of dark red cherries. Her black hair was plaited, from the nape of her neck downwards, into one heavy silky braid and was tied with a cherry red ribbon. Éomer let his eyes linger on her lips for a moment; cherries were abundant there as well. His slight hesitation allowed Amrothos to shove past him and the prince immediately greeted Nienna with a light kiss on her lips but Éomer reluctantly had to restrain himself to kissing the back of Lothíriel’s hand. Even then he could feel Erchirion’s gaze upon him. Thankfully though, after a brief nod, the princess’s watchful brother obviously decided that his sister was in no immediate danger from a barbarian king and headed to the stable to seek out his mount.

“So this is Firefoot. I have heard lots about him from Éowyn. She’s says you are both very much alike.” Lothíriel was grinning at him with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes that he was beginning to love.

He groaned, “I don’t think I want to hear what she said.”

“Oh, it wasn’t terrible. Just that both of you need a considerable amount of grooming and are stubborn, impatient and prone to be bad tempered in the mornings.” It was said with a hint of challenge that would not go unmet.

Éomer’s eyebrows shot skywards, “I cannot speak for Firefoot but if he is at all like me then he will certainly not be bad tempered in the presence of a beautiful lady, however early in the morning, especially if she is of a mind to groom him.”

He was pleased to see the flush of colour suffuse her cheeks. She held his eyes for a moment but then Amrothos called for her to come and take her horse. Éomer followed her over, grinning to himself; he was determined to help her mount. Luckily Erchirion was still in the stable and Amrothos was assisting Nienna so he passed his own reins to a stable lad and turned to help Lothíriel onto her, or rather Amrothos’s, grey. The horse was quite leggy but with a totally natural grace and an ease of long practice she swung her leg over its back as he lifted her. He was able to enjoy the welcome, but unaccustomed, feel of a, slim but muscled, calf, clothed is soft suede. Never before had assisting someone into the saddle had quite such an effect on his own equilibrium, if that was what it was called, he thought ruefully.

The horses were becoming restive, skitting around on the cobbles eager to be out but neither Lothíriel nor Nienna had any difficult controlling their mounts and both looked completely at home. He was not surprised, as the horsemanship of the men from Dol Amroth could not be faulted, and presumably both girls had also been riding from an early age.

Éomer turned as he heard Faramir and Erchirion exiting the stable building. The Prince was certainly not displaying his usual grace or sporting his sardonic smile. “Where’s Beren?” Éomer asked neutrally. “We are all ready to go.”

“He decided not to come,” Erchirion definitely glared at him. “He is in a worse state than me. For some reason Gimli was under the impression that he is an expert on wine and kept forcing it on him. He normally drinks ale.”

“Really,” Éomer tried valiantly to keep the smirk from his face. It was hard.

“I thought as much,” the Prince muttered. But then his natural sense of humour got the better of him, “It won’t do you any good,” he grinned.

“We’ll see,” Éomer gave him no chance to make any further comment because he swung himself on top of Firefoot and followed Faramir and Éowyn who were already heading out through the gates. He put himself next to Lothíriel but as they started down the road Erchirion caught up and rode the other side of his sister. It was unfortunate, Éomer decided, that there was room for three. Amrothos and Nienna were content to bring up the rear.

The whole city was waking as they rode down the steep paved road. Shopkeepers were putting out their wares and the smell of baking bread was mixing with the distinctly salty, or was that smelly, tang of the fish on offer. They were all dressed rather informally but it was just not possible to make the journey without a lot of bowing from the citizens who were about and without attracting the attention of the children who were beginning to show themselves outside. Faramir was always recognised, and anyway they almost had to be a party of importance, as not many horses were kept at the top stables.

Éomer guessed that he was unlikely to have any real chance of a private conversation with Lothíriel, he had a feeling that Erchirion would stick to him like glue. He also doubted that he would get much chance to talk to Faramir, but that did not matter: he had already made up his mind. They reached the square inside of the gates and he had to admit to a feeling of pride: Éothain had his guard of six lined up, all looking decidedly smart. Not surprisingly, clean unripped clothing was in short supply for the Rohirrim and most were wearing an assortment of handouts and anything else they could beg or borrow, but from somewhere Éothain must have procured at least seven almost undamaged embroidered cloaks.

“They look very smart, Éomer,” the Princess was smiling at him with a slightly amused look in her eyes. “I imagine they will be following you around for years to come.”

“I will have more freedom when I have a couple of heirs, my Lady,” he replied quietly, but rather pointedly, looking straight into her eyes. He was rewarded by the tell- tell flush of colour that swept over her cheeks.   

“Hah, so he can make you blush. Good for him.” Erchirion had definitely discovered his fun side again.

“It a shame you didn’t stay in your bed as well, dear brother.” Lothíriel kicked her horse forward to ride alongside Éowyn and her cousin leaving her brother chuckling behind her and the King of Rohan rather amused.

They left the city with Éothain and four of the guard at the front and two riding behind. Éomer only had Erchirion’s company but at least he had a delightful view of the princess rising to the trot and then cantering up to the foothills of Mount Mindolluin. It was a beautiful morning and as they threaded their way up through the birch trees he took the opportunity to catch up with her. Erchirion appeared to have given up annoying him for the time being so he was able to enjoy some polite and innocent conversation with Lothíriel, mainly about the weather, the view and the topography of the area. He didn’t get the impression that she was cross with him at all.  

They emerged out of the trees and trekked north along the ridge until they found themselves looking down into the Stonewain valley. Éothain stopped and waited until all the party had assembled together. He swept his eyes along the belt of trees beneath them “It looks different from up here, my Lord,” the Rohír mused addressing his king.

That was the cue for an explanation to be given to the girls about the part paid by Ghân-buri-ghân and the Wild Men.

“Their help was important then?” Lothíriel asked.

“It turned out to be imperative,” Éomer answered her. “We would have had to fight our way through the army that was in Anórien. By the time we had won through we would have been too late and too few.” He grinned impishly, “Elfhelm finished them off later.”

She smiled, “He is as much a warrior as you, I gather.”

There was only one way to counteract that statement, “Worse, he has been doing it longer.”

“It’s a damn good job there are so many warriors amongst the Rohirrim, if you ask me,” Amrothos had managed to drag himself away from gazing into Nienna’s eyes.

It was a good spot to take a break so they all dismounted to give themselves and the horses a rest. Faramir produced some apples, honey cakes and a skin of watered wine and one of cold fruit tea from his saddlebags. Lothíriel was able to get her own back when Erchirion screwed up his face at the offer of even watered wine.

“I never thought I would see the great manly Prince of Dol Amroth drinking cold tea,” she could not hold back her laughter.

“Perhaps you had better ask our king here just why I am drinking it,” he jibed back at her.

She turned to Éomer with a definite enquiry on her face but with a wicked spark of amusement in her eyes.

“You can blame Legolas,” Éomer informed her, “he never told me they did not grow vines in Lebennin, Gimli was looking for someone to settle an argument.” It was not a lie just an embroidery of the truth. He was sure, however, that she knew exactly what had been going on.

The three girls decided to sit together on a convenient rock and indulge in what sounded like a very feminine conversation. Éomer sat down wondering if he was making any headway at all and was immediately joined by Erchirion. The prince sat in silence for a moment munching an apple. When he had finished he twirled the core around for a few moments holding the stem between thumb and forefinger. Éomer waited for what was to come; he had a good idea of what it might be and was therefore not surprised.

“Are you amusing yourself with my sister or do you have any serious intentions?” Erchirion had struggled to get it out.

“I am not amusing myself but anything else is between Princess Lothíriel, your father and myself,” Éomer said, more than bluntly.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Erchirion seemed to ignore the harsh tone, “I do not object to having you as a brother and I can see the sense of it, of course.” He hesitated before sighing audibly and saying in a rather resigned voice, “I have always sort of thought that she and Beren would get together, so to speak.”

“And what does your sister think of that idea?” he almost didn’t dare to ask but it was pointless not to talk to the prince. They had become particularly friendly over the past weeks and he might as well find out what he had to deal with.

“I am not sure really,” Erchirion admitted. “They have always got on well, but to be honest I have never witnessed any more than friendship between them. It is Beren’s father who is keen on the match.”

Well that was understandable, Éomer thought wryly to himself. “What about your father then, would he be amenable to an alliance with Lebennin?”

“I imagine he would have been before you came along,” Erchirion answered honestly. “Besides the fact that he admires you personally, we would be foolish not to acknowledge the political advantages. I imagine that is why we have been invited to a private meal with Beren and his family this evening. The Lord of Lebennin is getting anxious, he probably wants to try and get things settled before anyone else gets in the way.”

Éomer said nothing for a while. If an offer was made tonight and Imrahil accepted it then there was nothing he could do. He would stick to his principles whatever it cost him: he refused to go to Imrahil before he was sure of the Princess’s feelings. He did not want a wife who did not love him. “If I ask for your sister’s hand, Erchirion, then it will not be because I think it will make a desirable political alliance. I do not need some arranged union. I want a wife.”

The Prince stared at him a slow smile creeping over his face, “Then go to my father when we return. You will take precedence over anybody.”

Éomer stood up, “I know.” He looked his friend squarely in the eye, “That is why I will not do it. I will not have any woman forced to marry me against her inclinations.” He strode over to where Éothain was talking to Amrothos and Faramir, leaving Erchirion open mouthed. “Éothain are you and Aelfhere up for the tavern tonight?” he asked more jovially than he felt. He would need a drink, preferably more than one.

TBC

Chapter 10 – The Tavern

Éomer walked fast, his long strides soon bringing him to the central part of the palace. He just hoped he could find the council room he needed. He had avoided the main corridor, working out that this one would take him in the right direction. He did not want to have to ask anyone the way. Luckily he only met a few people and none of those he knew. The ones he had passed stopped and bowed. How they identified him he did not know but hopefully, with their heads down, they had not noticed. He was just going to have to brazen it out. There was no hope at all that Aragorn, Faramir, or Imrahil, not to mention various Gondorian nobles, would say nothing. Felcon had managed it of course: not a flicker of reaction had crossed his face when he had brought in the breakfast tray. Éomer wondered how long it took to learn to school one’s features into that totally dead pan expression. Perhaps the man let out a whoop of joy as he crossed the threshold to his own quarters or even lost his temper and threw the furniture around. Anything would surely be a welcome release from betraying no emotion to whatever the nobles of Gondor, or in this case a young king of a rough land to the North, did, said or got themselves embroiled in.

He had no idea how to explain it when he got there but like in every other situation, the truth was best. Well, in this case perhaps an abridged version of the truth. That decided, he really must forget it and concentrate on what they had to talk about, although making anybody take him seriously would be the first hurdle. His first proper meeting as the new Lord of the Mark was now somewhat compromised.

With some relief he thought recognised where he was. To the end, turn right out the door and across the courtyard. He had only gone a few more paces when a lady appeared from a side passage and started walking in his direction. She was tall with long black hair falling lose around her shoulders and, to him anyway, easily distinguishable. Hoping she had not yet noticed him he frantically looked around for escape but there were no more turnoffs and the only door was between them. They would reach it together. He could hardly spin on his heel and go back the way he had come. Well, he would have to face her sometime. Holding his head high, he advanced towards her. His previous thoughts were now replaced by the nasty black one that had been plaguing him since the night before: was she now a betrothed woman?

“Éomer King, good morning,” she gave an elegant bob.

He bowed his head slightly knowing he was putting off the inevitable, “Princess Lothíriel. You are about early.” Éomer lifted his chin and allowed his gaze to lock with hers and watched, transfixed for a moment, as those wonderful grey eyes widened in surprise. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth clamped her lips together in yet another valiant effort not to laugh. It seemed that it was something she was very good at. That was possibly because she appeared to see the funny side of everything.

He took a deep breath, wondering how he was going to explain this one to her: after all, inadvertently or not, she had been the cause of it.

-------------------------

The night before

Éomer picked up the piece of leather and stuck it between his teeth. Opening his hands wide, he put one each side of his face and slowly moved them backwards in unison trying to catch every strand of his unruly, and unfortunately rather recognisable, dark gold hair. Holding the thick mass together with one hand he retrieved the thong from his mouth and managed, after some considerable difficulty and a certain amount of bad language, to tie it tightly around his very clean shiny locks. It was much easier when his hair hadn’t been washed for weeks, which in the last few years had often been the way of things. He looked in the mirror: not so recognisable now. He stood still for a moment angry with himself – he could almost hear the soft voice and see the sparkle of amusement in those grey eyes. ‘A Horselord with a pony tail.’

He sighed. He would have to get out of his foul mood: it would not be fair to his friends. A few jugs of ale and perhaps he would be able to forget that at this very moment Lothíriel was probably sitting down with Beren’s family. He would have to forget it as he could do nothing about it. In spite of what Erchirion had said, he could hardly go to Imrahil and ask for his daughter’s hand after meeting her only the day before. Well he could, but he didn’t want to. What he wanted to do was to get her alone so that he could talk to her and ask her to come to Edoras, but by the time he returned tonight it might already be too late. He knew he would be devastated. Why, he had been asking himself almost constantly, did he feel like this about her after so short a time?  Shaking his head, he desperately tried to push the whole thing to the back of his mind. Some chance!

Éomer stared at his sword. He couldn’t take it. He could only wear it if he was leaving the city. Swords were not allowed to be worn inside the walls except by the guards. He already had one knife in his boot; he removed the dagger from his belt and stuck it down the other one. The warrior in him hated to go out, even to a tavern, totally unarmed.

At least the ponytail stopped all the bowing. He must just look like one of the many Rohirrim around, he thought ironically, as he headed down the main corridor. Hair scraped back, a leather tunic and a not too clean shirt made a simple disguise. Only, his Riders would be likely to recognise him tonight, especially once out in the city streets. A stray notion made him grin: the guards might not let him back in. It didn’t matter, as he could always sleep with Haldrad in the stable. He grinned again as he thought of the search party Felcon would instigate in the morning. Although the man had said nothing, Éomer had been aware of a slight stiffening of his shoulders when he found out where the King of Rohan was going.

The grin was short lived as he passed two ladies with dark hair. They did not speak but he could feel their eyes on him. His mind immediately jumped back to Lothíriel and he cursed himself for his lack of disciplined thought. The only good thing was that he now felt that Erchirion was not going to make any more difficulties. In fact he gave the impression he was on his side. Not that that would mean anything if Imrahil had decided on the match. If only he could have had a private conversation with her today it might have helped. He didn’t even know, he realised, if she would be allowed any say in who she was to marry. Knowing her father, however, he could not believe that she would not. If she wanted to marry Beren, then he would have to accept it.  He grimaced. He was used to dealing with hurt, but preferred not to have to do it again for quite some time.

-----------------------

Éothain and Aelfhere were waiting for him at the end of the lamp lit tunnel. Their faces broke into wide grins when they saw him coming.

“They let you out then!” Éothain joked as his king approached.

“He probably had to get out a window and scale down the wall,” Aelfhere clapped him on the back. His affection for his long time friend was showing clearly in his eyes and it overrode any slight awkwardness that there could so easily have been, given Éomer’s new status.

Their new sovereign visibly relaxed. He did not want anything to change between the three of them. Aelfhere’s words took him immediately back to Aldburg: to a more carefree time when he had often exited the fortress in such a manner. The companionship of his friends and the call of the plains had, more than once, made his mother’s orders to study as ineffectual as the swipe of a twig against a stubborn mule.

Where are we going then? The nearest place where they serve decent ale sounds good to me,” Éomer only knew the main way and he had only been up and down it a few times. The best taverns were usually tucked away in the back alleys.

“Aelfhere tells me he is an expert on the local hostelries. They were the first thing he explored when they chucked him out of the Houses of Healing,” Éothain told him.

“Lead on then, Aelfhere,” Éomer ordered with a laugh.

The three men started down the main way: Éomer and Éothain instinctively matching their pace to their friend on the crutch. However he managed surprisingly well, swinging the support out in front of him in a regular rhythm. They were soon down on the next level.

“There are some shortcuts,” Aelfhere remarked, “but they involve lots of steps so it’s quicker for me to keep to the road.”

The City was full. As they descended, the street became almost impassable. Blond heads were very prominent amongst the varying shades of dark ones. Nobody took any notice of them. The merchants of Gondor were taking full advantage of the party atmosphere that had resulted from the defeat of Sauron and the coronation. With all the visitors in Minas Tirith stalls, selling every kind of food imaginable, had been set up and lined the road.  Under other circumstances Éomer would have liked to look at the unusual fare on offer; well, not the things with more than four legs, but there was other stuff. At the moment though, he was more than adequately nourished and more importantly, ale beckoned. However, a bit further down he just had to stop by one stall that was surrounded by people, eating something as yet unidentifiable and then spitting into a waste receptacle. The stall held a dozen or so wooden barrels some filled with small green, almost spherical, objects and others containing similar things in a variety of colours from a pale mauve to black. Some customers were taking large portions away in containers but other revellers were buying small amounts, which were given to them on a thin flatbread.  The objects were wet, Éomer noticed, almost oily, but the purchasers seemed to be using the bread to soak up the juice and were then eating it when all the things on it had been consumed.

“They’re olives,” Aelfhere announced, seeing his interest. “They are very bitter. I reckon they are an acquired taste.”

Éomer made a face. “Like a lot of food they eat down here,” he muttered.

“You have to spit the stones out,” Aelfhere commented rather unnecessarily considering they were surrounded by people doing just that.

A bit further down he stopped again. The stall he was staring at this time held baskets, and gave out a definite fishy stink. All the customers had dark hair. That didn’t surprise him. “Aelfhere,” he whispered so as not to offend anybody, “please tell me my eyes are deceiving me – it looks like they are eating snails.”  He was sure the patrons were delving into mollusc shells with long bone pins. They were. He watched incredulously, as they winkled out the ‘body’ and then sucked it off the end of the pin. Ugh - it turned his stomach.

Aelfhere pulled a face, “They are some kind of shellfish. I think those big ones are called whelks and there are lots of different kinds of smaller ones. Some soldiers from Dol Amroth brought a whole basket into the Healing Houses for their friends. They stank the place out. I couldn’t face trying one.”

Éomer swore under his breath. He’d forgotten her for a moment – now it was all back again. Great Béma, what if she liked them. He tried to imagine those lovely lips sucking a snail body -whatever they were called they looked like snails – off a piece of bone. Not surprisingly his imagination failed on that particular manoeuvre. Surely she couldn’t – wouldn’t. It was better to linger on just lips. Cherry red lips that so easily broke into a smile or a grin. He started to wonder, for the umpteenth time in less than forty-eight hours, what they would feel like pressed against his own…

“Come on you two,” Éothain’s voice broke his spell. “If I don’t get a drink soon I am going to be one very bad tempered man.”

“A drink won’t help,” Aelfhere threw back at him immediately, “at least it never has up to now.”

“Éothain’s right,” Éomer managed a chuckle.  “How much farther is it, Aelfhere?”

“An alley goes off just around the next corner. It’s not far.”

They turned off the main street and immediately the press of people lessened. Aelfhere led them along the alley with the confidence of a man who knew where he was going. He took a left and a right turn and they found themselves in the courtyard of a hospitable looking tavern. Éomer looked up to the sign hanging above him – The Singing Stonemason - it seemed appropriate for a city like Minas Tirith. The masons would surely be singing as they would never be out of a job. He followed the other two into the courtyard; it was reasonably large and was filled with round wooden tables. Barrels had been pressed into service as seats, about half of which were taken. The drinkers outside were generally talking quietly to each other but emitting from inside were more raucous sounds of laughter and shouting.

“Do you want to go in, Éomer or sit out here?” Aelfhere asked.

“Let’s sit outside for a bit and talk. We can go and join in when we’ve had a few jugs.”

They made to sit down just as a harassed looking man appeared from within carrying a lighted taper. He lit the lamp nearest to them before addressing his latest customers, “Is it jugs of my best ale you’re after, my Lords?”

Éomer opened his mouth to protest at the salutation but the man laughed. “Oh, you can’t fool me. I’ve been doing this too long. Though I doubt anyone else will notice.”

“Good,” Éothain remarked curtly, “and they will notice even less when we’ve got a great tankard in front of our faces.”

“Coming right up,” the man chucked, lighting two more lamps on the way back inside.

“It must be you,” Aelfhere grinned at Éomer. “He’s never called me, lord before.”

“I can understand that,” Éothain retorted, deadpan. “But Aelfhere’s right,” he turned and looked Éomer up and down, “It’s your fault: somebody’s polished your tunic.”

Éomer gave a mock groan, at least going out with these two kept his feet firmly on the ground. He sat down on the nearest barrel, which luckily had a post behind it. He was able to lean back and stretch his long legs out under the table. It was good to get away from the Palace, even though he had only been there two days. It was formal with Aragorn in charge; it must have been dreadful before.

The other two men drew up some seats, smiles crossing their faces as a roar came from somewhere inside and the general noise level increased somewhat.

“It’s lively in there tonight,” Aelfhere remarked as another jeer reached them.

“It certainly is. There will be trouble before the nights over. You mark my words.” The landlord had appeared at their table carrying a tray which held three tall pewter tankards, overflowing with frothy ale and a large jug suffering from the same indulgence.

“What’s going on then?” Éothain asked just before he raised his tankard to his friends.

The landlord waited until all three had taken a long draught. He must have known thirsty men when he saw them. “There’s a whole group of your lads in there and some of our lot are giving them grief.” He shook his head, “It’s always women at the bottom of it.”

“Women?” Aelfhere showed immediate interest.

“Yes, it seems the ladies in the city are enjoying the novelty of fair hair. Our boys reckon they’re not getting a look in.”

“Can’t fault that,” Éothain remarked in his usual pokerfaced way.

“No, I suppose you can’t,” the landlord agreed, “and it’s reasonably good humoured at the moment.” He shook his head again and added with the voice of one who was long experienced in his trade, “An hour or so from now it could be very different.”

“It might be good,” Aelfhere remarked after the landlord had disappeared again, “I haven’t had a good fight in ages.”

Éomer nearly choked on his ale. Losing a bit of leg was not going to slow up one particular Rohír.

“Aelfhere,” Éothain looked as if he was about to chastise an unruly child, “bringing our king out for a night in the city is one thing. Getting him involved in a tavern brawl is quite another.”

“He doesn’t have to join in.”

There was a split seconds silence before all three of them broke into laughter. They had been together for too long without all being aware that it would be impossible for one of them to be involved in any kind of fight without the others giving a helping hand.

Éomer looked between his two soul mates, cherishing a friendship made as children which had survived hardship, accusations of treason, battle and war. Maybe it was because they had quite different personalities that they got on so well, he mused. Attraction between different people was strange…he stopped himself realising he was drifting again and would soon be going somewhere he wanted to stay away from – at least for tonight. He tried to concentrate on Aelfhere who was discussing possible replacements for his dead warhorse, Shield.  In spite of Éothain’s suggestion that he took over a fully trained one, Aelfhere was adamant – he wanted one to bring on himself and insisted that he was perfectly capable of managing a lively youngster. Éomer thought he probably was.  If anyone showed the true resilience of his kinsmen, then it was this man. No wonder the Riddermark had survived through all that had happened these past few years and their new king would do his damned best to make sure that the future was more than just a fight for survival.

“Éomer, what’s up? Are the responsibilities weighing so heavy on you that you are off your drink?” Aelfhere’s voice broke into his reverie.

He looked up to see both his friends watching him with sardonic expressions on their faces. He picked up his tankard and drained it in one draught. “Nothing’s up,” he replied holding out the mug to be refilled from the jug.

“Well, you are not yourself,” Aelfhere continued as Éothain grabbed a passing serving boy and shoved the empty vessel in his hand. “Mind you, I am not surprised. It’s bad enough living in the city amongst all this stone. Living up there in the Palace with all that cold shiny marble would give me the jeebies.”

“It’s not too bad,” Éomer couldn’t help grinning, “and it is only for another few days.” He took another long draught to try and show all was well but was not at all surprised when Éothain took a long calculating look at him and announced in a totally confident way.

“I know what is bothering our regal friend, and it’s nothing to do with cold marble. It’s a woman.”

“Is she cold as well, then?” Aelfhere immediately asked with a smirk. “Is that what the trouble is?”

“I doubt he’s had time to find out, yet.” Éothain answered him with considerable enjoyment.

Éomer ground his teeth and kept quiet. He knew from past experience that if he reacted they would keep up the ribbing for longer.

Aelfhere looked at him with mock incredulity plastered over his naturally jovial features. “Surely you’ve tried the five word test. It’s never failed.”

Éomer gave in. He groaned aloud. “Go on then. What is the five word test?”

“You’re asking me, when I’ve seen you use it so often?”  Aelfhere stopped as the jug was returned. The lad placed it down in front of them, miraculously without spilling much more than a few drops. As soon has he had gone, the irrepressible Rohír sat forward and propped his elbows on the wooden table He stared straight at his king with an expression of supreme innocence. 

“You know. You put your arm around them, give their waist a squeeze and then putting on one of those seductive Rohirric accents you whisper quietly in their ear …” he waited for effect. “ ‘Do you or don’t you?’”

He couldn’t help himself: he started laughing. He knew he had been right to come out with these two. As soon as he had finished chuckling Éomer sunk the rest of the ale in his mug. He was starting to enjoy himself. His contentment was short lived, however, as Éothain put his tankard heavily down on the table and spoke severely to Aelfhere with just the faintest quiver of mirth evident on his lips.

“I do not think that it would be appropriate to address her Highness the Princess of Dol Amroth in that manner.”

Éomer closed his eyes. How could he have even have thought for the briefest moment that Éothain would not have known? The only consolation was that when he opened them again the look of concern on Aelfhere’s face was priceless. It was that of a mother whose young son was taking his first riding lesson – on a warg.

“Éomer,” he said seriously, “are we talking about Prince Imrahil’s daughter?”

Éomer knew it was no use pretending so he just nodded.

“The one with those two warrior brothers?”

Another nod.

“That Prince Erchirion who took on one of those troll monsters.”

He nodded again

“And that younger one, what his name? It begins with Am…”

“Amrothos.”

“Yes, that’s it. The lad in the next bed to me was in his Company. He said he watched him hack his way through at least a dozen Southrons, single handed.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Well, if I might say so. I don’t think even you could manage both of them at once. One at a time of course,” Aelfhere shook his head sagely, “but not together.”

“No, I think you’re right there.” He glanced at Éothain who was having great difficulty in keeping his usual composed expression.

Aelfhere looked down at the table as if to collect his thoughts and then back up to his king, “Éomer, I know you can get away with a lot of things now, but I really would not advise you to mess with that particular lady.”

Éomer took a deep breath of consideration. If he hinted at his feelings to these two then he might well be in for another ribbing but he knew without a doubt that it would go no further. Also if they thought he was even considering her as a wife, then all the rude innuendos would immediately stop. The brief pause for thought allowed tankards to be refilled and the jug to be despatched for replenishing. When they were settled again, wiping froth from their beards, he looked briefly between the two of them and said distinctly, “I am not just messing with her. Nor do I have any attention of doing so. I think I am serious.”

It was worth it for the enjoyment of watching the passage of conflicting emotions cross two very different faces as his companions took in the significance of his statement.

“I am not surprised,” Éothain remarked thoughtfully, “I did wonder when I saw you do all that dancing.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Aelfhere agreed. “It should have been a dead give away. I am amazed I didn’t notice.”

“It must have had something to do with all that free wine on offer,” Éothain stated blandly, earning himself a couple of grins.

Aelfhere was not distracted for long, getting quickly back to the main subject. “I hope you are not just considering the political benefit to the Riddermark, Éomer. I know you will do your duty, but you don’t have to go as far as to marry some stuck up, prissy Gondorian.”

Éomer opened his mouth to protest but there was a loud splutter from Éothain, “Aelfhere, you must have had your head in the wine barrel. Didn’t you see her?”

“No. I saw him dancing with someone with black hair but she had her back to me.”

“Well, I got a close look when we went for a ride this morning. I don’t think he would be actually sacrificing himself...far from it. In fact….”

“When you two have quite finished discussing me…and Princess Lothíriel you…”

It was no good. He had opened his mouth and now they were unlikely to leave it alone, he realised, as Aelfhere interrupted him.

“Queen Lothíriel … Lothíriel Queen! Hmm… it has a certain ring. What does she think of the idea of moving to Rohan?”

“Aelfhere,” he said with more than a little exasperation, “I met her yesterday. I do not know what she feels.”

“It’s pretty obvious what she feels to me,” Éothain interjected. “I reckon it’s easier to tell here than at home.”

“How do you work that one out?”  Éomer was rather mystified. Things were much more straightforward back in the Mark. Aelfhere was right – mostly they did or they didn’t.

“Well, with our women you can ask and they might tell you the truth or not, play you along a bit. Or you can make a move and risk getting a belt round the ear. But here they give you clues.”

“Clues?”

“Oh yes, I was told all about it … one night at Cormallen when I was drinking with some of King Elessar’s new guard.”

“Go on then,” two voices spoke together.

“Well, we are talking about the ladies here of course. I imagine the others are much the same as anywhere else, but the ladies are a different matter – there are unspoken rules.”

“Rules?” Éomer was fascinated now.

“She would not have had the first dance with you if she wasn’t interested in you, but there’s other ways of telling. Take that dance when you had you arm around her waist a lot. She wouldn’t have promised you that one unless she at least liked you, see. She would have suggested a different one.”

Éomer didn’t know whether to be more surprised that Éothain had taken so much notice of what dances he had participated in, maybe he was taking his new role too seriously, or that he had retained such trivial information. Then a thought hit him causing him to draw his legs in and sit up straight: Lothíriel herself had suggested both those dances.

“So what you’re saying, Éothain is that we know that she is at least considering being made a Queen because of the type of dances she allowed him.” Aelfhere was frowning with the difficulty in following the logic behind Éothain’s pronouncement. Éomer couldn’t blame him and in spite of a momentary lift of spirits felt obliged to add.

“I think we will find that she was just being polite to a friend of her father’s.”

“Well you were a long time when you took her outside.”

Éomer stared at his friend, the now captain of his guard. Bema, he was definitely going to have to curb this over zealousness or privacy would be at a real premium. “Éothain, I spoke to her for a few moments before Amrothos came along and then I escorted her to the Guest Wing of the palace. With her brother and Nienna in tow,” he felt it important to make that clear.

“There you are then,” Éothain’s voice betrayed complete satisfaction. “She would not have let you do something so significant as to escort her to her quarters out of politeness.”

“So, we can look forward to a new Queen and the all fun and celebrations that will accompany a royal wedding, can we?” Aelfhere sounded as if he was already anticipating the surfeit of food and drink.

“Théoden King is not yet buried,” Éomer stated firmly,  “and there is unlikely to be enough provisions or are our people liable to have the inclination for a royal wedding for quite some time. Anyway,” he carried on not realising that his voice was just slightly betraying his feelings, “Princess Lothíriel is much more likely to become the Lady of Lebennin than the Queen of the Mark.”

“I think your wrong there,” Éothain remarked in his thoughtful way, “I think a royal wedding is just what they would enjoy and probably what they need…”

“Hang on, hang on,” Aelfhere butted in, “what’s this about her becoming the Lady of Lebennin?”

“At this very moment she is dining with Beren and his parents. According to Erchirion, Beren’s father is determined to marry them off and will probably try to make Imrahil agree tonight. He wants the alliance with Belfalas.” Éomer tried to keep his voice neutral but it didn’t stop indignant expressions crossing his friend’s faces.

“And what does the lady think about this?” Aelfhere asked obviously affronted. “Surely she wouldn’t,” he looked at Éothain with some disbelief, “have given those clues if she wanted to marry Lord Beren.”

“I don’t really know what she thinks as I have never had the opportunity to ask her. According to Erchirion, however, they are just friends but Beren is likely to do what his father tells him to.”

“What are you going to do about it then?”  Aelfhere asked sharply, looking as if he expected his king to rush back up the hill and seek them out, collecting his sword on the way.

“I am not going to do anything. It is no good trying to change something one has no control over.” Éomer replied without so much as a tremor showing.

“You don’t fool me,” Éothain spoke for the first time for a while. “You are obviously just like your father. It is well known that once he made up his mind, no one else would do.”

It was probably mutual between his parents, Éomer thought bleakly, as his mother had died of grief. He pushed the thought away. He would have to stop this conversation, now. That particular thought lifted him slightly: it would be like stopping a fully grown Mûmak with a toy sword.

“What I don’t understand,” Aelfhere was looking a bit perplexed, “is if you’ve got it bad, and it sounds as though you have, why didn’t you go and see Prince Imrahil before she went to this dinner? That’s how they do it here.”

Éothain let out a deep sigh, “Because he didn’t want to use his rank. That must be obvious even to you, Aelfhere.”

“Why not? What’s the use of having it, if you can’t use it?” He grinned suddenly, “I shall make full use of my new position and my war wounds when we get home. Falhwyn won’t be able to resist me.”

“For some reason, that I find difficult to comprehend, she has never been able to resist you. It’s about time you stopped sneaking around after dark and made an honest woman of her,” Éothain muttered irritably.

“And have her mother live with us? No thanks! She boils stuff in a cauldron,” Aelfhere shuddered.

“She makes potions for the healers,” Éothain explained patiently.

Éomer suddenly thought of a way of removing the focus from himself, “Aelfhere, you could leave her mother in the cottage and you and Falhwyn could move into Meduseld. There will be some spare quarters going and with you one of my guard…”

It didn’t work as Aelfhere refused to be distracted from the issue at hand. “We can talk about that later, I still want to know what you are going to do about this Princess. If you want her and she would make a good queen, then we can’t let Lebennin have her.”

Éomer couldn’t stop the laughter; his friend sometimes had a very simplistic view of life. He wondered briefly if, just for fun, he should suggest they kidnapped her. Aelfhere would no doubt be up for it. Éothain beat him to it.

“I don’t see what he can do if Prince Imrahil agrees tonight. Unless we kidnap her.”

Éomer stopped laughing and stared at his normally pragmatic friend but before he could say anything there was a loud crash from inside and the unmistakeable sounds of a scuffle. All three of them turned towards the Tavern door to see the landlord hurrying out towards them. At the same time the other party in the courtyard, who had been drinking quietly all night, sensibly exited into the street.

“I knew there would be trouble, my Lords. Your lads are totally outnumbered. A group from Lebennin came in the back way. He jerked his head towards the rear of the building, “They were spoiling for a fight.”

“Lebennin, eh.” The two Rohír rose in unison. Aelfhere making a grab for his crutch.

“Now, you two,” Éomer knew it was useless before he even opened his mouth. He could try a direct order but, well, it sounded as if his kinsmen needed a hand.

“You stay here,” Éothain put his hand on his shoulder.

“Not likely, come on.”

“Éomer, you can’t.” Éothain looked like he was about to bar his way.

“Yes I can, and we had better go now,” Éomer jerked his chin in the direction of the door. Éothain turned to see Aelfhere disappearing inside. He let out a vehement expletive.

“Oh, Morgoth’s Balls! What does he think he’s doing? He could have least have waited for me.”

Éothain got to the door first, as Éomer had to negotiate the pillar. The stocky captain had to stand aside a moment as two men lurched out, both clutching their heads. Éothain pushed them out of the way and all but launched himself into the building. Éomer followed, vaguely acknowledging that he should not be doing this. But rational thought had been lost somewhere at the bottom of a large jug.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the main room, other than a mass of men knocking the stuffing out of each other, was that the lamps lighting  it  were high up and wooden shutters had already been pulled down over the bar area. The tavern was well used to this, Éomer decided, as he stumbled against a sand filled barrel. No chairs here. It would be a strong man indeed, who threw these makeshift seats around.

He grabbed the nearest two Gondorians who were trying to dodge the lethal weapon that Aelfhere was wielding. The Rohír was standing near the door with his left arm circling a pillar for support. In his right one he was holding his crutch. He was using it as both a stave and a sword: side swiping every black-haired head in range and then jabbing the resulting unprotected stomachs.

Éomer knocked his captives’ heads together and threw them out into the courtyard. “It will be easy. Belt all those with dark hair,” Éothain shouted before disappearing into the mêlée at the other side of the large room where Éomer could see blond heads amongst a sea of black. He stayed near Aelfhere, concerned that his friend may have overestimated his strength after loosing part of a limb. He need not have worried. It was only his prop that looked likely to get hurt. Éomer contented himself with removing as many reeling bodies from the fray as he possibly could. Slowly an empty space spread around Aelfhere and when he was sure his friend could manage - did he ever doubt it - he crossed the room to join Éothain

The captain was using his fists rather like a battering ram: if you kept going long enough then something would give. In this case it was about six men who were pole-axed at his feet. Éomer picked up a couple who looked as if they might be getting up for another round and shoved them towards the rear door. Kicking them outside he headed back to the main fracas. The odds there were now even, but hearing something slightly behind him, he turned.

“Éomer, duck!”

He didn’t, or at least he wasn’t quick enough, he was hit hard, just to the side of his eye. Luckily the force of it pushed him backwards, bowling over the man who was about to knock him over the head with a large jug…………………….

-----------------------------

“I am glad to be able to provide amusement, my Lady.” He found himself grinning: she had lost her battle with laughter and her mirth was infectious.

“I supposed you walked into a door. That is what my brothers always say.” She was struggling to stop her laughter erupting again.

“No, I walked into a crutch.”

“A crutch?”

“My friend Aelfhere. I did not duck in time. But it was probably better than a blow on the head by a heavy pottery jug. So I will forgive him.”

“Oh,” her laughter was replaced by concern. “That would be painful. It’s a good job it missed your eye.” As she spoke she moved towards him her hand outstretched. She touched the livid bruise with delicate fingers. Éomer stood stock still – her face was inches from his and, besides the wonderful scent of her, he was aware of the extreme smoothness and the velvet bloom of her skin. She stepped back and he exhaled deeply.

“Do you have any salve for it?”

He shook his head, “Felcon offered to get some, but I didn’t have time.”

“I will get something for you. There is one that will help to disguise it a bit. I will pass it to Éowyn.”

Éomer groaned at the thought of what Éowyn would say. “You sound used to this.”

Lothíriel raised an elegant eyebrow. “I have three brothers. And believe me, the taverns of Minas Tirith are nothing compared with those around the port at Dol Amroth.”

He grinned, “Well, I imagine it will be a while before I am allowed in a tavern again.”

“Were you recognised?”

“Unfortunately Aelfhere shouted my name. But Éothain threatened everyone to silence.” he shrugged, “if it gets out I can live with it.”

“Well I hope it was all worth it and you had a good evening with your friends.”

“I did and it was. How about you, Lothíriel, did you enjoy yourself?” He wasn’t sure why he was feeling brave enough to ask. Except that when there was something unpleasant to be faced then the sooner it was behind you the sooner one could move on.

“It was very pleasant but…” she hesitated for a few long heartbeats, “certain expectations were not…”

“What’s my favourite cousin doing around so early?” Faramir clasped Lothíriel around the waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, Éomer King.

He had crept up on them, as only a Ranger could creep. Éomer fleetingly wondered if it had done it deliberately but admitted that the fault was probably his. He was somewhat distracted.

“Ah…!” Faramir had noticed his black eye. “A good evening was had then?”

He could give Felcon a run for his money when it came to bland expressions, was Éomer’s next thought. But then he noticed the twinkle deep in the Stewards steel grey eyes and he grinned. 

“Lothíriel has offered to find me some camouflage. I don’t want my reputation to suffer more than absolutely necessary. Most think us barbarians already.” he chuckled.

“Nobody that knows you would think that.” Lothíriel’s voice was indignant.

“There, you have an ally in my lovely cousin,” Faramir winked at him. “Come on, we will be late. I am looking forward to seeing some of their faces.”

Éomer followed Faramir down the corridor, halfway to the end he glanced back. She was still standing where they had left her. Looking straight at him.

TBC

Chapter 11 – The Threat

“Will you keep still!  It will get in your eye and it’s sure to sting. Mind you, it will serve you right if it does,” Éowyn was her usual sympathetic self.

Éomer tried to stand still. He wasn’t good with anyone fussing over him – even his sister, “What’s in it anyway? It smells like a harlot’s boudoir.”

“Do you mind!” Éowyn gave a good imitation of being shocked but her brother knew her too well. He grinned as she stepped back from him, holding the large pot of flesh coloured balm with one hand and pushing him away with the other. “You are not with those two degenerates now.” She shook her head incredulously, “I cannot believe they let you get involved in a tavern brawl.”

“It was not a case of them letting or not letting me, our kinsmen were outnumbered. And,” Éomer puffed himself up, pretending a pomposity he did not possess, “I do not think that you ought to refer to the Captain of the Royal Guard as a degenerate.”

“I can think of a few more names,” Éowyn muttered crossly, ignoring his posturing. “Are you going to let me do this or not?” Her demeanour changed suddenly and she smiled sweetly at him, “You had better - after Lothíriel went to the trouble of getting it for you.”

Éomer let out the excess air he had been holding, “What is in it? It definitely smells poncey.”

Éowyn looked at the pot but there were no markings. She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was made up. Something that is used to cover a ladies blemishes mixed with arnica, I think.”

Éomer grimaced. “I will end up not only smelling, but looking like a hussy.”

Éowyn ignored him and recommenced applying the camouflage around his eye. “Lothíriel said that her brothers have often used it. It smells a bit strong because there is a lot of it in the pot. On your skin it won’t be noticeable.”

Éomer grunted, unconvinced, and Éowyn carried on, “It didn’t matter much last night, just among friends, but in the hall tonight you won’t want everyone staring at you.”

“I got some funny looks in the meeting yesterday; only of course, the Gondorians are too polite to say anything. I can not say the same about last night, though,” he grinned sheepishly. “Gimli must have mentioned it at least a dozen times. On top of that it caused untold hilarity this morning when I inspected the contingent of horses that had arrived.”

“I am surprised you could even see the horses this morning, how long did it go on for after we ladies left?”

“Frodo and Sam stayed for another hour; the rest of us kept going until the first hint of dawn. Pippin fell asleep in the end, and Merry collapsed. Probably from overeating, rather than drink,” he told his sister with a laugh.

It had been a good evening: relaxing informally with Aragorn and the rest of his brothers in arms, but he had had no chance to talk to Lothíriel. True, she had been sitting opposite him and he had been able to feast his eyes on her until she, Nienna and Éowyn had left them to it. The three girls having had enough once the men, particularly the Dol Amroth Princes, started on the finer points of each battle and Legolas and Gimli returned to their, much loved and ongoing, argument over numbers. There had been a definite smirk on Erchirion’s face most of the evening but neither he, nor anyone else, had mentioned anything about a betrothal. So he was none the wiser. Maybe tonight he would at least get a chance to talk to her, even if it was in the middle of a dance. He sighed. He would be leaving in a few days-if this went on- he may have to at least drop a hint to Imrahil

“What was that sigh for?” Éowyn stepped back again. This time to admire her handiwork.

“I was thinking about going home.” It was true enough.

Éowyn’s face softened. “It won’t be long, and Éomer, it will be fine. You will be fine.”

He just hoped she was right. He stretched out his hand and stroked a stray strand of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “We will both be fine.” Éomer broke the short silence with a rueful grin, “Have you finished? I don’t want to keep the honourable Steward waiting. I will see you later in the hall.”

Éowyn stiffened, “You will remember what I said.

He raised one eyebrow in a deliberate challenge.

“I meant it, Éomer,” she had that very mulish look on her face. It was, as he knew to his cost, a distinctive Éowyn expression. “What are you going to say to him?”

“Éowyn,” he struggled to keep his face straight, “he asked to see me, until I know what he wants, then I do not know what I am going to say.”

Éomer strode towards the door, turning his head back towards her just as he grasped the handle, “And, believe me, Éowyn, I remember exactly the warning you gave me.” He pulled the door open and darted out before she could reply, closing it behind him with a slight bang. He leant back against it for a moment holding onto the door handle with both hands and trying not too chuckle too loudly. He had to get one back at her occasionally.

Releasing the handle, he headed down the corridor towards the outer door. It was true that he did not know exactly what he was going to say to Faramir and briefly wondered if he should ask for some sort of declaration from the man. Perhaps not, he thought as he left the building and wound his way through the private garden until he came to the gate that led to the white–paved court in front of the Tower of Ecthelion. He hesitated, nodding to some Gondorian Lords who were strolling in the pleasant air before partaking of the evening meal, and then turned and made his way to the back of the tower. He would go up the rear stairs – the marble hall with the row of sombre images of long-dead kings  did not fit with his errand.

The Guard let him pass with nothing more than a salute and he took the stone steps two at a time. The first floor held the main council chamber and Aragorn’s study. He had not been further up but knew that Faramir’s niche was on the next floor. He stopped outside the door for a brief second and smoothed down his tunic: it was the velvet one again – but at least the collar felt better. He resisted running his fingers through his hair and hoped it still retained some order after Éowyn’s erratic attention. Faramir was always so darned neat and tidy. The beginnings of a grin moved his lips – did the Steward really know what he was letting himself in for? He rapped on the door and, by the time he heard the call to enter, the grin was a full blown chuckle.

Faramir bowed his head in greeting and then looked up, his grey eyes staring unwaveringly at the king standing in front of him, “You seem in a very jovial mood tonight, Éomer King.” He moved his gaze to the decanter of wine on his desk, picking up a goblet and pointing his chin towards it in an unspoken question.

Éomer nodded his acceptance of the suggestion, taking in the well groomed black hair and spotless dark blue tunic, before announcing with some glee. “My sister informs me that if I do not reach some agreement with you this evening, then I will have to tie her to her horse to make her return to Edoras.” He grinned, as Faramir’s hand stopped in the very act of transferring the rich red liquid from carafe to cup. “If I manage to get her back to Meduseld then, at the first opportunity, she will take the fastest horse in the Royal Stables and return to Gondor.”  He watched with satisfaction the passage of emotions that crossed the Steward’s normally unruffled countenance before he spoke.

“Ahh…” he hesitated just for a moment, before the twitch of his lips gave away his amusement, “your sister, my Lord, is a lady who processes a singular determination.”

“Quite so. I just wanted to let you know what you may have to handle in the future.”

Faramir said nothing but raised his eyebrows and allowed the twitch of his lips to become an upward curve. He handed the, now filled, goblet to his prospective brother.

Éomer took the silver cup and strolled to the large widow to consider the expansive view. “One thing bothers me,” he said, staring out to where he could see the dark wash of green that he knew to be the woods of North Ithilien, “is that I am not sure she will be happy surrounded by all this cold stone.”

“She won’t be,” the stark works caused Éomer to turn around abruptly.

“Won’t be happy or won’t be surrounded by stone?” he enquired immediately.

“Surrounded by stone - at least all the time.” Faramir moved from behind his desk to join Éomer at the panoramic window. “It will not be announced until the official honours are dished out but I will be building a house in Emym Arnen,” he pointed south west to the line of low hills not a days ride from the city. “When Éowyn marries me she will be the Princess of Ithilien.”

Éomer breathed an inward sigh of relief, deciding to ignore the premature use of the word ‘when’. As if he really had much chance of stopping the union. But however much Éowyn was in love with the man he could not imagine her happy for long if she was walled up in a marble edifice. “Still a Ranger at heart, then?”

“My interest now is to see the woods of Ithilien shake off the evil that has walked there. To see Gondor’s children running and playing amongst its shimmering trees is my aim. If I have to be a Ranger for a bit longer to achieve that – then so be it.”

Éomer nodded and moved away from the window looking around the room. It was lined with books but propped in a corner was a single long-bow. He moved towards it stretching out his hand and turning to its owner, “May I?”

“Of course.”

The yew was smooth and unadorned. He ran his hand down the considerable length of it noting that the middle section was flared, probably to the full width of the stave from which it was cut. “What’s the killing range?”

“With the heavy arrows, about two hundred yards.” Faramir answered. “Draw it if you wish.”

The Rohír grasped the end of the string and bent the bow to notch it into place. It took considerable effort. When it was set Éomer raised it up slowly, pulling back the string. No wonder his handshake had had no effect on this man. It must have a draw of near on 150lbs. “Impressive,” he admitted as he eased the tension off again.

“But no good on horseback.”

Éomer gave him a sideways grin. “No, and we have to limit the weight of our arrows as well as the length of our bows. We don’t need to be as accurate as you. With the mess made by the cut-out splayed points, they generally bleed to death anyway.”

“After you have ridden on.”

“Exactly.”

The King of Rohan released the string and put the bow back. He picked up his goblet. and took a long draught, watching Faramir over the smooth silver rim. “I was impressed with your Rangers also. Their scouting skills are second to none. We would have been in trouble at the cutting if Mablung and his men had not warned us.”

 Faramir allowed a smile to linger on his lips beforereturning to his chair. He indicated to Éomer, inviting him to sit also, reaching for the decanter and refilling their goblets. “My lieutenant is exceptionally skilled and well versed in his profession.”

“Your lieutenant is extremely competent and well trained. So were all the other Rangers I came into contact with. A company is only as good as its captain, Faramir.” Éomer held his eyes for a moment, “You know if you had decided differently, about Frodo I mean, we would not be here having this conversation.”

“That may or may not be true.” The Steward paused. “If you, Éomer had not followed your own path, Merry and Pippin would have been torn apart by the monsters of Isengard.” Faramir smiled wryly at Éomer’s expression, “When you are interested in a woman it behoves you to find out all you can about her protector. Merry is an excellent conversationalist.” He paused again and thoughtfully surveyed the younger man opposite him. “In some ways our choices were the same were they not?” No, I don’t mean Merry and Pippin,” he said reacting to the Rohír’s surprised look. “But if I had Frodo and the ring of power at my mercy, with a group of armed men at my command, then you, Éomer, had the irHier heir of Elendil surrounded by a ring of spears. It is by such decisions that men shall be judged.”

Éomer let forth a rueful laugh, “To be thrown into a dungeon, you mean?”

“Or in my case - to be thrown to the wolves.”

“Luckily, they spat you out. Probably afraid of chronic indigestion,” he added with the intention of lightning the atmosphere.

Faramir chuckled, reaching for the decanter again. His next words showed that he had decided to follow Éomer’s lead. “Your eye looks considerably less noticeable. Do I detect some female intervention?”

 “You certainly do. What with your cousin and my sister, I had no choice.” Éomer made a low growling noise, “I must look like a painted whore.”

Faramir moved his head around to get a better look at the offending orb, “No, it’s not too bad. Once the candles are lit it won’t notice much.”

“Well, I hope Lothíriel knows what she’s about. I don’t want the stuff running down my face when it gets a bit warm.”

“I can’t imagine whores would wear anything that did that,” Faramir said with a sublimely innocent expression. He laughed out loud at the affronted look Éomer gave him, “Don’t worry, Lothíriel was always getting her brothers, at least the youngest two, out of scrapes. The taverns of Dol Amroth are famous, and Amrothos is, or was, particularly fond of them.”

“That’s reassuring,” Éomer muttered. He didn’t really want to talk about her but Faramir had other ideas. He concentrated on his goblet for a moment and then jerked his head up sharply at the Steward’s next words.

“I’ve felt that you and my cousin are getting on exceedingly well, Éomer.”

Faramir was surveying him with, what he was sure was, a totally calculating look. He was tempted to ask which cousin was meant but decided that would make him look foolish. “She is a very attractive lady and easy to talk to,” he answered with what he hoped was a detached air.

“If she were not my cousin I would say she was more than attractive.” He mused for a moment… “Attractive, of course, to those of ambition who would seek to further their position through a liaison with Dol Amroth, but to a man who has no need to elevate himself, then beautiful and desirable come readily to mind.”

Éomer froze, unsure what to say next. The probing had to be deliberate. Whilst he was wondering how to extricate himself from any necessity to admit to any interest in Lothíriel, Faramir carried on.

“In fact Imrahil had to deal with one of such ambition only recently. Except, it is to be noted, that the aspiration was rather that of the father than of the son.”

If Éomer had frozen before, this time he made the graven images in the hall below seem positively lively. Faramir, however, relaxed back into his chair, nursing his goblet with two hands.

At long last the image moved, at least it moved its lips, “And how did Imrahil deal with such aspiration.”

“Oh, he refused the offer,” Faramir answered lightly before adding with the distinct look of someone disclosing important and secret information, “at my cousin’s request.”

Éomer swallowed and then took a gulp of wine, trying to hide the wave of relief that flooded through him. He cast around for something sensible to say but once again Faramir’s words jolted him.

“I imagine that now the war is over and Lothíriel is on the social scene, so to speak, she will evoke serious attention. Anyone who has any aspirations in that quarter would be well advised not to delay registering their interest.”

Damn the man. Those grey eyes missed nothing. He and Imrahil had obviously had words on the subject. That was not surprising, he admitted to himself after a moment: they were family and Lothíriel’s marriage could have serious consequences for Gondor. He would have to say something: Faramir was watching him closely with the faintest look of amusement in his eyes.

“I was considering asking your cousin to join the funeral cortège to Edoras. Unfortunately I have never been alone with her long enough to make the request.”

“You could ask Imrahil.”

“I could, but I wish her to come because she wants to, not because she has been persuaded to… for the good of Gondor,” he added sardonically

“Ahh…” Faramir took another sip from his goblet and appeared to be considering something. He must have decided because he got up from the chair and went to a slim wooden cupboard on the wall. He opened it and ran his eyes over the many keys hanging up inside, selecting one; he closed the door and turned back to Éomer.

“Here.” He tossed it towards the Rohír whose reactions were swift enough to be able to reach out one hand and catch it in mid air.

Éomer scrutinized the key in some surprise and then put his head on one side, looking up and questioning the Gondorian.

“Instead of going outside to the courtyard for air tonight, I suggest you take Lothíriel out of the back of the hall. There is a door in the corner of the ante-room. That is the key. The door leads directly to the private garden. A very secluded part of the garden, I might add.”

Éomer took a deep sigh; he and his future brother-in-law would no double get on very well. “Thank you. I appreciate your insight and understanding.” He drained his goblet put the key in a pocket and stood up. It was getting late.

“Éomer, she is my cousin,” Faramir’s voice was firm.

“I promise you, Faramir, she will be safe with me.”

The Steward nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips as Éomer made to leave, “Éomer King you have not yet given me permission to wed your sister.”

Éomer gave him a characteristic grin, “And you have not yet officially asked.”

Faramir stood up to his full height before executing a perfect bow. “My Lord King…”

Éomer waved his hand before he could continue… “Oh, give over with that, of course you can wed her. You can announce it as soon as Théoden is buried.” He strode to the door, before Faramir could make the proper responses.

The King of Rohan grasped the handle and pulled open the heavy door. He stopped, turned around and looked straight back at Faramir. “There was never any doubt, you know…” he hesitated, grinning hugely at the tall grey eyed man who would be his kin, “the fastest horse in the Royal Stables…is mine.” Chuckling to himself, he ran down the stairs and out of the building.

TBC

Chapter 12 – The Promise

The magnificently attired footman was probably wondering why the King of Rohan had not gone straight into  the hall but was taking time, even at this late hour, to study the dance programme which was very prominently displayed in the entrance lobby. Just as he had been told it always was. He nodded to the man, who may or may not have been surprised that such an acclaimed warrior was so interested in dancing. A warrior, however, was always prepared and, if he was any good, had more than one plan to fall back on.  The intelligence gathering was one reason that by the time Éomer walked into Merethrond, the great feasting hall was almost full. Faramir, who he had left at his desk halfway up the tower of Ecthelion, was already in his place. The wily Gondorian was other reason that had caused him to be rather late: he needed to get his thoughts together after his meeting with his future brother-in-law and had spent time lingering for a while looking out over the wall. It was only since he had left the Steward’s office that a niggling little thought had entered his head: Faramir had been very probing and also very obliging in suggesting somewhere he could meet Lothíriel in private. One did not have to be very astute to work out what had been going on. Imrahil had dropped hints about his daughter when they had been at Cormallen, and however determined he personally had been not to fall in with any prearranged plans – he had probably been wasting his time. The thing he had been trying to work out was: did Lothíriel know all about it, and if she did, what did she think. The end result of all the deliberating he had done had not changed his mind on anything: he needed to talk to her.

Aragorn and Imrahil had not sat down but were standing near the top table talking quietly together. It still somewhat amused him to see the former Ranger dressed in such finery. This time it was a highly embroidered dark red tunic made from some rich looking material that had a definite sheen. Perhaps he did not feel the heat, although Éomer doubted that. Aragorn raised a hand and the gesture caused the Lord of Dol Amroth, who was garbed in his usual dark blue, to turn is his direction. The Prince nodded a perfunctory bow. Éomer was making his way towards them when he noticed two things: The first being that Faramir was sitting next to Éowyn and their heads were together. Black and blonde hair was mingling and her intended looked to be talking softly into her ear. Éomer had no trouble guessing what about. The other, the more surprising of the two, was that Lothíriel was sitting on the left side of her cousin and the empty place next to her was very likely his. Before he could give any thought to the significance of this, Aragorn spoke to him,

“Good, you’re here. We can sit down. I waited for you; otherwise the whole lot would be up and down like jack-in-the-boxes.”

Imrahil let out a stifled chuckle, “I suppose it will take a while to become totally used to accepting the deference due to your position, my Liege.”

“A great while, I imagine,” Aragorn’s grin was slightly forced, “but no doubt, if the last few days are anything to go by, then I shall be constantly reminded of it.” He turned to his Rohirric counterpart. This time the grin was genuine, “Where have you been, Éomer? Faramir says you left him some time ago.”

“Oh, I fancied some air. I must have forgotten the time.”  Éomer deliberately let his eyes rove over the opulence his friend was sporting, “Where did that lot come from?”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow provocatively, “I have no idea. Faramir procured it from somewhere.” The conversation was interrupted by Imrahil who had caught the worried glance of the Master of Ceremonies.

“Well, perhaps we ought to sit down now,” he addressed the two kings, “if the meal ends too late they will have to considerably alter the dance programme.”

Éomer subdued the resigned sigh that threatened to become audible. He’d have to find another way of achieving his objective if the research on the dance order was wasted. He followed the steward who had appeared at his side. As he thought, he was being led to the empty seat between Aragorn and Lothíriel. Imrahil’s place was the other side of his king, this time next to Gandalf. He pushed aside the thought that the places were part of some Gondorian strategy. Lothíriel was, after all, the highest Lady present and it was probably etiquette that, with the different table arrangements on this less formal evening, she was put next to the principle male guest. He was still suspicious, but in his deliberations he had decided that it didn’t matter what they had planned for him and the princess as long as he established that she was genuinely happy to fall in with it.  For the moment he would just enjoy the unexpected pleasure of having her as a dinner companion. A ravishing dinner companion, he realised as he took in her soft shiny hair which was once again held in a jewelled net. She was also wearing blue, although a rather different blue from her father as it had an almost green tinge. In addition to that she was showing decidedly more flesh. That observation was made just before the entire hall rose to pay their respects to two monarchs.

 It was not until everyone had sat down and he started to say his good evenings that he realised he was right opposite Legolas and Gimli. The dwarf wasted no time.

“Ha, Éomer King, trust you to find a seat next to such a lovely lady.” Gimli totally ignored the fact that Éomer had no choice as to where he sat.

Legolas, of course, had to join in, “It is always good to surround oneself with beauty.” The silver-tongued elf was displaying his usual gently amused expression

“In that case, Legolas, tell me: why do you spend so much time with our hairy friend here?”

“I will have you know that I am accounted to be a very handsome fellow. The depth and the quality of the facial hair is considered to be paramount in attracting a… umm….,” Gimli mumbled the last word which Éomer discerned as mate. Unabashed, the dwarf ran his eyes over Eomer’s face, “Anyway your beard is a very poor effort. It must seriously hinder your chances.”

“I freely admit that I doubt that I would be able to obtain a favour from the Lady of the Golden Wood, as you did so easily. But perhaps,” he grinned at Legolas, “elves and dwarves see beauty differently.”

Gimli glared at him. “Not one word, Éomer King. Not one word about her or I’ll…”

Éomer put up his hand, “No, I will wait until I meet her. You will have my judgement then, as promised.” He glanced at Lothíriel. He knew before he looked what he’d see – he was right - her lips were clamped together. She controlled her laughter and looked between the two of them,

 “I gather from that little exchange that you are good friends.”

“Good friends!” the dwarf spluttered.” He threatened to chop my head off when we first met!”

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite find it. Being hidden by our tall grass, that is,” Éomer enlightened her, the grin all over his face.

“Gimli scowled at him but, instead of retaliating, lent across the table looking straight at Lothíriel, “This elf,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of Legolas, “had an arrow aimed at his heart before you could blink an eye. Not that he did blink an eye,” he conceded. “In fact he never moved. One thing I’ll say for him … he doesn’t panic easily.”

Éomer smiled, “And one thing I will say for my undersized friend, here – he’s good to have around when you are in a tight spot.” He leant a little closer to Lothíriel, pausing for a second as the wonderful fragrance of her stirred his senses. “He saved my life at Helm’s Deep, so I can’t be too rude to him.”

Lothíriel looked back to Gimli. The few bits of uncovered skin on the dwarf’s face showed distinct signs of changing colour and he mumbled something about being in the right place at the right time.

“Come on,” she said to Éomer, clearly intrigued, “tell me what happened.”

“It was when they were using the rams on the gates. Aragorn and I took a few swordsmen and went out of the postern gate to disperse them. It went alright but a few orcs played dead and grabbed me when we were returning. Unbeknownst, Gimli had come out to watch. Never was an unbidden guest more welcome.”

“I’d gone after them to shake off sleep,” the dwarf added. A light came into his eyes, “My axe was able to hew more than wood that night.”

“But by the time you came back my count was more,” Legolas could not resist goading his friend.

However, Éomer, fearful that the talk would become more bloodthirsty, changed the subject and persuaded Lothíriel to talk about her homeland. It was a good choice as neither Legolas nor Gimli, or indeed he, had seen the sea. Aragorn joined in the conversation when he overheard what they were talking about and reminisced, to their amazement, about time he had spent in Dol Amroth long before Lothíriel was born.

The meal progressed in its stately way and they were on to the puddings before Éomer had the chance to have a quiet word with his dinner companion.

“Will you allow me the first dance?” As he said it he thought of Éothain’s pronouncements on the clues ‘Ladies’ gave out so he was quite relieved when she agreed with no hesitation. “I also thought numbers five and nine would be suitable.”

She looked at him a bit surprised, “Have you just picked those out of the air?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I had a look at the programme before I came in.” He knew exactly why she had queried his choice. Number five was one that allowed a certain intimacy but number nine was very staid. “I thought that perhaps you would not be too tired and we could enjoy some conversation after that,” he did not want her promising any more dances.

The smile on her face told him she had caught on, “I shall be delighted to save those for you, my Lord. I am sure that will be enough dancing for me tonight.”

----------------------

Éomer reluctantly let go of Lothíriel’s waist at the end of the dance. He brought her hand up to his lips, “I will see you in a while, my Lady.”

“It won’t be long she said,” indicating the number board. When he looked up he saw that instead of the six he would have expected number eight was showing. She grinned, “I think the meal started late owing to a certain king not being on time.”

“My turn now, I think my Lord King.” Elfhelm bowed to the princess and led her off. Éomer followed with his eyes for a moment, chuckling to himself, he would be having words with his Marshall. He looked around; it would look odd if he danced with no one else, although he had stood up with his sister and Nienna. Luckily he spotted a lady he had been introduced to. She was the wife of the Captain of Aragorn’s new guard so he was able to pass the time to number nine uneventfully.

“Why did you choose this one?” There was the inevitable twinkle in her grey eyes, “I   would not have thought a Blushing Pavane was much in your style.”

It wasn’t with all the bowing and curtseying but it had one advantage: the couples lined up across the hall rather that down it. Éomer took her hand and led her to end of the middle set. The position was right next to a gap into the server’s walkway. “I was hoping you would come outside for some air when it is over,” he said just as the slow insipid music started.

“I will,” she said just before she sank into a deep curtsey, “but we will not be able to plead that we are hot from the dancing.”

“No, we will plead that the sunset is too beautiful to ignore.”

“It must be nearly over.”

“The dance?” he asked hopefully.

She giggled softly, “No, the sunset.”

Éomer glanced across to the far side of the hall to where the side doors were open. The small piece of sky he could see was streaked with red. “There will be a bit left to serve our purpose.”

The dance seemed never ending but at last the he heard the closing bars. When the polite clapping stopped, and the couples started to break up, he took her arm. “This is the quickest way to the garden.” For a brief moment they were shielded from the rest of the hall by the general milling around and changing of partners. He quickly used the time to sweep her behind the filigree stone work and then down the outside steps. These bypassed the entrance to the underground kitchens and brought them into a public area of the Citadel gardens, but one on the opposite side of the building from where everyone else was exiting. As he had thought there was no one else in the immediate vicinity although he could see some strolling away to their right.

“I rather think you planned that.” She did not sound worried or cross, just somewhat amused.

“I wanted to have a private word with you. Something that does not seem easy to achieve around here.”  He had the key in his pocket but he did not really want to use it because…well, he did not want her to know Faramir had given it to him and he was also a little dubious about taking her to such a secluded place. Here it was open… well almost. He led her down towards the wall. “There’s a seat down here.”  He knew there was as he had checked it out earlier. It was in at the bottom of the grassy bank adjacent to the wall and he took her hand to help her down the slope. The seat was also partly shielded by a large bush. When they reached it Éomer let go her hand, he had no right to hold it yet, and lifted up the lower branches of the bush. He looked underneath, “I had better check for hobbits.”

“Surely they could not eat any more.” She laughed, as everyone had remarked that Merry and Pippin had looked particularly stuffed at the end of tonight’s meal

“I am sure they could.”

She did not sit down but moved across to look out over the wall. It reminded him of that first night when he had thought she was betrothed to Amrothos. He stood next to her, looking out: the last rays of the sun were picking up the line of the river and the moon was already up. The mountains of Ephel Dúath were true to their name: they were in deep shadow. The two watchers took in the view in silence for a moment.

“It’s beautiful now that the darkness covers the scars of battle.” She said at last.

“Soon it will be beautiful even in the daylight. Rents in the earth heal and green will quickly cover brown.”

“Yes, you are right. But even when it is restored, the landscape must be very different from that of Rohan.”

It was just the lead in he needed, “It is very different from Rohan. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“The difference between Gondor and Rohan?”

“Partly.” That mischievous smile was in her eyes. It was evident even in the fading light. He reached out and took her hand; it was wonderfully soft and cool too, in spite of the dancing. Almost unconsciously he started to rub his calloused fingers up and down one of hers. She did not draw it away. “Lothíriel, I…” He stopped alerted by a movement up beyond the bank. He relaxed again. For a moment he thought he would have to use the damn key, but it was only the lamplighter and the man passed on with a nod. Éomer drew her slightly to the left - into the newly formed shadows. She put up no resistance. “I wanted to ask you if you would pay a visit to Edoras. Your father is coming when we escort Théoden King’s body home in July. I was hopeful that you would come too.”

“To give you my opinion on the difference between Gondor and Rohan, you mean?”

He could not help but smile at her teasing. “Not exactly…” he paused, “I wanted you to decide if you could spend the rest of your life living in the Mark.” She said nothing, just raised her eyebrows as though she was expecting him to carry on. He took a deep breath, “With me. That’s what I mean!” The breath he had taken made the words come out rather more forcibly than he intended but she showed no surprise.

“If I understand you correctly, Éomer, you want me to come on a visit to Edoras and then decide if I like it enough to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I do. I want to know if you think you could be happy living so far from your home and if you think you could be happy with me. If you decide you could then I will speak to your father. I want to make sure you understand what your life would be like and…I want you to decide. No one else.”

She did not answer for a moment and appeared to be deliberating over her reply, “You are saying, I believe: that you want me to decide without paying any regard to political considerations.”

“That is exactly what I am saying.” She was looking up at him with a candid open expression. Not embarrassed or shy but perhaps a bit thoughtful. He was in immediate danger of kissing her, but he did not want to do that. Well he did, but he did not want to put any pressure on her whatsoever.

“I understand now what my brother meant.”

“Your brother?”

She nodded. He noticed that a smile was starting to play around her lips. “Yes, Erchirion. He told me: that before we went to dine with Beren’s family there was something I ought to know.”

Éomer waited for her to continue, every nerve on edge.

“He said that Horselords have an extraordinary amount of pride. He felt that it was sometimes necessary, when dealing with them, to make one’s feelings very plain.” The smile changed to a wicked looking grin, “I think it would be a good idea if I do as he suggests.”

To his utter surprise and supreme delight she withdrew her hand from his, took a step towards him, wound her long slim arms around his neck and raised her lips to his. The surprise paralyzed him for no more than a heart’s beat. What was a man expected to do with an invitation like that…?

It was just as he thought from the moment he eyes upon her: she fitted. She fitted into his arms; their heads leaning sideways fitted together faultlessly; their lips came together with no difficulty and when after a few moments he encouraged her to part those wonderful lips slightly: then his tongue fitted into her sweet mouth - absolutely perfectly.

When he let her go he was conscious of her breathlessness and of the thumping of her heart. It matched his own. She made no attempt to pull away but rested her head against his chest. He lowered his own slightly and let his lips wander over the silkiness of her fragrant black hair.

“Do you think I need to go all the way to Edoras to decide?” she whispered.

“Hopefully not. But I want you to,” he replied in a similar soft tone of voice. She pushed away from him a little, looking up at his face. Her eyes were dark, but also questioning. “I want you to be absolutely sure. You will be marrying me, but also you will be taking on a people and a culture that is strange to you. I want no regrets.”

She shook her head, “There will be no regrets.”

He smiled as he ran a finger down her nose and then gently across her lips, “I will do my best to make sure there are none, but I cannot announce any betrothal until Théoden is buried anyway.”

She nodded, “Of course, I forgot that.” She raised her hands one each side of his face, pushing back his hair, “I will come to Edoras, Éomer King. I will meet your people and learn of your land and I promise that I will not change my mind.”

------------------------

It was a while before they made their way hand in hand through the gardens and around to the other side of the hall. He had needed to spend some time with her, knowing that the chance of any meaningful conversation over the next few days was very doubtful. There were meetings about aid and about further strategy but also he could not leave the logistics planning of moving an entire army home, solely to Elfhelm. Not when they had wounded men and barely enough horses. The next two nights were going to be taken up with mess dinners: with his own men and with those Gondorians whom he had fought alongside. The final night was to be a huge farewell feast. If he was lucky he might get another walk in the garden with her. Edoras would be better: he knew all its hidden paths.

As they reached the area where many others were strolling, taking in the soft air before retiring for the night, she dropped his hand and tucked her arm through his in the accepted manner. They had agreed: no one else would know until he spoke to her father in Rohan. Although he did have to tell the prince he had invited her. There was doubt that that would cause some inevitable speculation. At some stage he would also have to pass his thanks to Erchirion, but that could wait.

They nodded to a few people and made their way back into the hall through the wide open side doors. The first person to catch his eye was Faramir. The Steward was talking to Amrothos, and Éowyn and Nienna were in deep conversation a little way apart.  Faramir showed slight surprise at seeing them entering from this direction, he thought. Lothíriel excused herself and went to join her two friends. Éomer took the key out of his pocket and tossed it to his future brother. The Gondorian’s reactions were as fast as his own. He caught it cleanly.

 “Thanks for the decoy. It’s always good to create a diversion,” Éomer chuckled at the bemused expression on the Steward’s face.

TBC

Chapter 13 – The Departure.

 8 May 3019

 “Is there anything else, my Lord?”

“No, that’s all, I think. You may go. I will see to the rest myself”

The man bowed, “Then I hope you have a good journey, my Lord.”

“I hope so too, Felcon.” Éomer looked around the large room making sure he had not forgotten anything. His eyes rested on the chest where his belongings had been put into neat waterproof packages. He could not help the small grin of amusement when he thought of what the parcels would look like if he had had to do them up himself. “Thank you for looking after me. I appreciate it could not have been easy,” he called to Felcon just before he left the room.

The man stopped and turned around, executing another of his bows, “On the contrary, my Lord, I have enjoyed serving you and have considered it somewhat of a challenge. I look forward to repeating the experience when you return in July.”

Éomer stared at him; and saw the faintest glimmer of a twinkle in his eye. Béma, the man was human after all. He broke into a grin, “I shall endeavour not to cause you so much trouble…” There was a knock at the door before he could finish what he was going to say. Felcon opened it to admit Elfhelm with Haldred right behind him. The Gondorian manservant bowed to the Marshall and exited into the corridor.

“Good morning, my Lord.” Elfhelm made the slightest of bows, “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I am coming.” He indicated the parcels on the chest, “You can take those Haldred. I will bring my saddle bags.”

“Yes, my Lord. The young man loaded himself up and stood waiting.

“Go on down,” Elfhelm said, opening the door wide for him, “there is a pack animal in the stable.” Haldred nodded and, clutching at the armful of parcels, left the chamber.

Éomer picked up his saddle bags, took another look around the room and then remembering, retrieved his knife from under his pillow and shoved it into his boot. Elfhelm said nothing. Why would he, Éomer thought, as he no doubt did the same – and he was married. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and the two Rohír followed Haldred into the corridor. Éomer stopped and looked back to his sister’s door, “Have you seen Éowyn, Elfhelm? I thought she might have been round.” It was amazing that she hadn’t been fussing; he’d fully expected her to arrive in his chamber – hairbrush in one hand and a pot of salve in the other.

“I met her in the corridor an hour ago.” Éomer raised his eyebrows; Éowyn was not known to be a particularly early riser. Elfhelm chuckled merrily, “I rather think that she was off to say farewell to the honourable Steward.”

“Ah, I see.” Lucky Éowyn, he sighed inwardly. He would get no chance for a private leave-taking with Lothíriel, although he had managed a goodbye kiss or two after the farewell feast. Not without more strategic planning though.

“Your eye still looks bad, it’s a sort of a sickly yellow colour,” Elfhelm remarked. “I did not notice it last night.”

“Éowyn has been putting some stuff on it,” he laughed, “I rather think she has other things on her mind this morning, and I am certainly not going to do it. It will be fine by the time we get home.”

“Our people would welcome you with any amount of black eyes,” Elfhelm said respectfully. “They will welcome what you have arranged to come along behind us as well.”

“I agree that they will welcome the food and the seed beans. But it is going to be so very hard for those who have no loved one to welcome home.”

“At least there will not be many surprises. Hopefully the lists we sent were accurate,” Elfhelm replied.

“I hope so. I know you did your very best, but I imagine there may be a few wives expecting husbands home who will never come. Once again,” my friend, “I must thank you for your tireless work.” Éomer clapped his Marshall on the shoulder and then remembered something else, “Did you sort everything out with Elladan and Ellrohir?  I am sorry to have left another thing to you but…”

“No, think nothing of it, my King. I was only to glad to leave you time to attend those meetings and sort out the aid.”

“There will be a lot more needed yet, I daresay. The reports we have had are not good. I can only be thankful that Gondor has responded so quickly. If we can get the beans we are taking back planted straightaway then we will be able to harvest something. Grain, dried fish and meat will follow by wain.” He grimaced. “It was one area where I just had to swallow my pride. We have no chance of getting our strength back if the people are starving.”

“It’s not a matter of pride at all, Éomer. We responded to Gondor’s need with no delay. They know what would have happened if we had not.”

“Yes, that is true but we would not have survived more than a few weeks afterwards…” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal to his own thoughts, “anyway enough of that – what have you arranged with our two elven twins?

“They will stay for a night or two in Edoras and we will then provide them with an escort to the borders of Lorien to meet up with Lord Elrond’s party. They expect to arrive back in Edoras about the middle of June and stay a night or two for the ladies to rest. They intend to arrive in Minas Tirith on Midsummer Eve.” Elfhelm grinned, “Evidently Midsummer’s day is an auspicious date for a wedding.”

Éomer returned his grin, “And you have told nobody about this? Aragorn wants it kept quiet. I think he wants to produce an Elven wife as an actuality in case there are any dissenters.”

Elfhelm shook his head, “I have only spoken to Cælin, as he will be leading the escort. I have sworn him to secrecy. We will pick the men on the journey home when there is no chance of any Gondorian knowing. As you said, we will choose unmarried men as far as possible. We will not be popular if we drag husbands away after only a few days.”

“Popular or not, if necessary, it will have to be done. I suggest about fifty good Riders,” Elfhelm raised his eyebrows at this. “I know it sounds a lot,” Éomer sought to explain his decision, “and I understand that the elvenfolk of Lorien are as fierce as we have seen Elladan and Ellrohir to be, but there is no way I am going to risk anything happening to Aragorn’s bride when she is on our soil. We will escort them safely through the Mark. Gondorian Knights will meet them at the border and our part in this will thankfully be ended.”

“You, hold our new High King, dear, I feel.”

“I do.”

“But you do not want to go to the wedding, Éomer?”

“No. I will be needed at home. I will be away for almost a month with the funeral cortège anyway. That cannot be helped, but I will not leave my responsibilities for a wedding.”

“And the whole lot will be coming back with you.”

“So I understand. We will be entertaining a King, a Queen, numerous Elven Lords and Ladies, a quartet of princes, some mischievous hobbits and a dwarf. Oh yes, and I haven’t told you: I have asked Princess Lothíriel to come as well.”

“Ahhh…”Elfhelm drew the word out. “Is that all you have asked her?”

Éomer was tempted not to reply but he knew he could trust his old friend and mentor. “We have an understanding, but I want her to see Edoras first. If she comes permanently she will be a long way from home.”

Elfhelm mused over this for a few moments, “I imagine the match will suit the Gondorians well, but you may be in for some opposition from some of our die-hards. They will probably want you to wed a Rohirric lass.”

“It is the other reason I want her to come to Edoras: so that my intentions are known and our people get to know her.” He looked his Marshall straight in the eye, “Let me tell you, Elfhelm: I will dedicate the rest of my life to serving the Riddermark, but the woman at my side will be one of my own choosing.”

The Marshall did not contradict him and they walked in companionable silence for a while, their long strides quickly taking them out of the cold stone building and into the fresh morning air.

When they neared the stables Éomer was surprised to see that the Royal Guard of Gondor was already lined up along the road. As usual they looked immaculate and he wondered, not for the first time, how they could stay so un-creased whilst on horseback. But surely Aragorn didn’t need them to ride with him down to the gates. He turned to Elfhelm with the obvious question on his face.

“We, and particularly you, are to be accorded full honours. King Ellessar and Prince Imrahil will ride with us down through the city and your own guard will take over outside the gates.” Elfhelm told him.

“I see,” he shrugged. Pageantry was not really in his line but if that was what they wanted to do then he could go along with it. The two men stopped and surveyed the line of Knights for a moment, one of them was having trouble controlling his horse, which was impatient with standing around and had decided to try and get past the others. Perhaps it didn’t like pageantry either or, more likely, the Gondorian knight was having to get use to a new mount. It reminded him of something he wanted to ask Elfhelm, “I couldn’t hang around to see, which horse did Aelfhere choose in the end?”

The Marshall raised his prominent eyebrows, “I am surprised you have to ask.”

Éomer laughed out loud, causing a few heads to turn. “No, I don’t suppose I do. It must have been that one I suggested might be too much for him: that roan with liquid fire running in his veins instead of blood.”

“They should suit then,” Elfhelm said dryly.

Éomer grinned, and they walked on into the stable yard which was much quieter than he had been expecting. Aragorn’s mount, Roheryn, was saddled, but there was no sign of his master. The animal probably wondered what had hit him, being decked out in ceremonial dress for the second time in eight days. Éomer wondered how long it would be before Aragorn gave into pressure and chose a more handsome looking mount. He glanced around: his own standard bearer was waiting patiently; Windfola was being led out by a groom but Éowyn was missing; there was a packhorse tied to a rail, as he watched the load it was carrying was secured and draped in a green cloth. It couldn’t be all his stuff and he guessed that his sister would be taking back far more than she had brought. Éomer entered into the stable, chuckling to himself, many things had changed in the last few months. One of them was apparent when he reached Firefoot’s stall: the horse was saddled and bridled and all he needed to do was to give him the carrot that he had requested from Felcon that morning. It made a mess of his bit but the big horse crunched happily as his master fastened on his saddlebags. At least he had seen to his old friend himself on the early morning rides he had been taking and it was something he intended to keep to when he got home, knowing it would probably be his only prospect of  escaping  and spending time with his much loved friend. Not leaving anything to chance, however he was not content until he had run his hands down all four of Firefoot’s legs, looked in his mouth and ensured that his badly behaved partner had not fooled Haldred. He did not want his saddle slipping when he mounted him.

“Is every thing alright, Lord?”

Éomer looked around from checking over his horse. Haldred was holding his own mount and watching his King somewhat nervously. He was also looking incredibly smart, much more so than when he had collected the parcels.

“Yes, everything is fine, Haldred. You are doing well. What happened to you?”

“Happened to me, my Lord?”

Éomer ran his eyes up and down the boy, taking in the shiny boots, clean breeches and a green tunic over his mail.

“Oh, Lord Elfhelm arranged it. I have to ride behind you, my Lord, and lead that packhorse. He said we both, that’s me and the horse, I mean, have to look the part because the Gondorians always look so smart. But I imagine I will look a mess after a few days on the road,” the boy said candidly.

“Go on, Haldred, sort out that animal.” Elfhelm had come up and he jerked his head in the direction of the stable door.

“Is there anything you have not thought of?” Éomer laughed. “We came with our weapons, some oats and a bit of dried tack. We are taking back a fully provisioned army, emergency aid for our people and a trainee squire with new clothes.”

“I think, Éomer, that in the years to come we shall be having much closer ties with Gondor, I would not have it that they continue to think of us as barbarians…”

“Good morning, Éomer King. Are you ready to leave us?” Imrahil was smiling benevolently at him. In fact he had noticed a kindly twinkle in the Prince’s eye ever since he had suggested that Lothíriel be allowed to make the journey to Edoras. The suggestion, he thought, had been agreed to with considerable satisfaction.  

Éomer returned his smile. They had become good friends, despite of the age difference, and he respected the Prince of Dol Amroth exceedingly. Aragorn was in good hands during his first difficult months of kingship. He hoped he would be as lucky. “We are ready. Is Aragorn here? ”

“He’s outside. And your sister has just arrived. Faramir has gone down to the gates with my sons and my daughter.”

Éomer nodded, disappointed. A very public farewell then. “Come on Firefoot, let’s go,” he said aloud.

The first person Éomer noticed when he led Firefoot out into the stable yard was Éowyn. She was wearing what he guessed was one of those riding dresses. It was made of a shiny green material and had some sort of pleating all across the front of the bodice. The sleeves were full but caught tight around her wrists. Her long blonde hair had been braided and wrapped around her head. She looked magnificent, but she did not look like Éowyn. At least she did not look like Éowyn would be expected to look at the start of a four hundred mile ride.

“Would you like some help mounting, little sister?” Éomer kissed her good morning.

“Yes, please.”

Éomer dropped Firefoot’s reins, and took hold of her leg. His mind immediately leapt back to the time he had done the same for Lothíriel. He mentally shook himself. Once Minas Tirith was behind them he would have to forget her until he returned in July – there was so much to do and think about. He could not afford to be distracted. “You look wonderful but do you think that outfit will survive the rigors of the journey?”

“Oh, I will change tonight when we camp. I won’t wear this again until we enter Edoras.”

 “No wonder we have our own packhorse,” he teased, as she lifted elegantly into the saddle.

Once they were all mounted the two kings and the Prince of Dol Amroth led the procession and headed it down towards the next level, with Éowyn and Elfhelm behind them. Éomer could hear the clamour of a great many people. The noise was getting louder and louder as they progressed downwards. When they reached the sixth level he could see that a huge number of folk were lining the streets. As soon as the crowd saw them coming, the cheering started. Many were waving flags or holding up coloured paper streamers which curled and danced in the breeze. They called his and Éowyn’s name as they passed and shouted greetings or tossed their hats. Éomer caught the eyes of one little girl: her sweet little face was famed by a mass of dark curls and she was waving a homemade green flag on which was a crude drawing of a horse. She giggled and buried herself in her mother’s skirts when he smiled at her, peeking out when she thought he was not looking. He glanced across at Aragorn, his expression showing his surprise at the strength of the salutations. Aragorn shrugged, and gave his Rohirric counterpart an amused smile, “They are just saying thank you. I don’t think you realise what goodwill there is towards you, Eowyn and all your riders.”

It was brought home to him even more when the passed a place that gave a view of the road that let towards the Rammas Echor and the start of the North-way. As far as he could tell, the road was lined with people, all the way to the outer wall. He turned once again to Aragorn, this time totally amazed, “They must have risen early to have walked so far out.”

“If you, Théoden and the Rohírrim had not had come, Éomer, then they would be walking to Mordor in chains,” Imrahil said dryly.

Éomer shook his head, stunned to silence. He had not been expecting anything like this.

They emerged through the gateway and a lump came to his throat. His guard was lined up – looking as smart as they were able- but what moved him were the ranks and ranks of his kinsman. They were also lined up, waiting to go home. They had come at the call of one king, and were going home in the company of another. It was those they were leaving behind that caused the knife to twist violently in his stomach. Virtually the whole of the previous Royal Guard were buried in the mounds he could see out of the corner of his eye, along with farmers, herdsmen and riders, some who were no more than boys.

“Their lives were not wasted, Éomer.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not been aware that Aragorn had moved Roheryn      right next to him. His friend and brother always seemed to know what he was thinking.

“I know, but it will be hard to meet the eyes of the mothers and widows.”

“It will always be so. If it were not so, and you did not feel it, then that is the time you would have to worry. Come on,” Aragorn said, much more cheerfully, “you have some goodbyes to say.”

Éomer looked around, Faramir had lifted Éowyn down and she was walking over to Gandalf and the four Hobbits. He cast his eyes along the line and saw Lothíriel standing with her brothers. He steeled himself to not give away any of his feelings as he swung himself off Firefoot and passed the reins to Aragorn who had also jumped down. Thinking it was the best way round he deliberately followed Éowyn and said goodbye to Gandalf, Gimli and Legolas and then the Hobbits before moving over to the threesome from Dol Amroth. Amrothos and Erchirion immediately came forward to clasp him in a warriors embrace and then as if by some prearranged signal both moved aside and a little apart and there she was – standing before him.

Their eyes met and suddenly it didn’t matter that many thousands of people were watching them. They were alone. Her hair was loose, blowing around her shoulders, there was a smile on he lips and a sparkle in her eye and, to him, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. She was his future.

He lifted her hand to his lips rubbing his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, holding on to it with more pressure and for far longer than he should. Lothíriel returned the pressure and whispered, her eyes holding his fierce gaze, “I keep my promises.”

He carefully returned her hand to her side. “I know.”  

Turning away quickly in case he should be tempted to pull her into his arms he returned to his horse and to Aragorn. The two men embraced, silently – all that they needed to say had already been said. Imrahil dismounted and put his arms around his new young friend. “Take care, Éomer, but do not worry over overmuch. The future will be good for you.

Éomer smiled, he knew with some new certainty, that it would.

To be concluded.  

This was only ever meant to cover Éomer’s eight days in Minas Tirith, but for those who like the ends tied up – a very short epilogue will follow in the next few days. LBJ

Chapter 14 – Epilogue

Edoras  

14 August 3019

Meduseld would, no doubt, seem very quiet now. Éomer watched as the tail end of the party crossed the Snowbourne and started off across the grassland. He wondered if the Golden Hall would ever again play host to such an exalted and varied gathering. Certainly Galadriel, Celeborn and Elrond would never return. More upsetting to him, however, was the possibility that he had talked to Gandalf for the last time. The wizard had been very non-committal about the likelihood of ever returning to Edoras, but he hoped that perhaps the istar would turn up one day, just as he had always done before.

However, his home would not return to normal quite yet. Éomer set his gaze to his right. Two women were standing there: both had their eyes fixed on the column of travellers which was now disappearing into the early morning mist that hugged the plains in late summer. They had their backs to him and, from this angle, they both looked alike: they were the same height; they were both slim; they both had black hair - today it was worn loose and long - and they were both wearing blue dresses. He knew that if they turned around, then they would still look very alike: they were both beautiful; they both had fine sculpted bone structure; they both had shapely well formed lips and they both had grey eyes. But that was where they differed: one set of eyes held quiet amusement and were as wise and as old as time and the other sparkled with the joy and laughter of youth and living. One set belonged to an elven Queen who had chosen mortality and the other to a Gondorian princess, who reputedly had elven ancestors, and would soon, hopefully, be changing one life for another.

As he stood quietly watching them, the princess placed her hand on the queen’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze and turned and started walking towards him. He forced down the inevitable hot rush of desire that flooded through him as he admired the easy elegant way she did a simple thing like putting one foot in front of the other. Standing on such public view - the top of the steps outside the Golden Hall - was not a good place to have to deal with that kind of response to her, especially as her father, her brothers, her cousin and his sister were standing just a little way to his left. 

“Is Arwen all right?” he asked as she approached him.

Lothíriel nodded, “Yes, I think so, but I feel she needs to be alone for a while. It cannot be easy for her. I thought she might have gone with them, then at least she would have been with her husband when it was time to say goodbye to her father and grandparents.”

“I don’t know why they decided to say their goodbyes here, but Aragorn will be back in not much more than a sennight. We will have to keep her company until then.” He looked across to Arwen who was still gazing northwest. “But I agree: she probably needs to be alone for a while. So,” he paused, “as everyone else can look after themselves…then will you come for a walk with me?”

A grin touched her lips, “Do you mean just you and me?”

“I do, and what’s more I shall make sure of it.” Being alone had been more difficult that he had ever imagined. And he couldn’t just blame her brothers - with all the guests, staying inside the hall, and camping in and around Edoras– it had been well nigh impossible. There had been nowhere to be alone. But this time he was determined to enjoy more than the odd few minutes he had managed so far. He flashed her a challenging grin, “I am going to ask your father.”

She did not answer but just caught her bottom lip with even white teeth and raised her dark eyebrows provocatively. Éomer turned to his left and was relieved to see that Amrothos and Erchirion and already gone back inside, probably to find something to eat. They had just managed to be up, after the frolicking of the night before, in time to join in the farewells. Éowyn and Faramir had also stared to wander away and Imrahil was standing on his own, looking pensive. Leaving Lothíriel where she was, Éomer strolled over to her father. The older man did not notice him coming.

“Imrahil!”  The prince gave a definite small jump and Éomer wondered what he had been thinking about.

“Sorry, Éomer.” My mind was elsewhere.

“No matter, I just wanted to ask if you would object if I took Lothíriel for a walk. Only down to the Snowbourne,” he clarified.

Imrahil slanted him a slightly amused look, “I can hardly refuse after what you told me last night, can I?”

Éomer laughed, “I was counting on that.”

“Well, go on then. I am happy and I will try and convince my two suspicious sons that they have nothing to worry about.”

“You do that,” said Éomer as he turned to return to Lothíriel. She was looking expectant when he reached her but he said nothing, just took her hand and drew it through his arm to lead her down the steps.

“He doesn’t mind?”

“No, he doesn’t seem to.”

They reached the bottom of the steps and started down the main way towards the gate. A lot of the citizens were still hanging about passing the time of day. Virtually everybody in Edoras had come out of their homes to pay their respects to the cavalcade of hobbits, elves and men, not to mention a wizard and one dwarf, as they left Edoras to return to their various homes. Éomer knew that by walking alone with Imrahil’s daughter he would be sparking some interest and speculation. Not that he cared: they had better get used to it.

“We seem to be under a lot of scrutiny,” Lothíriel remarked.

“They are looking at you,” he said. “I doubt they have ever seen anyone so beautiful.”

He wasn’t looking directly at her but he could almost feel her amazement before she said, “It cannot be that. They have had Arwen to look at this past week. Every woman is eclipsed by the Queen of Gondor. And even by her grandmother,” Lothíriel added as an afterthought.”

Éomer almost stopped momentarily but quickly picked up his step again, this time he did look at her. “Let me tell you that I consider you to be more than a match for Arwen or any other woman.”

Lothíriel burst out laughing, which wasn’t quite the response he had thought she would make. It was actually quite a long time before she could stop giggling. “That is very noble of you, but I think you must be slightly…biased…shall we say.”

“I am not biased and I do consider Arwen to be quite lovely but…” he sought for words.  “She is sort of translucent. Almost unreal, in fact. You are solid flesh and blood, and I suppose I am more comfortable with that. Anyway,” he grinned suddenly, “Lady Galadriel is even more unearthly and Gimli has really not quite forgiven me for choosing Arwen over her.”

“Oh,” Lothíriel laughed again. “I heard him pestering you for a decision in Minas Tirith. “You were brave to contradict him.”

“Not brave enough to say I preferred you, though.”

She never made any comment, probably, Éomer thought, because they had reached the gate and one of the guards was walking towards them. He forestalled him. “I am just going down to the Snowbourne. No farther.”

“Very well, my Lord King,” the man answered. “The area was patrolled not an hour ago. You should be safe.”

“Thank you, I am sure I shall be,” Éomer replied rather sardonically.  He guided her to the left, around the edge of the dyke before taking a narrow path that led directly down to the river. “Éothain has them all primed,” he explained to Lothíriel when he was sure they were out of earshot. “I think I told you that I am hardly allowed to go anywhere on my own at the moment.” He thought she remembered the conversation quite well as a slight blush rose in her cheeks. He moved her cool hand from his arm and instead clasped it in his own warm one. “Which leads me on to why I have brought you down here.” Conveniently, they had reached the cover of some large bushes and without bothering to explain any more Éomer stopped and pulled her into his arms. Restraining himself with considerable difficulty he smoothed her hair back from her face and looked her straight in the eyes before dropping his lips to hers and indulging in a very satisfactory deep kiss. “Will you marry me?” he whispered as their lips parted.

A smile hovered around her lips for a while before she answered, it must have only been a moment but it seemed an age. “I said I would that night in Minas Tirith and as I promised then: I have not changed my mind.”

He let out a sigh of relief although he had expected nothing else - after the conversations they had had; the very infrequent stolen kisses and the surreptitious hand squeezing they had indulged in over the past weeks.  He pulled her against his chest, holding her so tightly that she had to struggle to get the next words out.

 “After the three weeks of the journey and the time spent in Edoras I feel I know you and your kinsmen much better now. That has only made me more sure.”

“Good, then I can put your father out of his misery.” He didn’t let he go but released his hold a little and stood with both his arms lightly around her.

“Éomer, he hasn’t spoken to you.” She sounded cross, indignation clearly showing on her face as she looked up to him.

He gave a soft laugh. “Don’t be angry with him. He tried to be very diplomatic. Evidently he had noticed that we were spending a lot of time talking to one another and seemed to be getting on well. Then he said that you appeared to be happy here and it was a pity you had to go home soon.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I suppose I gave in. I said that I would quite like to ask you to return – permanently – but it looked as if I was never going to get the opportunity of putting the question to you.”

She giggled softly. “So that is why he let me come down here with you. He has made no secret of the fact that this is what he wants. In fact,” she hesitated, “that is why I would not come to Cormallen.”

“Ah…I did wonder…” Éomer mused thoughtfully. “I wondered if you had received a summons.”

“Well, he didn’t put it in so many words,” she laughed softly. “But he must have made it plain to Elphir because Melina, my sister-in-law, told me. It made me determined not to fall in with any plans of that sort but when Amrothos begged me to accompany Nienna, well, I couldn’t refuse him.”

“Being that you love him more than any other being?” He couldn’t help adding that.

“Now you are fishing,” she grinned up at him. But then her face became more serious. “I couldn’t understand it,” she said as though she doubted herself. “It was instant…the attraction, I mean, from the moment first I saw you. It started when you approached the city.”

Éomer could totally understand it, since the same thing had happened to him, and he showed, and told her, that he felt the same way. When they broke apart from whispering endearments that effectively sealed the bond between them she started on one of her soft giggles. “Not knowing that we had already committed ourselves, I think my father thought his plans were doomed to failure.”

“I admit he did look rather relieved last night,” Éomer muttered, as he ran his hands up and down her back.

“It sounds as if he can’t wait to get rid of me.”

The Lord of the Mark, deciding conversation could wait, brought his hands up to her face. He just had to kiss her again. “I hope that’s true. We can be married fairly soon, if that’s the case.”

“Well, Midsummer’s Day is an auspicious day for a wedding.”

“What!” He almost shouted, and then he saw her lips quivering with the effort of trying not to laugh. He laughed himself. “If you think that I am waiting until then to marry you then you are very much mistaken, my lady. I have promised to take Éowyn to Faramir early in the year. As soon as the roads are open for travel, in fact. Let me tell you that I have every intention of bringing you back with me.” He lowered his lips and gently grazed them over hers. “That is if you do not object.”

She answered by wrapping her arms around his neck and making sure that he totally understood her feelings on such an important matter.

Fini - thanks for reading.