Prologue: Of Kings and Queens

3019. This year died Théoden, King of the Mark, who was the son of King Thengel and the last of his line. On the Fields of the Pelennor he named his sister-son Éomer his heir and hailed him King of the Eorlingas.

(The Chronicle of the Riddermark)

Edoras, August of Third Age 3019.

There were no rats in the dungeons of Meduseld. Indeed there were no proper dungeons in Meduseld at all, just a small guardhouse set a little apart halfway down the hill from the Golden Hall. All it boasted were a couple of rooms where prisoners could be kept and when there were none of those, as now, it just stood empty. Justice in the Mark was swift and whatever malefactors were caught, were not kept up locked for long.

Éomer regarded the bare little room that had served as his cell a mere five months ago. The pale moonlight streaming through the small window high up one wall let him pick out its sparse furnishings. Not that he needed any light anyway, for he knew intimately every last unevenness of the earthen floor, having paced the length of his cell innumerable times. He took a step into the room and reached out a hand to touch the wall. It was rough and cold under his fingers.

His guards had been deeply uneasy at having to keep him prisoner and had apologized profusely for the thin straw pallet on the floor and the meagre rations. Éomer could probably have talked them into letting him escape, but something had told him to stay and bide his time. He had been proven right by events eventually, but those had been dark and desperate times.

When he had been released, he had expected to lay down his life for his king in one of the many battles to come. It was ironic that instead he had survived the war without a scratch and the mantle of kingship had passed to him.

Behind him the door creaked and he spun round, his reflexes honed by years of living with the constant threat of having an assassin’s knife planted in his back. He relaxed again almost immediately, though, when he recognized his sister’s slender figure. She was holding an oil lamp aloft and peered at him worriedly.

“Éomer?” she asked. “Éothain said you had come this way. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Just thinking.”

Behind her, he could make out Faramir, his black hair blending into the shadows, and he exchanged a curt nod of acknowledgement with the Prince of Ithilien.

“So what were you thinking about?” Éowyn enquired, not one to give up easily.

He spread his hands. “The past and the future.”

When Éowyn kept on frowning at him, he elaborated. “Less than half a year ago I was a prisoner here and now I am King of the Mark.”

Faramir’s eyes widened at this revelation, but apart from surveying the room with renewed interest, he showed no other reaction. Éomer wondered idly if there were rats in the dungeons of Minas Tirith. Then he noticed the worry in his sister’s eyes and felt remorse sweep through him. They had buried their uncle today, yet this was also supposed to be a happy day for Éowyn, with her betrothal to Faramir formally announced.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I dwell on the past too much.”

Especially when he had no way to change it. Resolutely he turned his back on the room and motioned to the door.

“Let’s go somewhere else and talk about the future. Your future,” he said, smiling down at Éowyn.

She smiled back gratefully and together they made their way out of the silent guardhouse. Outside he paused for a moment, surveying the houses spread out below them. There was hardly any breeze and he could feel the stones under his thin-soled shoes radiating the heat they had stored during the day. Over the mountains to the south there were a few clouds, but overhead the stars sparkled like a wealth of diamonds scattered across the sky by a careless child.

The distant sounds of revelry carried on the tepid night air, singing and music, and the narrow streets of Edoras were alight with torches. Automatically he checked for any fires that were too close to the thatched roofs of houses, but all was well. Anyway, there were wooden butts filled with water placed at every crossroad in case of fire - in the past they had also come in useful for cooling tempers if a fight erupted.

However, tonight all was peaceful and after a last glance around he led the way further up the hill towards the Golden Hall. It too was ablaze with lights, and Éomer knew that inside was assembled a company the like of which had never been seen since the days it had been built by Brego, son of Eorl. Nevertheless he hesitated at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, and then turned left along a narrow path that led to the kitchen building.

It had been busy with the preparation of food earlier on, but now lay quiet, the servants having joined the celebrations below. Ale and beer would be flowing freely in Meduseld tonight, but the big casks had been brought up some days ago and had been placed right in the hall.

Outside the kitchen was a large trestle table, and Éomer and Faramir sat down at one end while Éowyn went inside. She reappeared a short time later with three cups filled with wine, which she placed on the rough wooden boards. By habit Éomer had taken a seat on the bench facing the view, with the wall behind him. He met his sister’s eyes and saw reflected there the shared memory of the many times they had sat here with their cousin. Never again, though, for Théodred had fallen at the Fords of the Isen, defending his people against the armies of Saruman.

Éomer lifted his pewter cup, and noticed it was the one with the dent from when Théodred had thrown it on the floor in a fit of disgust at one of Gríma Wormtongue’s machinations. A sudden jolt of rage ran though him. Over half a year ago, yet somehow the memory never got any easier to bear.

“To absent friends,” he said and drank deeply.

There was a brief flash of grief across Faramir’s face as he echoed his words and Éomer reminded himself that he was not the only one to loose loved ones in the war. The wine was so dark it was almost black and Faramir lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“Where did you get this vintage?” he asked Éowyn. “Surely this is finest Moragar from Dol Amroth.”

“It’s one of the wines Prince Imrahil brought with him,” Éowyn explained. “I thought it fitting for the occasion.”

“Well, it’s not every day you bury a king,” Éomer remarked, “at least I hope so.”

Then he intercepted an annoyed look by his sister and chided himself for brooding once more.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Let’s talk of happier things.”

Éowyn had settled down next to Faramir and now nestled closer to him. With a slightly wary glance towards him, Faramir put his arm around her waist and Éomer had to suppress a grin. Was the man afraid he would take exception to how he treated his sister? They were in the Riddermark and it was entirely up to Éowyn how many liberties she granted her betrothed.

Slightly cheered, he swirled the wine round in his cup and took another sip of the rich, red liquid.

“I know it’s early, “ he said, “but have you thought of a date and place for your wedding yet?”

The two exchanged a look, and Éomer was unsurprised when Faramir nodded.

“As a matter of fact we have,” the Prince of Ithilien answered. “We were thinking of Emyn Arnen in spring.”

“Spring?” Éomer asked. “Not before? You are aware of the fact that the Rohirrim do not insist on the lengthy betrothal period customary in Gondor?”

“I know,” Faramir said, “and I wish we could get married sooner.”

He took one of Éowyn’s hands in his own. “But I have no home to offer to my lady. The house in Emyn Arnen was burnt down by orcs, and it will take several months to rebuild.”

“Besides which,” Éowyn put in, “I am not going to leave you to cope with the coming winter all on your own.”

Éomer could not help but feel grateful for this news. He had not looked forward to long winter evenings in Meduseld, spent all on his own except for the company of his riders. Nevertheless he did not want to stand in the way of his sister’s happiness.

“I can manage,” he protested. “You do not have to delay your wedding for my sake.”

Éowyn shook her head, the stubborn expression that he knew of old on her face.

“Spring it is. We can wait.”

“Barely,” Faramir threw in and the two exchanged a grin.

“Well, I can’t deny that I’ll be grateful for your help,” Éomer admitted. “I have to own that being a king is more work than I anticipated.”

“Considering that with your travelling all over the Riddermark, you’ve not really spent any time here in Edoras, that’s hardly surprising,” Éowyn pointed out.

“I had to see for myself what damage we sustained,” he explained.

Faramir leaned forward with concern. “Is it very bad?” he asked.

Éomer nodded grimly. “Most of the wheat fields in the West Mark were burnt down or trampled by orcs. Come harvest time we will see how much we can salvage.”

The traitor Saruman had of course known that this was their most fertile country, supplying much of the rest of the Mark with grain. Éomer did not relish the thought of having to beg Aragorn for aid to survive the winter, although he knew that the King of Gondor would be more than willing to help. Still, it might not come to that.

“We defeated Saruman against all the odds, we will manage somehow,” he vowed.

Faramir looked down at his wine guiltily. “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said. “I’m sorry to come here and further diminish your meagre supplies.”

Éomer shook his head. “Don’t feel guilty. After all the hardships we have endured, my people can do with something to celebrate.”

Besides, the Gondorians had brought a lot of supplies with them. Éomer suspected that Aragorn had a pretty good idea of how things stood in the Mark. He smiled at his sister.

“The Eorlingas are well pleased to see their White Lady find a husband so much to her liking, even if it means her moving away.”

Éowyn blushed. “That might be so. But they would be even more pleased to have their king find a wife.”

He sighed. They had covered this ground more than once in the past months.

“I know,” he said, “and I will do my duty.”

“Your duty?” she leaned forward. “Éomer, in your travels over the Riddermark haven’t you met anybody you could give your heart to?”

“You know it’s not that easy,” he frowned. “There are the political considerations to take into account as well.”

“What political considerations?” asked Faramir, and Éowyn made an impatient gesture.

“The last queen hailed from the West Mark, so the people of the East Mark insist the next one should be one of them. On the other hand our father’s family comes from there, so that isn’t entirely fair either.”

“But,” she insisted, “we all know, should Éomer make up his mind as to whom to marry, nobody will gainsay him.”

“That might well be so,” he conceded, “but the point is that I haven’t made up my mind. Anyway, I’ve recently come to the conclusion it is better to marry a Gondorian.”

“A Gondorian?” his sister straightened up. “Éomer, did you meet someone in Minas Tirith during the war?”

“How could I? The women were all sent to safety,” he explained patiently.

“From what I’ve heard, they all came back well in time for the celebrations in Cormallen,” his sister retorted acidly and beside her Faramir gave a snort of amusement.

Éomer shrugged. “I was simply too busy organizing our journey back to notice much.”

Éowyn looked disappointed. “So you do not have any particular lady in mind?”

“None at all,” he shook his head. “I just think that we need closer ties to Gondor in the future, to strengthen our alliance. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I like black hair.”

Éowyn ignored that last sally. “Closer ties with Gondor!” she exclaimed. “Is that all you can think of?”

“What else should I think of?” he snapped back, only to feel sorry at once for his spark of temper. He knew his sister meant well and worried about him.

Anyway, Éowyn was unimpressed by his outburst. “Perhaps your heart,” she replied tartly. “After all, here we are talking about the woman that you are going to spend the rest of your life with.”

She cast a look of appeal for help at her betrothed, but Faramir hesitated.

“Your brother is King of Rohan now, Éowyn,” he said, “and he does have to marry for reasons of state. But that does not necessarily mean an unhappy marriage.”

Éowyn looked unconvinced. Éomer knew she was still stubbornly hoping for him to make the same kind of love match as herself, unlikely though that was.

Faramir took another appreciative sip of wine. “What kind of qualities are you looking for in your queen exactly?” he asked.

“Besides black hair, that is,” Éowyn grumbled.

Éomer frowned. “I have given the matter some thought,” he explained, “for I want a queen worthy of my country, someone who understands the duties and burdens of being a ruler.”

He could see Éowyn rolling her eyes in exasperation, but ploughed on determinedly. “She should be able to run Meduseld smoothly, be dignified yet diplomatic, and have the necessary firmness to rule in my stead when I’m away: a gracious hostess and always courteous in her dealings with my people.”

His mental vision of a tall and regal figure was interrupted rudely by a disgusted snort of Éowyn’s. “And I suppose this flower of Gondorian womanhood should be beautiful, graceful and versed in all the womanly arts as well?”

Éomer could feel irritation rising again. “Well and what’s wrong with that?” he asked. “I need a queen and mother for my heir, so why not select a suitably brought up Gondorian lady?”

“Oh, Éomer!” Éowyn exclaimed. “That sounds so cold-blooded and mercenary, it’s utterly unlike you.”

Éomer felt a wave of sadness pour through him. “I am king now, whether I want it or not,” he pointed out. “I have to put the good of the Riddermark first. Anyway, I’m nearly thirty and I simply cannot afford to sit around another ten years, waiting for the woman of my dreams to show up.”

Éowyn looked distressed. “I know,” she conceded. “But I’m warning you,” she added, “if this paragon is even expert at sewing, I won’t attend your wedding.”

Beside her, Faramir gave a laugh. “I’m afraid all the Gondorian ladies are expert at that,” he said apologetically and Éowyn looked thoroughly disgusted. Her embroidery samplers were legendary. Éomer wondered what Gondor’s court ladies, who never wielded anything sharper than a needle, would make of the slayer of the Witch King.

Faramir turned his cup round in his hands thoughtfully. “Have you spoken to my uncle about your plans?” he asked Éomer.

“As a matter of fact, I have spoken to Imrahil,” Éomer nodded, “but I was rather puzzled by his reaction.”

“In what way?” asked the other man.

Éomer thought back to his conversation with the Prince of Dol Amroth. “Well, I remembered he had once mentioned having a daughter, and I asked if she was of marriageable age. After all, she might well be a suitable candidate for an alliance, but he seemed rather put out by my question.”

“Oh, you mean Lothíriel,” Faramir said, as if that explained everything. “No, what I wanted to say was that he knows the court well and might be able to advise you.”

Éowyn, who had sat brooding over her wine, looked up at that. “What’s wrong with the Princess of Dol Amroth?” she asked. “Surely she’s very well connected?”

Faramir hesitated. “That’s true, of course, none better, but…What did my uncle tell you?” he asked.

“Only that she never leaves Dol Amroth,” Éomer replied, his own curiosity stirring.

Faramir stared down at his wine. “That’s quite true, although I suppose she could do so now. Imrahil is very protective of her.”

“Why?” Éowyn asked, but Faramir shook his head.

“It’s for her own good, but that is not for me to tell,” her betrothed replied firmly. “However, she would certainly not make a suitable queen for your brother.”

“Why not?” Éowyn insisted and Éomer privately wondered if the princess was ugly and deformed, or mentally deranged.

“Lothíriel is a sweet girl, but she is rather…unusual. Let’s just say that she’s not what your brother is looking for. If you ever meet her, you will understand.”

“Well, I’m hardly likely to, if she never leaves Dol Amroth,” Éowyn pointed out acerbically and Faramir could only shrug for a reply. She gave him a searching look and Éomer rather suspected that she would worm the truth out of her betrothed eventually. There wasn’t much that could stop his sister, once her curiosity was aroused. For himself, Éomer had rather lost interest in the subject. After all it was none of his business how Imrahil ordered the affairs of his family. He had more pressing concerns.

“I will talk to Imrahil again and ask him his opinion,” he nodded at Faramir. “Anyway, I’m sure all the suitable ladies will be in attendance when you get married in spring.”

“And all the unsuitable ones,” he heard Éowyn mutter under her breath, but aloud she only said, “Just make sure it’s someone who would be comfortable sitting here and sharing a cup of Moragar wine with us.”

Éomer let his hands rest for a moment on the rough wooden boards of their makeshift table. Somehow he couldn’t quite picture the kind of woman he was considering as a queen sitting here outside the lowly kitchen, drinking from an old dented cup. Even if was the finest wine Gondor had to offer. He felt a slight shiver of unease, but dismissed it as fanciful. He was king now; he just had to accept that his life had changed irrevocably. There was no use in looking back at the past in regret all the time.

To the west, the moon was setting behind the gathering clouds. They had started to pile up above the mountains, threatening rain, but by the time the first fat drops started to fall on Edoras the celebration was over. By then the King of Rohan had long ago sought the comfort of his lonely bed. But later, the sound of rivulets of rain running off the eves of Meduseld woke him from his dreams, and it was a long time before sleep claimed him again.

A/N: So here we go again! Many thanks to Lady Bluejay and Willow-41z for their comments and looking through this for me.

The White City

In the year 2002 of the Third Age, Minas Ithil was captured by the captain of the ring wraiths, the nazgûl, and from then on was known as Minas Morgul and became a place of fear and dread. As the shadow lengthened, Minas Arnor was renamed Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard, for the constant vigilance against the threat of Mordor, and ever after it bore the brunt of the Enemy’s hatred.

(Turgon: A brief history of Gondor)

Minas Tirith, May of Third Age 3020.

A jolt ran through the ship as it touched its berth and the sailors called out to the dockhands to fasten the ropes that had been thrown down. Lothíriel stayed well out of the way of the men rushing about, intent on their tasks. However, she had no intention of going down to her stuffy little cabin again. Anyway, she had been evicted from it by her maid, who was getting their things ready for disembarkation. They had been favoured with a following wind all morning and were just about to dock at the Harlond: the busy harbour that served the White City.

Filled with excitement, she grabbed the railing more tightly and took a deep breath. Gone was the tang of salt and gone were the plaintive cries of the sea gulls. Instead the air was filled with the high squeaks of the swallows that made their nests under the eaves of the houses of Minas Tirith, and the cool green smell of the river was overlaid with that of freshly mown hay. After an absence of eight years she was finally coming back to the place she loved.

Lothíriel had grown up in the most beautiful city of Gondor, in the high-vaulted and elegant halls of the palace of the Princes of Dol Amroth. Cooled by sea breezes in the summer and blessed with a temperate climate in the winter, her native city had long been acknowledged as the fairest dwelling place in the realm of Gondor. Lothíriel’s room had faced west, overlooking the ever-changing waters of the Bay of Belfalas, shading from blue to green to molten gold as the day progressed. Indeed the sea longing should have been bred into her very bones. But instead the first time she had visited Minas Tirith as a small child, she had lost her heart to the White City.

The oppressive heat in the summer months and the cold winds that buffeted it the rest of the time had never bothered her. Even the ever-present threat of the Enemy had not affected her, for she had been convinced that nothing could ever defeat her splendid cousins Boromir and Faramir, who sometimes could be persuaded to give a grubby little princess a ride on their magnificent horses. Now those days were gone forever, of course, with Faramir getting ready to marry and settle down in Southern Ithilien and Boromir dying far from the home he loved. With an effort, Lothíriel banished these sad thoughts. She was determined not to let anything spoil the occasion of her return to Minas Tirith.

“Excited, little sister?”

She turned to her brother Amrothos, who had come up behind her unnoticed and nodded, too preoccupied to protest at his calling her little. The shortest of Prince Imrahil’s offspring, she had long ago given up the hope for a further growth spurt and had resigned herself to being no more than middling tall, a fact about which her brothers liked to tease her. Now she reached for Amrothos’s arm.

“Can we alight yet?” she asked.

“Oh, I think so,” he replied. “Let’s have a look if father has sent somebody to greet us. After all, we’re expected.”

He took her by the arm and helped her down the steep steps from the forecastle to the main deck. Here the gangway had already been deployed, but Lothíriel had to curb her impatience while they took their leave of the captain. Finally all the pleasantries had been exchanged and their good-byes said. He insisted on carefully escorting her off his ship himself, for as he pointed out, the wood of the gangway was slippery. For once she didn’t mind as much as she usually would have, because she was simply too eager to set foot on land again. As it happened, she was even grateful for it, because at first the land had the alarming tendency to sway under her feet and it took her a moment to find her balance.

Then somebody called her name and without warning she was enveloped in a bear hug.

“Elphir!” she exclaimed rather breathlessly, recognising her eldest brother at once, and hugging him back as hard as she could.

It had been over a year since that terrible day when her father and brothers had left Dol Amroth to join the defence of Minas Tirith against Sauron’s forces and he had not been home since. He had suffered an injury in the final battle at the Black Gate, and although he had written to say that he had recovered, it was not the same as actually being able to touch him again and to hear his voice.

“Did you have a good journey?” he asked, letting go of her at last.

Lothíriel took a much-needed breath of air. Her brother sometimes underestimated his own strength.

“Thoroughly boring,” she said and smiled up at him.

“Our sister was disappointed we didn’t encounter any corsairs and weren’t swept off to uncharted waters by freak storms,” Amrothos joked.

“You have no sense of adventure,” she shot back, causing Elphir to laugh.

“I can see you two are still bickering away like an old, married couple,” he said, “it seems some things at least never change. Let’s get the horses and we can talk some more on the way.”

Lothíriel wondered what horse they would produce for her, but she did know that it was bound to be the oldest and most lethargic animal in her father’s stable. No doubt she would make herself a complete laughingstock, riding between her brothers on their purebred warhorses. However, once he had mounted, her eldest brother told Amrothos to toss her up behind him.

“I’ve brought your special pad and you can ride pillion behind me,” he told her, “Herefara won’t mind carrying double.”

“Herefara?” she queried as she arranged her skirts and then slipped her arm around his waist, “What kind of name is that?”

“Rohirric,” Elphir explained. “The horse was a gift from King Éomer.”

“How come the King of Rohan has given you a horse for a gift?” she asked. “I thought the Rohirrim hardly ever parted with them.”

“Actually it was a gift for father,” Elphir explained, “but you know how attached he is to Swift, he would never ride another horse. I think it was meant to express King Éomer’s gratitude.”

Lothíriel felt a twinge of guilt when she thought of Swift’s predecessor, dead these eight years, who had been equally beloved.

“Gratitude for what?” she asked.

“For all the grain we sent them over the past winter. The Rohirrim would have had a hard time without it.”

“I see.”

Since she had nothing to do with the running of Dol Amroth, she had not been aware that the wagonloads full of supplies being sent to Minas Tirith over the winter had been meant for the Rohirrim.

“He’s beautiful,” Amrothos remarked, and there was a hint of envy in his voice.

While they exchanged opinions of all the finer points of the gelding, Lothíriel let her mind wander. Herefara, she repeated to herself. The name had a foreign ring, making her think of wide, open grasslands and charging bands of riders with their blond hair flowing behind them in the wind. She did not say anything, though, for Amrothos liked nothing better than to tease her about her predilection for listening to stories of the Ring War.

They soon left the bustle of the busy port behind them and the talk turned to family matters. Elphir’s wife and young son had taken refuge in Dol Amroth during the war, but had now moved back into the town house situated on the Sixth Level.

“Annarima has gone to visit her mother for the day and has taken Alphros with her,” he explained, “but they will be back for the evening meal. You can have a rest while I go and fetch them.”

Lothíriel knew it was useless to point out that she did not feel tired at all and had every intention of exploring her old home, so she just made an affirmative sound.

“It’s wonderful to be back after such a long time,” she said.

“The house hasn’t changed much,” Elphir told her, “so you won’t have any trouble finding your way about it.”

She nodded. “What about the city, though,” she asked. “Father said that there is a lot of building going on?”

“That’s true,” her brother replied. “King Elessar is determined to repopulate Minas Tirith and many of the empty and ruined houses are being restored.”

Lothíriel tried to imagine the city returned to its former glory, but could not quite manage it. The abandoned houses with their neglected, overgrown gardens had been their favourite playgrounds as children. Maybe her love for Minas Tirith came from the fact that here, they had been able to play truant and disappear for whole afternoons at a stretch from the stern eye of authority.

It was a warm day and with the sun beating down on her unprotected head and back, she soon became aware of the fact that she was dressed far too warmly in her leather riding habit. At least the way from the Harlond to the Great Gates was not far, but before long a pervasive stench started to fill the air. Lothíriel wrinkled her nose and shifted on the saddle. She had forgotten that the tanneries were situated outside the southern wall, where the stink of rotting hides and stale urine would not bother the inhabitants of Minas Tirith.

“Welcome to the beauteous White City,” Amrothos remarked. “It’s a shame the orcs did not do a better job of destroying these huts, but maybe the smell was too much even for them.”

Elphir laughed. “There was talk of rebuilding them closer to the river, but the tanners did not want to live too far away from the safety of the city walls.”

Lothíriel shuddered. “Well, I can’t blame them. It’s hard to believe that the threat of the Enemy is finally over. Is it true that the whole of the Pelennor was filled by the orc host?”

“Not all of it,” Elphir answered. “They were mostly massed to the east and south of the gate, ready for the final assault.”

Amrothos spoke up. “I remember standing at the lookout on the Seventh Level and seeing nothing but a sea of black, except for the thousands of torches they carried.”

The lookout had been one of her favourite places, for it offered an unrivalled view of the green fields running down to the Anduin and the mountains behind them. She and Amrothos had been banned from it, though, after they had been caught one summer spitting cherry stones down on the men guarding the main gates seven hundred feet bellow them. Her uncle Denethor had not been amused and for the rest of the summer they had had to supply the guards on duty with water. Not that she had minded in the end, for the men had turned out to know the most interesting stories about the people who passed through the gates every day.

“Did you see the Rohirrim charge?” she asked.

“That was later,” he replied. “I was on my way down to the gates by then. But I heard their horns, surely the most welcome sound in my entire life.”

She had heard of the great horns of the North blowing as the day broke over the Pelennor Fields and gave a sigh. “I wish I’d been there.”

“Oh, I know, I would have been scared witless,” she added, before either of her brothers could reply to this, “but I would still have liked to witness it. The coming of the Rohirrim, the slaying of the Witch King, mûmakil…”

“If I’d known, I would have kept a mûmak for you,” Amrothos remarked dryly, “but they are rather expensive to feed.”

Elphir snorted with amusement. “Believe me, little sister, you were much better off staying in Dol Amroth. Even Lady Éowyn nearly died that day, and she’s a shield maiden of Rohan.”

His voice held that mix of awe and admiration that even her father betrayed at the mere mention of the name of Faramir’s future wife. It was strange to think that a completely unknown woman from the north and a decisive moment on the battlefield should eventually lead to her own return to Minas Tirith.

“Have the Rohirrim arrived for the wedding yet?” she asked Elphir.

“Some days ago. They have set up an encampment to the north of the city, just inside the Rammas Echor.”

She felt a frisson of nervousness run down her spine. “Are there lots of guests expected?”

“Oh yes,” Elphir laughed. “The city is bursting at the seams with visitors and according to King Éomer, half of Rohan has decided to attend.”

Involuntarily she tightened her hold around his waist, apprehensive at the thought of so many unknown eyes watching her. Knowing herself, she would probably spill wine down the bride’s dress at the climax of the ceremony. For a moment she almost wished herself back in the safety of Dol Amroth, but then sternly banished that thought. After all, she had wanted to return to Minas Tirith, and if this was the price she had to pay, she would do so.

“Don’t worry, Lothíriel,” Amrothos said gently, “You’ll manage fine.”

She wondered what he had read in her face. Schooling her features had always been more difficult for her than controlling her voice.

“So it’s true then?” Elphir asked. “Lady Éowyn has requested you to be her witness at the wedding?”

“She has,” Lothíriel confirmed.

“Father wasn’t too well pleased,” Amrothos chuckled, “but what could he do when the slayer of the Witch King herself specifically asked for Lothíriel.”

“I can imagine,” Elphir agreed. “Do you know what made her ask for you, though?”

“I haven’t got the faintest idea,” Lothíriel admitted.

“Does she know about…” his voice trailed off.

“I imagine Faramir would have told her,” Lothíriel replied repressively.

At least she hoped so, or Lady Éowyn would get a bit of a surprise when she met her for the first time. After all, she did not want to spoil the other woman’s wedding, especially as she felt deeply grateful for the opportunity of returning to Minas Tirith again. After her father had had that dreadful quarrel with her uncle, she had not thought she would ever again do so.

As they neared the Great Gates that marked the entrance to the city, the press of people on the road thickened and they had to slow the horses. From the clipped accents of the inhabitants of Minas Tirith to the slow drawl of the south, every possible variation of Westron could be heard, and every now and again she even caught a snatch of a foreign language.

“What are all those colourful tents straight ahead?” Amrothos asked after a while, moving onto safer ground.

“So many people have arrived for the celebration that a impromptu fair has sprung up outside the gates,” Elphir explained.

“Oh, will you take me?” Lothíriel exclaimed in delight and both her brothers laughed.

“Only if you behave yourself,” Elphir replied with mock severity.

“But I always do,” she replied in her most dulcet tones.

Elphir just groaned. “I mean it this time, Lothíriel,” he said. “All the nobles of Gondor will be assembled at court. Don’t forget you will be seen as representing Dol Amroth.”

“I know,” she replied, affronted, “and I will comport myself with perfect decorum.”

“Well, try to stick close to Annarima and follow her lead.” Her brother didn’t sound completely convinced.

Lothíriel frowned, for she did not get along particularly well with her sister-in-law. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,” she protested.

“Just remember, you’re not in Dol Amroth. There, everybody knows you and makes allowances.”

She gritted her teeth and suppressed the sharp retort that rose to her lips. Fortunately at this point they passed the gates and at the sound of their horses’ hooves echoing back from the stone walls on either side, some of her earlier excitement came back again. Next, they turned left along the main road up to the Citadel. It would take them a while to make their way up to the Sixth Level where the town house was situated. Lothíriel knew the way by heart: every turn of the road, every fountain they would pass, every loose cobble on the way, she thought to herself. Did the numerous shortcuts across the gardens that they had often taken as children still exist, and who used them now? At least they would not have to pass the Houses of Healing. She knew that place far too well and hoped never to have to set foot inside it again.

Her brothers had fallen silent as they navigated the steadily rising road through the throng of people. Lothíriel had to admit that the gelding had a very smooth gait.

“Will I meet the King and Queen of Gondor?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night is a banquet and dance,” Elphir replied, “and I expect you’ll be introduced to them there. So remember…”

“…not to speak until spoken to, to curtsey deeply and not to introduce any topic of conversation that could be in the least controversial,” she finished his sentence for him.

“Is that correct?” she asked brightly.

Beside them, Amrothos chuckled and even Elphir was forced into a laugh. “Just remember that those two are unlike anybody else you are ever likely to meet.”

She was intrigued. “In what way?”

“Well,” he hesitated, “as you know Queen Arwen is an elf, but the king has something about him, too, like one of the Numenoreans come back in time. It’s difficult to explain,” he finished a bit sheepishly.

Lothíriel was surprised to have her matter-of-fact elder brother at a loss for words.

“Very well,” she said meekly. “I promise to behave myself. And what about the King of Rohan?”

“I suppose you’ll be introduced to him at the same time,” he said, “so keep in mind what I said about proper behaviour. We need this man’s good-will for the future.”

“I know,” she groaned. “Really, Elphir, do you have to keep harping on it?”

“I just recall what happened when Lord Pelendur visited Dol Amroth last year,” Elphir pointed out.

Lothíriel interrupted him at once. “That’s different. He deserved it!” she exclaimed.

“Even so, you were extremely rude to him, so keep a guard on your temper this time.”

“Do you know what he did?” she retorted heatedly. “He…”

“Let’s not go into the details of that old story,” Amrothos interrupted hurriedly. “After all, Lothíriel is extremely unlikely to exchange more than a couple of polite words with the King of Rohan anyway.”

“I suppose so,” Elphir conceded. “He is very much sought after.”

“Ah, so my informants were right?” Amrothos asked. “The King of Rohan is here to seek a wife?”

“Rumour has it so,” Elphir replied, “and all the ladies of the court seem to think so, anyway. The fact that he’s quite handsome as well doesn’t help either.”

“What are the odds, then?” Amrothos asked.

“The odds?” Lothíriel was rather confused.

“Some of the younger courtiers, friends of Amrothos, are betting on which of the ladies is going to capture him,” Elphir explained.

“Capture him? That sounds a bit like a hunt.” She wasn’t sure if she liked the sound of it.

“Oh, have no doubt, that’s exactly what it is,” her youngest brother drawled. “I wonder if he can hear the hounds baying at his heels yet.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help chuckling at the picture that came to mind - a pack of ladies in their court finery chasing the King of Rohan through the woods.

“What are the odds then?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

“At the moment, the favourite is Lady Wilwarin at three to one, with the others trailing close behind her,” Elphir said with a laugh. The lady in question was in fact his sister-in-law and was well known for her outstanding beauty and impeccable manners.

“Lady Wilwarin? His fate is sealed then,” Amrothos quipped.

She had to chuckle again, but at the same time she felt slightly sorry for the unknown king. After all he had rescued Minas Tirith, including her father and brothers, from the forces of Sauron. Still, she told herself, surely he could look after his own affairs and it was really none of her concern.

Then they turned the corner into the street where their house was situated and all thoughts of the King of Rohan were forgotten as the joy of coming home swept through her.

Nightfall

It is the lord’s duty to introduce himself to the lady on their first meeting. She will curtsey to him according to their rank, and should then introduce the first topic of conversation, usually the weather. Other unobjectionable topics include the harvest (unless that is likely to be poor), points of interest in their natural surroundings, or the degree of relationship between them. At all times the lady will be gracious and polite, deferring to those exceeding her in rank, age or experience.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment)

The young woman was sitting in one of the embrasures of the wall encircling the small garden. She was leaning her head back against the merlon behind her, looking out over the Pelennor.

“I’ll introduce myself,” Éomer said to the servant hovering at his side before nodding a dismissal.

“But, my Lord King…”

Maybe it was Éomer’s imagination, but it seemed to him that the servant looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“All I need is a quick word with the princess, it won’t take long,” he said and waited until the elderly man had bowed and hesitantly taken his leave.

Like many dwellings in Minas Tirith, Prince Imrahil’s house had a small garden at the back of the main building, well hidden from view from the street. And as befitted the home of the Princes of Dol Amroth, it was kept up beautifully, with gravel paths bordered by low privet hedges winding between a number of small apple and cherry trees. Suspended from the branches of the trees on thin chains were several small oil lamps that were already lit against the coming of the night.

Éomer made his way towards the small flight of steps leading up to the wall-walk and took them slowly, his gaze still trained on the figure of the princess. She hadn’t noticed him yet, perhaps being too deep in thought, and was still staring out over the view of the fields below her. Her clothing was a dull brown colour, quite unlike the bright, colourful dresses the ladies of Minas Tirith favoured in this warm weather, and sported no adornment at all.

His boots scuffed against the stone floor and she looked up at last, alerted to his presence. Hastily smoothing out her skirts, she got up and faced him.

“Who is it?” she asked and put her head to one side.

“Princess Lothíriel?” he said.

She held out a slim hand. “Yes?”

The face she lifted up to him did not confirm to the traditional Gondorian ideal of beauty. While her skin was smooth and fair and she sported the high cheekbones of the Numenoreans, the mouth was too full, the nose turned up rebelliously at the tip and the chin hinted at obstinacy. Yet he hardly noticed that, for she had the most arresting pair of eyes he had ever seen. Large and grey and framed by thick dark lashes, they looked out at the world with a slightly dreamy expression.

“May I introduce myself?” He bowed over her hand and spoke the greeting words traditional here in Gondor. “I am King Éomer of Rohan, yours to command.”

Her brows drew together and she withdrew her hand. “Right,” she snapped, “and I’m the Queen of Rohan.”

For a moment he just stared at her in complete astonishment. Then he suddenly remembered the conversation he had had with Faramir the previous summer. Hadn’t his prospective brother-in-law hinted that there was something wrong with the Princess of Dol Amroth? Did she suffer from delusions?

“I beg your pardon?” he said, still dumbfounded.

“So you should!” she exclaimed. “I’m not fooled that easily. Are you one of Amrothos’s friends?”

“Well, in a way,” Éomer replied, for he had met Prince Amrothos during the war. “I do know him of course, but I don’t see…” He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she declared in an accusing tone, “trying to trick me that way. King of Rohan indeed! Did my brother put you up to this charade?”

The girl was still frowning at him fiercely and it finally dawned on him that she doubted his identity.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but I really am King Éomer,” he replied, not sure if he should be amused or affronted at being taken for an impostor.

The princess made a gesture of denial. “Nonsense,” she replied sharply, “you sound nothing like one of the Rohirrim. My father’s stable master is from Rohan, so you needn’t think I don’t know how they speak Westron. You’re clearly from somewhere around here.”

“My grandmother hailed from Lossarnach,” he explained, “and I grew up speaking Westron as well as Rohirric.”

The princess hesitated. For the first time since the start of their conversation, she looked uncertain of her ground.

“Can you prove who you are?” she asked and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“How?” Éomer was starting to be amused. It was a novel situation to have to prove he was a king. “I haven’t got my crown with me,” he added.

“Say something in Rohirric,” she ordered him.

“Westu hal, Hlaefdige min,” he obeyed and obliged with a translation at the same time. “Which is the polite way to greet strangers in my country.”

She bit her lip. “That sounded quite authentic.”

“Thank you,” he replied gravely.

Silence descended. The princess chewed her lip and absentmindedly twisted one of the sleeves of her dress.

“You truly are King Éomer?” she finally asked in a changed tone.

“Yes.”

More silence. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and teased a strand of hair from the braid the princess had wound around her head like a crown. Deepest black, he noticed, as she brushed it out of her face. She was staring at nothing in particular, expressions of denial, consternation and then alarm chasing across her face in quick succession. He could feel one corner of his mouth starting to twitch.

“Oh no!” she suddenly exclaimed in horror. “What have I done! My father will send me back to Dol Amroth on the next ship. And I’ll never hear the end of it, once Elphir learns what I’ve said.”

The look of dismay on her face was so comical that he couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s not funny!” she snapped, only to put her hands to her mouth. “Oh no, I’ve done it again,” she said contritely. “Please forgive my rash words, my Lord King, I’m truly sorry.”

“Which ones?” he asked, “Accusing me of being an impostor or implying I should shut up?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, looking distressed, and he took pity on her.

“Your apologies are accepted, my lady, and we need not mention anything to your father,” he assured her.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She rewarded him with a smile of childlike delight, warm and open.

“Oh, thank you! I would have been devastated to have to leave Minas Tirith again so soon.”

He smiled back warmly. “It’s my fault anyway, I just have to remember to dress more impressively in the future.”

“Well, obviously that would not have helped anyway,” she said matter-of-factly, “but maybe we could just start at the beginning again?”

“The beginning? What do you mean?” From the start his conversation with the Princess of Dol Amroth had had the tendency to confuse him.

“Why yes,” she explained patiently. “Just act as if you’d just entered the garden and we’ll take it from there.”

She smiled up at him again, obviously expecting him to fall in willingly with her brilliant plan. He was beginning to see why Faramir had called her unusual.

After a moment he cleared his throat. “Very well. May I introduce myself? King Éomer of Rohan, yours to command.”

She sank into a graceful curtsey. “Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, honoured to make your acquaintance.”

He bowed over her hand once more. “My pleasure entirely.”

“Isn’t it a lovely evening,” she observed. “Such a relief after the heat of the day, don’t you think?”

“It is indeed,” he agreed.

This was more like the kind of conversation he was used to from Gondor’s ladies. Next they would probably talk about the prettily laid out garden, discuss the harvest, which was expected to be exceptionally good this year, and review the entertainments planned for the forthcoming wedding.

She sat down in the embrasure again and motioned him to take a seat as well. The sun had set behind Mount Mindolluin by now and the Pelennor below them was cast in shadows. The tents of the fair dotted the fields like small colourful mushrooms and the smoke from the many cooking fires rose in the air, only to be blown away towards the east. The princess settled herself more comfortably against the hard stone, not at all disturbed by the sheer drop of several hundred feet to her right.

“Did you come to see my father?” she enquired, still looking out over the view. “I’ve been told he’s with King Elessar at the moment, but he’s expected back for dinner, and so are my brothers. If it’s them you wanted.”

He shook his head, “I know. I saw Prince Imrahil earlier on and he mentioned that you were expected today, so I decided to visit you.”

“You came to see me?” The princess was plainly surprised. Then she froze. “She’s changed her mind, hasn’t she,” she said flatly.

“Who has changed her mind?” Bafflement seemed to have become a constant companion lately.

“Your sister of course. Please believe me, I do understand if she doesn’t want me as her witness anymore.” The princess had taken to twisting her sleeves again. “It’s all right,” she said.

Éomer stared at her. “Has nobody ever told you that you are too quick to jump to conclusions?”

“My brother Amrothos,” she admitted, “but he’s always nagging me, so…” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Are you telling me your sister hasn’t changed her mind?”

“She hasn’t,” he confirmed. “In fact she would like to meet you and has charged me to arrange for a visit to our camp, perhaps tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’d like that,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands, but then her face fell. “I will have to talk to my brothers first, to see if any of them are free to take me.”

“I can come and collect you,” he found himself offering, but she shook her head.

“My father won’t allow me to ride with anybody but my brothers,” she explained. “It wouldn’t be seemly.”

Éomer was rather startled to hear that his friend Imrahil was so strict with his daughter. He also began to suspect why his sister had chosen the Princess of Dol Amroth for a witness. Did she think here was a kindred spirit in need of rescue from a golden cage?

“I’ll talk to your father and arrange something,” he promised and was rewarded by another smile.

“That’s very kind,” she said, “and I have to say, you have such a nice voice. Do you sing?”

Éomer blinked. He had never been complimented on his voice before, and especially not by gently-reared Gondorian maidens, who were more likely to be bashful and tongue-tied in his presence. His mere name often awed them into complete silence, for there was only so much you could say about the weather.

“I do,” he laughed, “but only when riding in the safe anonymity of my éored. So I’m afraid you’re not likely to hear it.”

“That’s a shame,” she smiled. “I would have liked to.”

“Do you sing yourself?” he asked back.

The princess shook her head. “Not really, but I play the harp – at least a little.”

“Perhaps one day, you’ll do me the honour of playing for me,” he said politely.

She looked dubious. “Perhaps,” she agreed, “but I’m sure you have your own bards with you. Will they perform at the wedding?”

He nodded. “My uncle’s bard has retired, but my own bard Cadda has accompanied us and will do the honours.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

He had to smile at her enthusiasm, but at that moment there was loud barking from the direction of the house and somebody shouted her name. He was on his feet and had spun towards this possible threat, his hand at the hilt of his sword, before she had done more than straighten up. It seemed his reflexes were still as sharp as they had ever been.

A big, grey, shaggy dog was loping across the garden, followed close behind by the figure of a young boy. He relaxed as he recognised Alphros, Prince Elphir’s son, but did take a step forward in concern when the dog raced up the steps to the wall-walk and jumped up at the princess, nearly toppling her off her seat on the wall. She just laughed and gently fended off the dog’s affectionate advances.

“Is that you, Ernil?” she asked, “I think you’ve grown again!”

Then the boy reached them and threw himself into her arms as well.

“Aunt Lothíriel,” he shouted, “you’ve arrived at last! I’ve got something really important to tell you.”

She knelt down to embrace him warmly and ruffled his hair. “You’ve grown as well,” she smiled. “Let me have a look at you.”

The dog had settled down next to them, his tail still wagging excitedly, and the boy stood still, visibly restraining his impatience, as she ran light fingers across the planes of his face. She started at the top of his head, lightly brushing across his brow, then traced the outline of his eyes and cheeks. He laughed and wrinkled his nose when she shaped it with her fingers, but he held still until her hands came to rest on his shoulders.

“As handsome as ever,” she commented, “I couldn’t even feel any freckles”.

“Don’t be silly. You can’t feel freckles,” he protested.

Then he reached up and gave her hand an impatient tug. “Please, aunt Lothíriel, I need your help,” he said, “let me show you. Where’s your cane?”

He looked around as if searching for something and only then spotted the King of Rohan.

“Oh!” he stammered. “My Lord King. Please forgive me, I didn’t notice you before.”

He gave a very creditable bow for a six year old and Éomer nodded back automatically, his mind still reeling with the realization of just what was wrong with the Princess of Dol Amroth. Her eyes might be the most beautiful smoky grey he had ever seen, but they were no use to her at all.

She was blind.

He watched in stupefaction as Alphros took her by the hand, obviously quite used to helping her about, and herded her towards the stairs leading down into the garden. She laughed at his impatience and only reminded him to look out for low-hanging branches. When the boy warned her they had reached the top of the steps, she stopped and turned back.

“Won’t you join us as well, King Éomer?” she asked. “I believe my brothers should be back by now.”

That galvanised him into action. “Yes, of course,” he said and with a couple of strides caught up with them. “Please, let me offer you my arm. Those steps are very steep.”

She stood very still, a hand still resting on her nephew’s shoulder.

“You didn’t know before.” It was a statement, not a question.

He hesitated for the length of a heartbeat, but it was no use prevaricating. “No,” he admitted.

A wistful expression passed across her face, but was gone so quickly he wasn’t sure he had seen it there.

“And now you’re feeling sorry for me,” she said.

He didn’t know what to answer, but didn’t get a chance to do so anyway.

“Well, don’t,” she said fiercely, “because I don’t want your pity, or indeed any man’s.”

She turned to Alphros. “Lead the way,” she ordered him. He did as he was told, telling her when she had reached the last step and taking her by the hand to lead her along the gravel paths. Éomer followed behind quietly. It was very nearly dark by now and the first stars had blossomed in the sky above them. But she would never see them, nor the full moon that had just risen above the Ephel Dúath, either. He wondered what it would feel like - to walk your entire life in darkness.

When they reached the door to the house, the princess sent the boy ahead and turned to face him. The birds in the garden had fallen silent, but there were faint rustling sounds in the undergrowth as the small denizens of the night came out of their hiding places and went about the serious business of finding food. The lamps in the branches of the apple and cherry trees above them cast their soft light on the face lifted up to him.

“King Éomer,” the princess said hesitantly. “Please excuse my outspoken words just now. I did not intend to offend you. You’ve been very kind to me.”

He shook his head and then realized she could not see him do so. “You didn’t offend me,” he assured her, “and I’m sorry if I upset you.”

The princess inclined her head. “That was entirely my own fault. You see, I consider myself lucky, really.”

“Lucky?” He could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Yes, lucky,” she said quietly. “My father and three brothers, warriors all, survived the war unscathed. Our lands weren’t ravaged and the people are at peace. If that isn’t luck, what is?”

He stared down at her, feeling much as if he had been unexpectedly punched in the stomach. Too well did he remember the devastation in the Riddermark, the look on women and children’s faces when he had to tell them their husbands and fathers would never return to them again. Most of all, he remembered the mound at the Fords of the Isen, with the spears rotting away slowly over Théodred’s grave.

She must have sensed something, for she suddenly reached out a hand. “Forgive me,” she whispered, “you lost your uncle in the battle for Minas Tirith, didn’t you? And very nearly your sister as well…”

He sighed, trying to let go of his grief. “No, you are right. It is I who has to beg your forgiveness for my assumptions.”

The princess looked up at him for a long moment, her eyes unseeing but enormous in the fading light. Then she gave him a shy smile.

“And now that we’ve both said how sorry we are, shall we go inside?”

“Yes, let’s do so,” he agreed.

A/N: Many thanks once more to Lady Bluejay. Thank you also to those readers who had guessed what was the matter with Lothiriel for not putting it in a public review.

Imrahil’s Table

Mithrellas was a hand-maiden of Nimrodel, who was lost when she fled Lórien. She was taken in by Imrazôr the Númenórean and bore him a son, Galador, from whom the Princes of Dol Amroth are descended. Ever after, it was held that they were fair of face and noble in speech and manner.

(Turgon: A brief history of Gondor)

***

He had a nice voice. It was rich and deep and Lothíriel had no doubt that he wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty making himself heard over the battlefield, yet at times it also became low and warm - like when he had talked of his sister. And she had been wrong: there was just the faintest trace of a Rohirric lilt in it.

Lothíriel liked to imagine that voices had colours. Her father’s was a silvery grey, elegant and cultivated, while Amrothos’s was a fiery orange, quick and cutting at times. Then there was the deep amber of Elphir and the calm blue of Erchirion. As for the King of Rohan - it was red, she decided, but so dark as to be almost black and perhaps with a glint of gold in it. He was a king, after all.

And she would be well advised to remember that fact. He had been amazingly kind about her cavalier treatment of him, but she would really have to be careful to be more polite in the future. Her father had been flustered when she had come in from the garden with King Éomer. No doubt he had intended to smooth the way, and to prepare his ally carefully for the fact of his only daughter’s blindness. The men were talking with each other now, and King Éomer had just accepted an invitation to dine with them tonight.

An insistent hand tugged at her sleeve. “Aunt Lothíriel,” Alphros whispered. “Are you coming?”

Before she had a chance to answer, her sister-in-law interrupted. “Now, Alphros,” Annarima said, “don’t pester your auntie. It’s time for you to go upstairs.”

Lothíriel knew that her nephew was expected to eat his dinner in the nursery and then go to bed early. When he visited his grandfather in Dol Amroth that iron rule was often relaxed, but it looked like that would not happen in Minas Tirith.

“But it’s important!” he protested. “I want to show her something.”

“Being clean is more important,” his mother replied. “Look at you, you urgently need a bath. You can show her in the morning.”

“But by then it might be too late!” Alphros wailed.

His mother hissed at him to keep his voice down.

“I will come and see you briefly after dinner,” Lothíriel offered as a compromise, “and you can tell me about it.”

“Oh, very well,” Annarima conceded ungracefully, “but first you’re having that bath, young man. Look at you, you’re a disgrace with dog hairs all over you.”

Lothíriel stiffened. No doubt she was covered in Ernil’s hairs, too, and her sister-in-law would have liked to send her upstairs as well. Annarima knew better than to say anything openly in Prince Imrahil’s hearing, though.

Amrothos had stepped up beside her unnoticed. “I have to say, Annarima, it does seem that your son is rather dirty,” he commented in a silky voice. “You really have to see that you keep our house cleaner.”

“I keep my house spotless,” her sister-in-law snapped back, readily falling into the trap laid for her.

“Not if it’s got dog hairs all over it,” Amrothos pointed out with perfect logic. “Will you take my arm, sister?” he asked. “We’re going in to dinner.”

Lothíriel took the proffered arm, but sighed inwardly. She was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles and in fact preferred to do so. When she pointed this out to her brother in a low voice, he just laughed.

“But that’s one battle I love to fight,” he chuckled. “It’s so pitifully easy to get a raise out of that icicle.”

“You’re not making things any easier for Elphir,” she remonstrated. It had been plain to her for some time that the allure of Annarima’s beauty had faded for her eldest brother, but he was loyal to his wife and had even moved to Minas Tirith when it became clear that she did not get along with the rest of his family.

“Try to at least be polite,” she pleaded as he settled her in her place at the table.

Amrothos just laughed. “Only as long as she’s polite to me. Enjoy your dinner, little sister,” he added, “you’re on father’s left, across from the guest of honour.”

“Oh no,” she groaned. Annarima would not be at all pleased to be displaced from her usual place, but her father liked to keep an eye on his daughter at all times, even if it meant that his heir’s wife would be relegated further down the table.

“Something amiss, my lady?” a warm voice enquired behind her.

Lothíriel nearly fell off her chair. The man seemed to move with the stealth of a large hunting cat and she had not heard him approach at all.

“No, nothing,” she assured the King of Rohan, only to realize that he might well have overheard her brother’s last words and assume she was reluctant to sit facing him. There was no way she could explain her reasons just now, though, so she just had to leave it and smile up at him apologetically. This was a trick that had taken her a long time und much practice to acquire, but by now she was a pretty good judge of where somebody’s face was. Many people at first didn’t even realize that she could not see them, once she had pinpointed the direction their voice was coming from. She had certainly fooled the King of Rohan, even though she had not even known it at the time.

Chairs scraped to either side of her, letting her know that the other people had arrived. She identified Elphir’s voice to her left with Amrothos beyond him, so Annarima was presumably sitting next to King Éomer. Then the servants arrived with basins of water to wash their hands in and she had to concentrate on not spilling any of it. The trick was not to make any hasty movements. She had found that out to her chagrin in the past.

The first hurdle taken, she surreptitiously felt for the location of her plate and cutlery, before folding her hands safely in her lap while the servants poured the wine and served the first course. She hadn’t had the opportunity to memorize the menu earlier on, so she wasn’t sure what she was being served. It was onion soup, and she was a bit surprised that her father didn’t just wave it away for her, as he usually did, but apparently talking to his guest distracted him. Not that she minded, but it meant that she had to concentrate so much on the difficult task of ferrying the liquid to her mouth, that at first she did not pay much attention to what was being discussed between her father and King Éomer. It was only when she heard her own name mentioned that she pricked up her ears and carefully lowered her spoon.

Apparently the King of Rohan had not forgotten his promise to arrange for her to visit his sister at their camp.

“I could come and pick up Princess Lothíriel tomorrow morning,” he was just suggesting, “and I promise to deliver her home safely again afterwards.”

“I don’t know…” her father hesitated.

“Oh please, may I go?” Lothíriel pleaded, for she dearly would have liked to meet the famous Lady Éowyn.

“I’m not sure,” her father said. “You’ve had a long, tiring journey. Surely you should have a rest tomorrow.”

Lothíriel was well used to her father overestimating her frailness. Ever since her long recovery after her accident, he had been convinced she needed to be constantly watched, and even the slightest cough had him send for a healer.

“We travelled the whole way on the boat, so I’m not tired,” she pointed out, “and I would like to have the opportunity to meet Lady Éowyn before the wedding.”

“My sister would be very pleased as well to make the princess’s acquaintance,” King Éomer added smoothly.

Her father capitulated. “Very well,” he conceded, “but there is no need to put you out, Éomer. Amrothos will oblige.”

Her brother grumbled slightly at this arbitrary decision, but then wisely decided it was useless to protest, once their father had made up his mind. The talk then turned to the festivities planned for the wedding, which would take place in five days’ time. The Rohirrim would be showing their skill on horseback and there would be dancing and music.

“Now that we’re at peace with Harad, the fair is full of traders and entertainers from the south,” Elphir remarked. “I think anybody with anything to sell has made it to Minas Tirith.”

“Oh, could I go?” Lothíriel asked.

The men laughed, but Annarima sniffed disdainfully. “It’s mostly cheap trumpery and you can hardly move for the press of people.”

Prince Imrahil seemed to agree with her. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said. “It’s far too crowded.”

Lothíriel lowered her head in disappointment and concentrated on her food once more. She had looked forward to going to the fair and had hoped there might be bards and storytellers, hopefully with new tunes and tales. However, the tone in her father’s voice told her he would not be moved by entreaties just now, and she had to content herself with the thought that she might still talk her youngest brother into taking her with him.

“My sister intends to go and see the fair,” King Éomer said after a short pause. “Maybe Princess Lothíriel would like to accompany her. I assure you they will be perfectly safe with a guard of my riders.”

It looked like she had found an unexpected ally. Lothíriel lifted her head with fresh hope, but her father declined the offer.

“That’s very kind of you, Éomer,” he said in a firm voice, “but it isn’t necessary to inconvenience your sister.”

And although the King of Rohan insisted it would be no inconvenience at all, he did not press the point, perhaps sensing it was not the right moment. The soup plates were now removed and the first meat course served. Lothíriel picked up her knife to carefully feel the edge of whatever meat it was, only to find that it had already been cut up into bite-sized pieces. Irritation flashed through her. After all she was no child anymore and perfectly capable of cutting her own meat. Then she sighed. She knew her father meant well, it was just that while he had been away during the war, she had grown used to more freedom and autonomy. Now it sometimes irked her, to have to conform to all the old customs again.

When she paid attention to the conversation again, it had moved on to horses, perhaps not unnaturally with the king of the Rohirrim as a guest. Amrothos was just quizzing him about his stallion.

“Are you still riding that grey warg you had on the Pelennor?” he asked.

“Firefoot?” King Éomer laughed. “I do indeed. He would probably gore whatever other horse I’d try to ride. He gets jealous.”

“Is it true what they say about the steeds of the Rohirrim,” Lothíriel asked, “that they are more intelligent than other horses?”

“We believe so, at least those descended from the Mearas.”

“What are Mearas?” she asked, intrigued.

“They are a race of horses descended from Eorl the Young’s white stallion Felaróf,” the King of Rohan explained, warming to his subject. “It was said of him that he understood the speech of men. They are long-lived and fleet of foot and will only answer to the Lord of the Mark or his sons.”

“Sometimes your stallion seemed more like a faithful hound than like a horse, the way he followed you around and guarded your back,” her father observed.

“The stallions are trained to guard our herds,” King Éomer said, “and they are better at it than any guard dog.”

“So you don’t keep any dogs?” she asked.

“Oh, we do,” he replied. “But mostly to guard our homesteads or up in the mountains where it is sheep country. In fact our sheep dogs look a lot like your nephew’s dog. They come in very useful.”

Annarima sniffed disdainfully. “Unlike my son’s dog then,” she said, “it just eats its own weight in meat each day.”

This touched Lothíriel on a sore spot. “Ernil is useful,” she fired up. “He would defend Alphros with his very life.”

“Let’s not go into that,” her father interrupted her hurriedly. “You see, Lothíriel and Alphros saved the dog from being killed, the last time my grandson stayed with us in Dol Amroth,” he explained to his guest.

“He was only a puppy and they were going to drown him.” Lothíriel still felt outrage at the memory of the scene they had chanced upon. Alphros had told her that some children had a dog tied up in a bag and were about to throw him in the stream that flowed by the castle.

“I gave them a piece of my mind as well!” There was so much vehemence in her voice that all the men laughed.

“You and your strays! What else are people supposed to do with all those surplus puppies and kittens?” Annarima asked. “They can’t possibly keep them all.”

Lothíriel had very definite ideas on this. “They should see to it that the surplus puppies don’t get born in the first place,” she declared. “It would be much more humane to just have the dogs castrated when they’re little.”

There was a choking sound from Annarima’s direction and a short silence descended. Belatedly, it dawned on Lothíriel that she had just introduced what could only be considered a highly unsuitable topic, about which young ladies were not supposed to know anything. She could feel blood flooding her cheeks, but decided to go into the offensive.

“So what do you do in Rohan?” she asked their guest. There was a quickly suppressed snort of laughter from Amrothos, so she said nothing more. Her defiance did not go so far as to make her add that since the Rohirrim gelded their horses, he must have some idea of the technicalities involved.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’ve never really considered the question, but I promise to make enquiries into it when I get back.” His voice was serious, but she was pretty certain there was a hint of laughter in it.

There was another brief silence, then her father asked a question about a mutual acquaintance, which the King of Rohan answered readily. Rescued in this way, Lothíriel mentally decided to keep silent for the rest of the meal or else to stick to the weather.

The next course was chunks of vegetables in a thick sauce of mixed spices. This was a delicacy from the south and one of Lothíriel’s favourites. On her tour round the house she had stopped off at the kitchen, still ruled over by Aerin, and had had a chat with the old woman. It looked like the cook still remembered her partiality to the hot food so common in the far south of Gondor. It did make you thirsty, though. Lothíriel reached for her glass of wine.

It wasn’t there.

She was sure she had placed it just to the right of her plate the last time she had taken a sip, yet now it was gone. With some exasperation, Lothíriel wondered if her father had removed it. He had the annoying habit of absentmindedly repositioning anything within her reach that he thought she might spill. Very slowly she brushed one hand across the table in the general direction of her father. The tablecloth was soft under her fingers and the only obstacle she encountered was the saltcellar. There was no sign of her wineglass, and by now she was convinced that everybody at the table was watching her covertly, although the conversation around her went on uninterrupted.

Finally, she encountered the smooth stem of her glass. Then she froze, as she suddenly touched warm fingers as well. The glass was being gently pushed towards her, but she was so surprised that she withdrew her fingers with a sudden move. The result was predictable and nothing new to Lothíriel.

Fortunately, she had been issued with an extra large napkin and was able to soak up most of the wine before it reached the edge of the table. The servants were well trained and converged on her from all sides, cleaning up the rest of the spill, bringing her a fresh napkin and refilling her glass.

“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, annoyed with herself for causing a commotion at her very first meal back in Minas Tirith.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” the King of Rohan apologized. “I shouldn’t have pushed your glass towards you.”

Lothíriel hadn’t realized it was him. She thought that if anybody was to blame for her mishap, it was her father. It was he who must have removed her glass, but she refrained from saying so. Anyway, she was used to apologizing.

“It was clumsy of me,” she replied. “I should know by now not to make any sudden moves.”

She was just congratulating herself on this diplomatic answer when Annarima exclaimed with evident distress.

“Your shirt, my Lord King!” she cried out. “The sleeve is completely soaked in wine.”

Lothíriel’s heart sank. Now she had ruined his shirt as well. Somehow her dealings with the King of Rohan seemed to turn from bad to worse.

“I’m so very sorry. Can it be washed?” she asked.

“Please don’t worry, my lady,” he tried to reassure her. “It’s only a small stain.”

“A small stain?” Annarima asked in disbelief. “Why, you’ll have to replace the whole sleeve if you want to salvage it.”

“Nonsense,” Amrothos exclaimed.

Lothíriel bit her lip. She could sense her father was displeased with her, even though he hadn’t said anything. But what could she do? She couldn’t even offer to replace the sleeve, for the quality of her sewing was very far from what a king was surely accustomed to.

King Éomer laughed. “Please, Lady Annarima, this is nothing,” he said. “You should have seen me when I returned from the march to the Black Gate. I did in fact have to borrow fresh clothes from your husband.”

“You did?” Lothíriel asked. This was news to her, for her brothers talked very little of their experiences during the war.

“I only had the tunic I wore when we left Edoras,” he explained, “for we had decided to ride as light as possible. So by the time I had been through two battles, not even the washerwomen would touch it.”

Lothíriel grinned. “So what happened to it?”

“I didn’t enquire too closely into its fate, but I think it was burnt,” he answered.

The others laughed and Amrothos offered a funny story of what had happened to his clothes one night in Cormallen, when he’d had too much to drink and gone for a walk along the river. The talk then turned to reminiscences of the war and Lothíriel heaved a sigh of relief.

Even though the meal wasn’t over yet, she soon after excused herself and retired upstairs to pay the promised visit to her nephew. It had been a long and exciting day and she was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Surely she had caused enough disasters for one day.

***

Many thanks once again to Lady Blujay!

Protector of the Weak

What ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince? I say: he should be generous in thought and deed, just and true to his friends but unyielding to his enemies, yet always ready to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

(Mardil Voronwe: The Prince)

***

The servant bent down to whisper in Prince Imrahil’s ear. Too polite to eavesdrop, Éomer nevertheless was pretty sure he heard Princess Lothíriel’s name mentioned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his host freeze in the middle of lifting his wine glass to his lips. Then Imrahil got up so abruptly that he nearly sent his chair flying.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said to Éomer. “A small domestic problem has arisen that requires my attention.”

“Yes, of course,” Éomer replied civilly, but he did not think the prince heard him, for by that time he was already halfway to the door leading out of the dining room.

Éomer watched him go with bemusement. Until tonight he had considered his friend completely unflappable. They had stood together at the last battle outside the Morannon, and even when facing certain death and the possible end of all they held dear, Imrahil had been calm and dignified, determined to do his best by his king and die in a way worthy of his ancestors.

Now, within the space of one evening, he had seen the Prince of Dol Amroth disconcerted several times. First of all, when Éomer had accompanied the princess in from the garden, his friend had looked very much taken aback and had not been his usual composed self for some time afterwards. In retrospect, Éomer wondered if Imrahil had been upset at his discovery of his daughter’s blindness, or more worried about what she might have said to him. That there could be no dependence on the Princess of Dol Amroth sticking to the kind of unobjectionable topics of conversation that the other Gondorian ladies favoured, had become clear soon after.

Éomer had nearly laughed out loud at Imrahil’s face when his daughter had innocently outlined her solution of how to control the canine population of Dol Amroth. In a way it was quite comforting to find that he was not the only male thrown into disarray by her choice of subjects.

The servants were impeccably trained and now served up an impressive collection of sweetmeats, ranging from familiar honey cakes over sugared almonds to exotic looking delicacies imported from the far south. Lady Annarima and Elphir valiantly kept up a rather desultory conversation about last night’s entertainment up at the Citadel, but Éomer noticed that they kept throwing nervous glances at the door through which Imrahil had disappeared. As for Amrothos, he had given up all pretence of listening to them.

When the door opened shortly after, everybody stopped talking and looked up expectantly. However, it was only the same elderly servant who had fetched Imrahil. This time he stepped up to Elphir and whispered in his ear.

“I’m coming,” the prince nodded, a frown appearing between his eyebrows.

When he got up, his wife rose from the table as well.

“If you’ll excuse us, my Lord King,” she said smoothly and took her startled looking husband’s arm.

He was left alone with Amrothos. The door closed with a soft click behind the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth and the servants silently refilled their glasses. Éomer’s eye fell on the wine stain, which had resulted from Princess Lothíriel’s earlier mishap. It was almost dry by now. He wondered what his sister would make of her witness. This was not the first time he had been invited to dine at Imrahil’s table, but he had to admit tonight had been by far the most entertaining. Instead of the usual rather formal talk about the court of Gondor, the conversation had been animated and varied. The two youngest offspring of the family seemed to have an enlivening effect, even if they didn’t always intend to.

Amrothos had occupied himself selecting one of the oranges artfully arranged in a basket of fruit in the middle of the table, and now offered one to Éomer as well. Their eyes met, and suddenly Amrothos gave a grin.

“Oh, let’s just go and have a look,” he suggested, putting the fruit back again.

“If you say so,” Éomer agreed readily.

“Well, I can’t very well leave you sitting here all on your own, can I,” winked Amrothos, “and I’m dying to find out what’s the small domestic problem, aren’t you?”

Éomer was startled into a laugh. “Yes, I am,” he admitted.

***

They were the last to arrive. A servant had reluctantly directed them to the small cobbled stable yard fronting the main gate and when they got there, they found the whole household assembled, watching the unfolding spectacle.

Princess Lothíriel stood in the middle of the yard, her nephew holding on to her skirts, and faced her father, Elphir and his wife. They were discussing something in low voices. The torches, set in sconces all along the four walls, threw their flickering light over the scene. What caught Éomer’s attention, though, was the pony whose lead rope she was holding: a singularly sorry looking animal. It only took him a moment to take in its rough and mangy coat, the ribs sticking out its side and the apathetic way it hung its head and he was very much surprised to find such an animal in Prince Imrahil’s stable.

Then Éomer spotted the riders of his small guard, who had been eating in the kitchen, and motioned to Éothain, their captain, to join him.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

His captain wore a carefully neutral expression as he exchanged a nod with the two of them. “It seems the princess bought the horse, but Prince Imrahil does not agree with her taste.”

Éomer was not surprised. Beside him, Amrothos groaned. “She bought it? Whatever for?”

“Apparently to save it from being sent to the knackers’.”

Éomer privately thought that he agreed with the previous owner’s decision. What else could you do with such a wretched looking animal?

“A pony!” Amrothos exclaimed. “Couldn’t she stick to dogs? This is getting worse and worse.”

At his son’s exclamation, Imrahil had looked over and now gave them a pained nod of acknowledgement. Éomer felt constrained to join him, although he had no desire at all to get embroiled in a family argument.

“I won’t have my precious son seen with that flea-ridden bag of bones,” Lady Annarima was just scolding furiously, and then checked herself when she spotted him.

Her precious son looked distinctly rebellious. Éomer had met the boy briefly the last time he had dined with Imrahil, and had thought him a bit dull and unnaturally reserved, quite unlike the children of the Rohirrim. Now he looked much more like a normal six year old.

“It’s not fair,” he protested.

“Alphros, you have to understand that life isn’t always fair,” his father tried to soothe him and hunkered down facing his son, “and this pony is much better off being put out of its misery.”

“You have to trust us adults to know what’s best,” Prince Imrahil concurred. Éomer got the feeling it was not the first time the prince had used this argument.

“Aunt Lothíriel is an adult and she agrees with me,” Alphros retorted at once and looked up triumphantly at his grandfather.

Lady Annarima opened her mouth to say something, but was forestalled by her husband.

“That’s enough, Alphros,” Elphir said, getting up. “Your mother and I have decided that the animal is going and that’s final.”

Princess Lothíriel had listened to the whole exchange with her lips pressed close together, her face white and drawn.

“No, it’s not,” she said flatly. “Galador is staying. I’ve bought him. He belongs to me.”

Imrahil looked thunderstruck. “Galador?” he asked, “They dared name this … animal after our forefather, the first Prince of Dol Amroth?”

“No, they did not name him at all,” the princess admitted, “it was Alphros’s idea.”

Éomer was hard pressed not to laugh at the appalled expression on his friend’s face and behind him he heard what sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Amrothos had his face hidden in his hands, his shoulders were shaking.

“Where did you find him, anyway?” he asked his nephew when he had mastered his mirth. “Surely you could search the whole of Minas Tirith and not find a sorrier creature.”

His sister frowned at him, but it was Alphros who answered his uncle’s question. “Minardil told me about him,” he explained.

“Who is Minardil?” Amrothos asked patiently.

“He’s the son of Alphros’s personal guard,” his sister replied, “and only a year older than Alphros. As for the pony, it used to belong to the owner of that small tavern down the road.”

“The Maiden and Dragon?” Lady Annarima asked in disbelief. “You took my son to that place?”

“He was perfectly safe. We took Minardil’s father along and they were very polite,” the princess replied soothingly.

Éomer had met the boy’s guard, a big, dour man with a reputation to match and he had no doubt at all that the owner of the tavern would have been scrupulously polite to the Princess of Dol Amroth, backed by all her father’s clout as well.

Lady Annarima’s voice rose an octave. “Do you know what kind of company they keep in that tavern?”

“Not really,” Princess Lothíriel admitted. “Why? Do you?”

In the crowd somebody tittered and the princess blushed slowly, obviously only now realizing what her sister-in-law was referring to.

“It’s disgraceful, the way you’re making a spectacle of us,” Lady Annarima hissed furiously.

“I am not,” Princess Lothíriel answered back calmly. “It’s you who’s making a fuss. All I’ve done is saved this poor pony from being killed and now I need a stall made ready in the stables.”

Her voice was firm and reasonable and utterly assured again. Éomer stared at her in surprise. Was this the same girl who had gotten flustered at such a small thing as spilling a glass of wine at the dinner table? The pony gave a small whickering sound, almost as if aware of the discussion, and the princess reached out a soothing hand at once.

“Don’t worry, little one,” she said gently, “you’re safe now.” Her fingers stroked the rough-coated neck. The pony's head lifted, ears pricking forward for a moment.

“See,” Alphros piped up, “all Galador needs is rest and some fodder.”

“Well, he’s not getting that in my stables,” Imrahil said firmly, “and anyway they are full, there’s no spare room at all.”

“He doesn’t need much room,” his daughter pointed out. “Maybe he could share a horse box with one of the other ponies.”

Elphir looked aghast at that idea. “What, and share fleas and the Valar only know what diseases with them as well?”

For the first time, the princess was slightly discomfited. “Maybe that’s not a good idea,” she agreed. “We’ll rent a box in one of the inns then.”

“Rent a box?” Lady Annarima echoed. “The inns are completely full for the wedding. And do you know how much that costs? Who’s going to pay for all this?”

Princess Lothíriel hesitated and her sister-in-law at once pursued her advantage.

“How did you pay for this animal, anyway?” she asked. “You have no money.”

Alphros clutched his aunt’s skirts more firmly and looked up pleadingly at his mother. For a moment she wavered, but then she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Well?” Lady Annarima asked.

“I bought him in father’s name,” the princess admitted.

“I knew it!” the other woman exclaimed triumphantly. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Two silver crowns,” Princess Lothíriel said reluctantly and Éomer shook his head. That was the price of a sturdy packhorse, not an inferior animal like this, and he was pretty sure the princess knew as much.

“Grandfather can give him to me for my birthday,” Alphros put in valiantly. “It’s only another six months.”

“It’s another seven months,” his mother corrected him, “and anyway, what would you do with it? You’ve got a proper pony to ride.”

Princess Lothíriel had turned to Imrahil. “Please father,” she pleaded, “I only need a place somewhere for a few days and once he’s stronger, we can send him home to Dol Amroth. I’m sure I can find someone there to take him in.”

Imrahil hesitated, visibly torn between the desire to please his daughter and the fact that it was ridiculous to ship this kind of animal all the way to Dol Amroth. Lady Annarima had no such scruples.

“You mean, foist it off on someone, like you have done before,” she snapped. “Who would voluntarily take on such a completely useless animal?”

“He’s not useless,” Princess Lothíriel snapped back. “It’s just that he’s been worked too hard and needs time to recover. You wouldn’t look so good either, if you had to carry heavy loads all day, had to subsist on what little food you could forage, and got beaten by a stick every time you faltered.”

The men were struck dumb at these words and Lady Annarima went an unbecoming shade of purple. “You dare compare me to this thing?” she gasped.

Amrothos turned away and seemed to choke on something. Éomer had trouble himself, to keep a straight face at the picture of the elegant Lady Annarima as a poor, bedraggled pony.

Imrahil cleared his throat. “I’m sure Lothíriel didn’t mean it that way,” he intervened.

For a moment, Princess Lothíriel wore the same rebellious expression as her little nephew, but then she apologized. “I’m sorry, Annarima, I meant no offence,” she said.

“Yes, I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply you were a flea-bitten bag of bones,” interjected Amrothos, quoting her own earlier words back at his sister-in-law.

This didn’t exactly help. Lady Annarima’s eyes narrowed. “You two have been here less than a day and already your sister is making a vulgar spectacle of herself trying to play the noble rescuer,” she lashed out. “Alphros is a child and doesn’t know better, but she should. Just look at that ugly creature!”

The princess had gone white and now drew herself up to her full height, little though that was. “I can’t,” she said quietly, “but I don’t need to. What I do know is that I can’t just walk by, while they kill this poor thing, just because it’s no longer useful.”

“Lothíriel,” her father said, “believe me, it’s for the best. What would you do with him?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“We don’t need another horse, and anyway there’s no room in the stables,” Elphir said gently but insistently. “It’s time to face up to those facts.”

Éomer noticed that she had begun twisting her sleeves again and they were starting to look frayed.

“Lothíriel,” her father said, “remember that back in Dol Amroth you promised that the next time, you would think before you acted?”

“I know,” she replied with a catch in her voice, “and I did remember my promise, but I had to do something. They were going to kill him first thing in the morning.”

Prince Imrahil sighed. “Daughter, I know you mean well, but you have to learn to control your impulses. First dogs, now a pony, what is it going to be next time? A mûmak?”

She gave a shaky smile. “If it needs rescuing…”

Her brothers smiled at that and Amrothos stepped up to her and gingerly laid an arm around her shoulder. “Little sister,” he said, “it’s true, you just cannot right every wrong.”

“I know,” she said and angrily wiped her eyes on her sleeve, “but still…”

Her voice petered off and by her side Alphros looked down and scuffed his boots against the ground. The wind had picked up and the light cast by the torches flickered wildly. Although the day had been warm, it was spring still, and the night air had grown chilly. The princess reached out a hand to the pony and when it shivered, she stroked it lovingly. Éomer watched as she ran a slender, white hand along the tangled mane and down the nose, as if trying to memorize its shape. The pony gave a low snort, obviously not used to such kind treatment.

“I’ll take him,” Éomer said.

Everybody turned to stare at him. Had he really said those words? Behind him, Éothain choked off a protest and the spectators whispered to each other in surprise. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll take him,” he repeated.

“My Lord King,” the princess said uncertainly, “I didn’t know you were here. What do you mean?”

“We can always use another packhorse,” he replied nonchalantly. “I’ll see to it that he gets fed properly and I’m sure he will come in useful.”

“Éomer King!” Éothain protested behind him, speaking Rohirric. “We have plenty of packhorses, we don’t need another one!”

“Not now,” Éomer cut him off, although privately he completely agreed with his captain. Indeed, even the lowliest of their ponies was a prince compared to this sorry specimen of horseflesh.

“See?” the Princess of Dol Amroth said triumphantly. “The King of Rohan himself agrees with me that Galador isn’t useless. And nobody knows more about horses.”

Éomer did not quite dare to meet Éothain’s eye. “You flatter me,” he said modestly.

“Not at all,” she assured him with a kind smile, but then her face suddenly darkened. “You won’t get rid of him secretly, will you?” she asked.

That unworthy thought had crossed his mind, but only briefly. “I won’t,” he promised.

“Upon your honour as king?” she insisted. From behind her, Annarima gasped at her presumption.

He looked down into those grey eyes, almost black in the uncertain torch light. “Upon my honour,” he said and was gifted with one of her dazzling smiles. It was uncanny how she seemed to know exactly where to look.

Then she turned to the pony and bestowed an even more dazzling smile on it. “Did you hear, Galador?” she said, “This is your new master. He will look after you from now on.”

She handed over her end of the frayed rope as if it were the key to something precious and rare.

“You won’t regret this,” she assured him.

***

Later that night, Éomer rode down the winding road leading to the main gate, accompanied by his guards. Trailing behind him on a long leading rope was Gallant Galador, as his men had already dubbed the pony. He had briefly considered asking one of his riders to hold the rope, but had decided that would be unworthy of a king. Besides, it might teach him a lesson to better control his impulses in the future. He still did not know what had possessed him to say those fatal words, but once he had uttered them, he could not retract them of course.

At least Firefoot had refrained from taking any offence, obviously considering the pony far below his notice. Now the main worry on the King of Rohan’s mind was how to explain the animal to his squire, who would have the dubious pleasure of looking after it. They would just have to corral it somewhere well out of sight.

When they passed the Great Gate and turned north towards their encampment, his guards fanned out in their usual vigilant formation. The road was packed with people visiting or returning from the fair and the going was slow at first. It was only when they had left the last tents behind them, that they could pick up their pace. The moon had risen to the zenith by now and their horses had no problem finding their way. It wasn’t far, but after a while the pony began to flag, so they had to slow down again. Something told Éomer that the Princess of Dol Amroth might well check up on the well-being of his charge, and it would not do to have to admit that it had dropped dead of exhaustion before they had even reached their encampment.

The Pelennor was dotted with the campsites of those not lucky enough to get hold of a place at an inn, and he was far too deep in thought to pay them much attention. His guards noticed the occupants of one particular small campsite coming to have a look at their passing, but then again this was nothing unusual, the King of Rohan having gained quite a reputation by now.

What his guards did not hear, of course, were the words two of the men exchanged after the Rohirrim had passed by.

“Is that him, my lord?” asked the smaller of the two.

The other man nodded slowly, looking after the King of Rohan. He wore the simple woollen tunic of a merchant, but at his side was belted a sword and when he returned to their small fire, he moved with the feline grace of a warrior born and bred.

“Yes,” he said with a smile.

Muzgâsh, son of Uldor, had not allowed himself any wine or other fleshly pleasures since leaving the City of Serpents three months ago, just as the rules demanded. However, now that he had come a step closer to his objective, he had one of his servants pour him a cup of wine to celebrate.

Sweet, and of a rich red colour, it reminded Muzgâsh of freshly spilled blood. He smiled.

The Slayer of the Witch King

Darkness mastered, morning gained,
His vows fulfilled in honour bright.
Yet shadow fell on mighty king,
And bloodless foe a dart let fly.
Now heart lies broken, Snowmane slain.

(Anonymous ballad from Rohan)

***

The horse fidgeted under her and Lothíriel tightened her hold on Elphir. She felt impatient too, but refrained from saying anything. After last night’s incident it seemed politic to avoid calling undue attention to herself. As a matter of fact, she considered herself lucky not to be confined to the town house for the rest of her stay in Minas Tirith. However, Lady Éowyn wished to see her, so here she was, about to pay a visit to the camp of the Rohirrim.

“Is everybody ready?” Elphir asked.

What had been planned as a simple morning ride with Amrothos had grown into a minor expedition. Lothíriel had the feeling that her father no longer considered her youngest brother a sufficiently steadying influence on her, which was why Elphir had been obliged to tag along. Then Alphros had insisted on coming as well, to have a look at what he still considered his pony. This had in turn caused Annarima to decide to accompany them, since she did not want to leave her precious son in the care of his unreliable aunt. At least her voice, icily polite the few times she addressed Lothíriel, seemed to imply as much.

Just as they had been about to leave, Annarima’s mother and her younger sister, Lady Wilwarin, had arrived for an unannounced visit. Two young noblemen, obviously ardent admirers of the latter, accompanied them. The whole party had decided to join their outing as well, and it had taken a while to sort out guards to escort them. But now it finally looked as if they could get under way.

Riding through Minas Tirith always was a treat for Lothíriel. She just let the conversation wash over her and instead imagined the sights she knew would greet them at every corner. The glimpses into people’s courtyards, the small, twisting side streets leading off from the main avenue and the little fountains tucked away into hidden corners. A whole network of paths led along the back of the houses, really meant for the use of servants, but very useful for children as well.

New sounds and smells assailed her ears and nose once they reached the fair. Mountebanks were noisily advertising their wares, each one trying to drown out all the others, and she roused herself to question Elphir as to what he saw. This was the advantage of riding with her eldest brother. Amrothos was witty and amusing, but he often did not have the patience to answer all her questions in as much detail as she liked. Kind Elphir answered untiringly, describing the stalls with colourful silks, precious spices and chased silver jewellery imported from the far south as well as the many vendors of foodstuffs. It was getting on for noon and Lothíriel’s stomach growled at the delicious smells. Idly she wondered if they would be served any refreshment at the camp of the Rohirrim.

Not that she was entirely sure of her reception there. What had seemed such reasonable behaviour the night before looked a lot like recklessness this morning. Before leaving, her father had taken her aside for a few words, and although he hadn’t said much - he never did – his displeasure at the way the King of Rohan had ended up with an admittedly not very useful additional packhorse, had been more than evident. She’d had to promise to be scrupulously polite, even if turned out that King Éomer had already got rid of poor Galador. That had actually been an easy promise to make. One thing she was sure of: he would always keep his word.

What still puzzled her was why he had come to her rescue the night before. She had not even known he was there until he had spoken up – being so intent on persuading her father to let her keep the pony. Somehow, the King of Rohan’s reaction did not quite agree with the picture she had formed of him. All the stories she had heard described him as a mighty warrior and masterful leader of men. It had come as almost a shock to find that someone who had seemed like a hero out of an ancient tale had a human side as well. Now she felt curious as to what that even more legendary figure, the slayer of the Witch King, was like.

At that moment the first sentries posted around the camp of the Rohirrim hailed them, sharp and alert even in peacetime. However, they recognized Elphir, welcomed them courteously and guided them further into the camp, to where their king’s tent was situated.

He was already waiting for them and greeted them warmly. Lothíriel’s slight nervousness vanished when she heard the genuine pleasure in his voice at the sight of them and she smiled down at him when he offered to help her dismount.

“If you would be so kind, my Lord King,” she answered, expecting him to give her a hand so she could slide off the horse’s back.

Instead, he took hold of her round the waist and simply swung her down in one smooth motion. For a heartbeat she was completely helpless in his powerful grasp, but to her own surprise found the sensation not unpleasant. Her pulse speeded up.

He set her down gently. “Thank you,” Lothíriel stammered in confusion.

“My pleasure, my lady,” he replied. “May I offer you my arm? My sister is very much looking forward to meeting you.”

She nodded, still feeling unaccountably unsettled. He offered her his shield arm and she could feel the powerful muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his tunic. Fortunately, at that moment he was distracted. The rustle of a gown indicated a woman coming up on his other side.

“King Éomer,” she exclaimed in a soft voice. Lady Wilwarin, Lothíriel recognized her straight away. “I hope you’ll excuse the imposition, but indeed it is such a lovely day that I couldn’t help begging a place accompanying my sister.”

“You are always welcome here,” the king assured her. Lady Wilwarin thanked him with a charming, silvery laugh. Her voice, golden and satiny, reminded Lothíriel of liquid honey.

Lothíriel had not forgotten Amrothos’s words that the King of Rohan was thought likely to offer for the beautiful and accomplished Lady Wilwarin, but although she listened carefully, she could hear nothing more than polite admiration in his tone. If only I could see his face, she thought suddenly, and then told herself sternly that it was none of her business.

“Well, Éomer, are you going to take all day?” a new voice enquired to her left, making her jump.

King Éomer must have noticed her startled reaction, for he briefly put a reassuring hand on hers. “Princess Lothíriel,” he said, “let me introduce you to my sister, Éowyn, who is as impatient as ever. Éowyn,” he added, “you’ve met Lady Wilwarin, haven’t you. She is joining us as well.”

“Delighted,” his sister replied in a tone devoid of all emotion.

“My pleasure,” Lady Wilwarin said. If anything, her voice had gone even gentler. Was it Lothíriel’s imagination or had the temperature just dropped considerably?

“If you’ll come to the pavilion,” Lady Éowyn said, “you can have a drink and something to eat and we can have a nice chat.” To her brother she added, “Let me have your other arm, Éomer, and do hurry, your guests are waiting for you.”

He laughed, but obeyed her meekly. On the way, King Éomer introduced Lothíriel to a couple of the lords and ladies present, but she could not exchange more than a polite greeting with them. In no time at all, she found herself seated in a small chair to one side of the open pavilion, with a couple of slices of bread and what a cautious nibble revealed to be a small selection of cheese on a plate.

“Do you like wine?” Lady Éowyn asked her and when Lothíriel nodded, she had a glass thrust in her hands. All around her, people were speaking Westron with that particular musical lilt common to the Rohirrim.

“At last,” said the slayer of the Witch King, the chair creaking as she sat down. “You know, I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Lothíriel felt rather startled by this announcement. “You have?”

“Why yes! I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that extraordinary animal you’d foisted on Éomer. I knew then that I’d have to meet you.”

“But I didn’t foist him on your brother!” Lothíriel exclaimed and had to grab her wine glass to keep it from being knocked over. “Indeed, he offered to take Galador of his own free will.”

Lady Éowyn patted her hands. “Yes, of course. Please don’t worry. It will do my brother good and might even teach him some humility.”

Lothíriel’s appetite had quite deserted her. “Please, Lady Éowyn,” she said and pushed her plate away, “believe me, that was not my intention. I will take the pony with me when we leave. I’m sure my father can find a place for him.”

“But I didn’t mean it that way!” Lady Éowyn said, just as the King of Rohan’s low voice interrupted them.

“Éowyn,” he said sharply, “what have you said to upset the princess?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t intend to, please forgive me,” his sister replied.

Embarrassed at having the slayer of the Witch King begging her pardon, Lothíriel spoke up, “It’s my fault, my lord,” she addressed King Éomer. “But like I just said to your sister, I can take the pony with me when we leave.”

There was a moment’s pause. Lothíriel noticed that the King of Rohan did not ask which pony.

“Please don’t,” he said instead. “Galador has only just settled down. I think he likes it here.”

Lothíriel was torn between not wanting to impose upon King Éomer any further and the knowledge that she had nowhere to quarter the poor thing.

She bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “In fact I consider it a great privilege.”

Lothíriel swore then and there to never ask the King of Rohan to look after one of her charges again. Next he would probably thank her for doing him a favour. It was just too humiliating and she had never felt so guilty before.

“Thank you, my Lord King,” she said quietly and settled into her chair again.

“Let’s talk of something else,” Lady Éowyn suggested and Lothíriel was happy to agree.

The King of Rohan excused himself to go and talk to his other guests and Lady Éowyn started telling her of the planned festivities. Some of them Lothíriel had of course already heard of - like the reception at the Merethrond taking place in the evening - she had in fact already sent her maid on an errand concerning that. However, most of the preparations for the wedding proper were news to her.

“At one stage I thought I’d never get married at all,” Lady Éowyn joked. “The plans were getting more and more elaborate and took longer and longer.”

Lothíriel laughed. “Well, it’s only another few days now.”

“I don’t think I could wait much longer,” Lady Éowyn sighed, “and I know poor Faramir is getting very impatient.”

Lothíriel didn’t quite know what to reply to such a forthright speech. She felt herself starting to blush. That was not the way gently brought up Gondorian maidens talked of their upcoming nuptials.

“Lady Éowyn, may I ask you something?” she said after a short hesitation.

“Yes, of course,” the other woman replied at once, “and please call me Éowyn. After all, we’ll be related soon.”

“I’d be honoured to,” Lothíriel answered and asked the question that had been preying on her mind for the last few months. “Why did you ask me to be your witness? I don’t mean to say that I’m not pleased,” she added in a rush, “but you don’t know me at all.”

It was Éowyn’s turn to hesitate. “Faramir told me about you,” she said at last, “and he mentioned you were his favourite cousin.”

“Did he tell you I was blind?” Lothíriel asked. What else had Faramir said about her?

Éowyn did not seem offended by her bluntness. “Yes, he did,” she admitted, “but I don’t see what that has got to do with anything.”

Lothíriel suddenly found herself liking the other woman very much. “Nothing, of course,” she said and gave her best smile.

Éowyn laughed. “We’ve got it easy anyway. All we have to do is be there in time and look pretty, which shouldn’t be a problem. Faramir tells me his steward is close to a nervous breakdown, trying to organise all the festivities. In fact Emyn Arnen is where Faramir is at the moment, but he promised to be back for the banquet tonight.”

“I’m just worried I’ll spill wine all over you just as you’re exchanging your vows,” Lothíriel confided.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Éowyn replied offhandedly. “Faramir probably wouldn’t even spot it. You know what men are like. They never notice what you wear.”

Lothíriel involuntarily saw a mental picture of a completely infatuated Faramir gazing at his bride, while she stood there, soaked to the skin with wine.

“Well, he might notice that, I think,” she could not help chuckling.

Éowyn joined her and soon they were laughing so hard, Lothíriel nearly tipped her glass over. That only set them off again.

“There’s one thing I have to ask you, though,” Éowyn said when they had recovered their breath. “You know there will be a procession from Minas Tirith to Emyn Arnen. Do you ride?”

“On my own, you mean?” Lothíriel asked back.

“Yes.”

“I have got a horse back in Dol Amroth,” Lothíriel explained and she could not quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. “It’s the oldest and most placid animal in my father’s stable and won’t move above a walk. Amrothos calls him Lightning.”

“Ah!” Éowyn said, “I suspected as much. Yet Faramir said you love horses and are a good rider.”

“I was,” Lothíriel corrected her.

Éowyn fell silent. “I think I’ll have to talk to Éomer,” she muttered half to herself and then called out so loud that Lothíriel nearly fell off her chair, “Cadda!”

“Lady Éowyn?” a new voice answered after a moment.

“Lothíriel, this is Cadda, my brother’s bard,” Éowyn introduced the newcomer. “Cadda, would you look after Princess Lothíriel for a moment while I go and speak to Éomer? I’m sure she likes music. All the ladies do, here in Gondor.”

She did not wait for an answer, but was gone with a swish of her clothes. Lothíriel felt very much startled by her hostess’s abrupt departure, but the bard seemed to take it in his stride.

“Do you like music, Lady Lothíriel?” he asked after a brief pause.

“As a matter of fact I do,” she stammered, “but please, I’m fine just sitting here. I do not need a minder and you need not waste your time on me.”

“Time spent in the company of a pretty woman is never wasted,” he demurred. “Are you the lady with the pony?”

“Yes.” Had everybody heard of that unfortunate incident?

“I see,” was all he said. “Let me get my harp.”

He came back a short while later and set down his instrument with a slight thump.

“This is Leofwen,” he said, his voice gentle and loving. “She differs from most Gondorian harps in that she has twenty strings, not just twelve.”

“May I touch … her?” Lothíriel asked.

“If you’d like to.”

Lothíriel reached out a hand and ran her fingers across the harp. The wood was warm and satiny and the strings hummed softly under her touch, deeper and more resonant than her own small harp.

“She likes you,” the bard stated. “What would you like me to play for you?”

An easy question, that. “Something about Rohan.”

She closed her eyes when he started to play. It was a silly habit when she couldn’t see a thing anyway, but somehow it helped her to concentrate. He was very good and she just gave herself over to the music and let it carry her away. She had thought him quite young when he had first spoken to her, but now his voice became fuller and more powerful, at times harsh and merciless like the mountains and the next moment soft and gentle like the wide, open plains. She didn’t understand the words of his song, but she didn’t need to.

Like precious pearls, the last notes dropped into the silence and for a moment all was quiet. Lothíriel gave a sigh and then people started clapping, startling her. She had never even been aware that a crowd of people had surrounded them to listen to the bard playing,

“That was beautiful,” she told Cadda.

“Thank you. What would like to hear next?”

Lothíriel hesitated, not sure what to ask for. Behind her, she heard the two young men who had accompanied Lady Wilwarin talking to each other.

“What was that about?” one of them asked. “I didn’t understand a word of it.”

“Probably about a horse,” the other answered. “All their songs are about horses.”

She stiffened at their muffled laughter, annoyed at such discourtesy, and hoped that the bard hadn’t heard them.

“A love song,” somebody in the crowd called out. “Sing us a love song.”

“My lady?” Cadda asked. Despite the control he exerted over his voice, Lothíriel was sure she could hear a trace of annoyance in it.

“Sing to us of love,” she nodded.

He tuned one of the strings and played a few introductory notes, then he stilled the harp.

“This is one of our songs that I have translated into Westron,” he explained. “It’s called Heart Breaker.”

The crowd hushed, expecting beautiful, golden-haired maidens and soft words of love and devotion.

Instead they got horses thundering across the grasslands in desperate need, horns blowing bravely under a morning sky covered in a blanket of black cloud and the harsh sounds of battle and death. He told the tale of how Théoden King rode to meet his fate and how he vanquished the chief of the Haradrim, he who flew the black serpent. Lothíriel caught her breath when the bard told of how the shadow of the nazgûl darkened his shield and Théoden’s steed fell, crushing his beloved master underneath him. By the time Cadda sang the last lines she had tears in her eyes.

Complete silence reigned when he finished, then somebody slowly started clapping. Lothíriel had to wipe her eyes on her sleeve before she could join in.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the bard whispered to her under the cover of the thunderous applause. “I did not mean to make you cry.”

“You were right to remind those fools of what we owe the Rohirrim,” Lothíriel replied fiercely. Cadda gave a surprised laugh.

“Princess Lothíriel?” As usual, the King of Rohan had crept up on her unawares, but she was getting used to it.

“My Lord King?”

“My sister thought that perhaps you’d like to have a look at how Galador fares,” he said. “Also there is something that Éowyn would like to show you.”

Lothíriel sat up straighter. “I would love to,” she exclaimed. She set her plate on the ground and turned to thank the bard.

“It was a pleasure to play for a lady who is as discerning as she is beautiful,” he replied.

Lothíriel coloured and had to remind herself sternly that to the Rohirrim anybody with black hair would seem exotic.

Winterbreath

Firefoot
Dam line: Ash by Hostsplitter out of Wildfire, Wildfire by Clovenhoof out of Dawnlight
Sire line: Fleetfoot by Blackhoof out of Morningmist, Blackhoof by Swiftleg out of Shadow

(Excerpt from the royal studbook at Edoras)

***

Princess Lothíriel stumbled and Éomer stopped himself just in time from grabbing her arm. She had insisted on being perfectly able to walk on her own, but their camp, set out on a piece of grassland on the northern part of the Pelennor, had proven difficult for her to navigate. The ground was uneven and covered with small hummocks of grass. Also he had never before noticed the amount of jumble lying around the tents, starting with a lost boot and extending to washing lines, which were downright dangerous. As for the horse droppings…

However, she had a thin, elegant cane, which she moved in a sweeping motion before her to feel for obstacles as she walked, and he had to admit she seemed pretty proficient with it.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk,” he apologized.

She stumbled over yet another stone lying on the path. “I don’t mind.”

Éomer gently took her by the elbow to steer her round some guy ropes holding a tent down. “This way.”

“It seems a very large camp.”

“My sister is very popular,” he explained, “and many of my countrymen have decided to attend her wedding.”

“She’s very popular here in Gondor as well.” The princess smiled. ”Everybody talks of her bravery during the war. You must be proud of her.”

Éomer thought of that moment when he had found his sister on the battlefield, not far from where their camp was situated in fact.

“Yes, she’s very brave,” he answered.

He had thought he had kept his voice even, yet the princess must have heard something, for she suddenly stopped. “Faramir is a good man,” she said after a brief hesitation, “and he loves your sister. I’m sure he’ll do all he can, to make her happy.”

When he didn’t answer at once, she coloured. “I’m sorry, my Lord King. I know it’s none of my business.”

“No, you are right,” Éomer hastened to reassure her, “and I’m deeply grateful my sister has found someone to marry whom she loves so well.”

With an inward sigh, Éomer thought of his own endeavours in that direction. Although he had met plenty of suitable maidens since coming to Minas Tirith, he had found himself reluctant to commit to any of them. He would not be able to put it off much longer though, the Riddermark needed a queen. Elfhelm and his other advisors kept reminding him of the necessity for an heir to the House of Eorl.

The princess started walking again and gave him a shy smile. “Faramir came to visit us in Dol Amroth in the winter and all he could talk of was your sister and her beauty and bravery. It’s clear that this is not just a political alliance.”

She sounded slightly wistful and Éomer suddenly wondered if there was any suitable match planned for her. Somebody from Dol Amroth perhaps - surely not at her age, though?

He nodded and then had to remind himself that she could not see him. “That’s true, but I also hope that it will bring our countries closer together.”

“My father hopes so, too.”

“I know, I have spoken to Imrahil about it. I’m afraid all dangers didn’t end with the Ring War.”

“So is it true we might soon have to go to war again in the south?” she asked. “My brothers seem to think so.”

He had thought her quite sheltered and was surprised to hear her ask this question. “I think so,” he admitted, “although I believe it will be some years before we have to take up arms again. That’s why it’s important to use the time we are given to secure our position and strengthen the alliance between Gondor and Rohan. Instead of one big foe we face many small ones and we need to stand together.”

It was a matter he had spent many a sleepless night on and he realized he had let himself get carried away a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he said ruefully. “I didn’t mean to make a speech.”

She smiled. “Oh, I don’t mind. Anyway, I think you are right.”

Éomer sighed. “Some of my countrymen disagree with me. They want to do things as we have always done them in the past and think we can stand alone.”

“I’m sure you will be able to convince them,” she stated with quiet confidence.

Éomer was touched by her faith in him. “I hope so, and I also hope that my friendship with Aragorn and my sister’s marriage will lead to closer ties between Rohan and Gondor.”

They now had to leave their narrow footpath and wind their way between the tents to get to the small paddock where the pony had been pastured. He helped her to circumnavigate a wooden tub filled with dishes soaking in water.

“I have further plans to strengthen our alliance.”

“You do?” She did not appear surprised, but it seemed to him that a shadow of some emotion crossed her face, too brief for him to make out. He had noticed before that she had an open and expressive face, as if she’d never quite learnt to guard it.

“Yes,” he replied, “but we do not plan to make the announcement until after Éowyn’s wedding.”

“We?” the princess asked.

But as it happened, he never got to explain to her about the way stations Aragorn and he wanted to build all along the Great West Road to further trade between their countries, for he saw that she was heading straight for a rope strung between two tents.

“Princess Lothíriel!” he called out hastily.

“Yes?” She stopped and turned to face him.

“Would you do me a great favour?”

The princess wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “Yes, of course.”

The thought passed through his mind that there could not be many women who would just answer like that, without asking what the favour comprised.

“Would you take my arm? I would consider it a great favour, for I don’t really want to have to explain to Prince Imrahil how you came by a black eye.”

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise and then started laughing. “Am I in danger of getting one?”

“I’m afraid a campsite is rather a dangerous environment with all the ropes lying round.”

“In that case I will accept your kind offer of an arm, my Lord King,” she said gravely. From then on she ducked her head obediently when he told her to.

“It would not be the first black eye anyway,” she joked.

“No?” Didn’t those brothers of hers take proper care of her?

“Amrothos once gave me one by mistake,” she explained, “but anyway, that happened before the accident. Mind you,” she added with a quiver of laughter in her voice, “I would greatly enjoy listening to you explaining to my father how I came by one.”

“You might enjoy it,” he shot back, “but I wouldn’t, so please have mercy on me.”

They reached the paddock where Galador was tethered and were greeted by his squire. Oswyn had been full of disapproval when first confronted with his new charge, but the first thing Éomer noticed was that the pony looked a whole lot better. He had obviously been given a thorough grooming and had had his mane and tail trimmed and braided. Although his ribs were still sticking out, he did not look quite as bedraggled as the night before.

“Princess Lothíriel, this is Oswyn, my squire,” Éomer introduced the young rider. “He is looking after the pony for the moment.”

“Oh!” she looked slightly disconcerted. “I hadn’t realized your squire would have to do so. I’m afraid it must be a lot of work.”

Éomer stared at her. Did her tone imply she had expected him to groom the pony himself?

“I’ve been very busy,” he started to say, only to stop short. What was the matter with him? Did he really think he had to justify himself to the princess? After all, the King of the Riddermark had more important things to do than to look after this sorry little creature.

The princess seemed to recall this too, for colour flooded her cheeks. She held out her hand to the squire. “Pleased to meet you, Oswyn,” she said. “May I have a look at Galador?”

“Yes of course, my lady,” his squire replied, obviously impressed to meet a real princess.

He led the pony over and once again the princess stroked his head and then gently patted his neck.

“His coat is already so much smoother,” she exclaimed with pleasure and turned to the squire. “Poor Galador cannot thank you himself, but I will do so,” she said with one of her radiant smiles.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Oswyn stammered and went beet-red with pleasure.

Éomer watched with amusement as his squire succumbed to the charm of the princess. Poor Oswyn was a good rider and excellent with horses, but his gangly frame and prominent nose meant that he wasn’t very popular with the girls. To have a pretty woman smile at him in this way was quite obviously a novel experience.

“I’ve also had his old shoes removed and reset and washed out his eyes with camomile tea,” the squire offered. “He will be fit again in no time.”

Éomer magnanimously refrained from pointing out that Oswyn had called saving the poor animal a complete waste of time and that ‘mangy nag‘ had been one of the kinder epithets bestowed on him.

Galador had been nuzzling the princess’s hand and now turned to Éomer. With a sigh he unearthed, from out of a pocket, one of the treats he always carried round with him. It was an old and shrivelled carrot, but the pony guzzled it with evident pleasure and nudged him for more. Apparently just a day of enough fodder had already lifted his spirits considerably.

Éomer nodded to the squire. “Could you tell Lady Éowyn that we’re here and to bring the horses?”

Oswyn obediently went running off and Éomer turned back to the princess. She wasn’t paying him any attention, but was running her hands all over the pony’s back and down his sides. As he watched her elegant hands stroke Galador’s coat and saw the loving concern in her face, he wondered once more what had possessed him last night to offer to take the pony. Moreover, earlier on he’d had the opportunity of getting rid of him again and had not taken it.

The pony got bored with her attentions and turned back to Éomer, giving him a nudge in the hope of being given another treat.

“Don’t come begging to me,” Éomer muttered, giving him a pat. “Your true benefactress is over there.”

The princess looked up at that. “That’s not true!”

She slowly stroked the pony’s neck. “I suppose you think me foolish for making such a fuss over a poor creature like this,” she added hesitantly.

“Well…”

“I know my father and brothers do, but they humour me because I’m blind,” she said with some bitterness.

Éomer did not know what to reply, but she did not wait for an answer anyway.

“The thing is, I can’t just walk by while another creature suffers. I’m not brave and strong like you and your sister, I can’t fight wars or slay dragons, but I want to do my bit.”

She gave a defiant sniff and turned her face away.

Éomer was touched. “Well, you know, I didn’t win the war,” he said gently. “Frodo the Halfling did. And if I ever had to face a dragon I would probably get on the nearest horse and make a run for it.”

She laughed at that, just as he had intended.

“Nonsense! The dragon would run.”

Éomer got the feeling that she actually meant it.

At that moment Éowyn came riding up with Oswyn trailing behind her. His squire led Éomer’s own horse, Firefoot, and a pretty grey mare, which he recognised as one of his sister’s riding horses. Éomer nodded in approval at Éowyn. Level headed, sure footed, and with an even disposition, the mare was too lightly built to carry a warrior to battle, but would do well as a lady’s steed.

“Here’s someone we want you to meet,” he said to the princess.

His sister swung down from Windfola and joined them. Firefoot, recognising his master, came trotting up as well, half dragging Oswyn behind him in his eagerness.

Éomer grinned. “I think my own horse wants to meet you first.”

He took the stallion by the head-collar and scratched him under the forelock, just as he knew Firefoot liked it. “Princess Lothíriel, this is Firefoot, my faithful companion.”

The princess hesitantly reached out a hand and the big grey lowered his head and gave a loud snort.

“Behave yourself, she’s a friend,” Éomer said warningly in Rohirric, but the princess just laughed and stroked the velvety skin of his nose.

“He’s big,” she said in wonder as she had to stretch up. “I think he’s even taller than Swift, my father’s horse.”

The stallion swivelled his ears forward at the sound of her voice. The princess did not seem afraid of him at all and held her ground when he nudged her in search of a titbit to eat. Éomer hastily produced an apple from his own pockets before Firefoot inadvertently bowled her over. It would not take much to do so.

“He likes you,” he commented.

“The honour is mine. I like stallions.”

Éomer shot her a quick look. He knew plenty of women in the Mark who would have accompanied that remark with a saucy wink. However, Princess Lothíriel’s face reflected nothing but innocent interest in his horse. He intercepted an amused look from his sister and felt himself colour slightly.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, this glutton is actually not the horse I wanted you to meet.”

His sister led the grey mare over. “This is Winterbreath.” She gently took one of the princess’s hands in her own and placed the reins in it. “She’s yours.”

“What?” Princess Lothíriel stammered.

Éowyn smiled at her surprise. “She’s a gift from us.”

“Oh!” the princess breathed and an expression of longing briefly flitted across her face. But then she shook her head. “I can’t possibly accept her,” she said firmly. But Éomer noticed that she did not let go of the reins.

“Please do,” Éowyn said. “Surely I may give a present to my witness. It’s traditional in Rohan.”

Éomer lifted an eyebrow, for while this was true enough, the traditional gift usually consisted of a small trinket like a pretty ring or a brooch. A royal gift this indeed, and moreover one that had been planned awhile. He had wondered at the time why Éowyn had chosen to bring this particular riding horse along when she only ever rode Windfola.

The princess wavered visibly. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s also meant as a sign of the enduring friendship between Dol Amroth and the Mark,” Éomer interrupted smoothly. “Why don’t you give her an apple,” he added and unearthed another one from his pockets to hand to the princess.

Unlike Firefoot, the mare had very pretty manners and took it neatly, her nostrils barely brushing the princess’s hand. By the look on Princess Lothíriel’s face, Éomer knew that the mare had just found a new owner.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. Then she turned to Éowyn and blindly reached out to hug her.

“You have no idea how happy this makes me. And the fact that it’s you who’s given her to me means that father won’t be able to object either.”

Éowyn patted her back a little awkwardly. “I’m pleased you like her.”

“If your father hasn’t got room in his stables you can leave her here for the time being,” Éomer remarked, although privately he thought that Imrahil would be a lot more likely to find room for the mare than he had been willing to do for poor Galador.

Lothíriel nodded and turned back to stroke her new steed. “What colour is she?”

“The colour of your breath on a chilly winter’s morning, which is where she gets the name Winterbreath from, what we call a dawn grey,” Éomer explained. “A very light grey, that shades into white along the haunches. She has one white stocking, but the other legs are darker and more like ash grey and the mane is darker still, almost smoke grey in fact. Also her head is not really dawn grey, it’s a bit too pale for that, I think you’d call it more like silver grey.”

He stopped at the amused expression on her face. “In other words, she’s grey,” the princess commented dryly. Behind him, Éowyn unsuccessfully smothered a laugh.

“Yes,” he had to agree.

The mare turned her head round in interest as the princess ran her hands all along her neck and down her legs. When she reached her back, the princess stopped in surprise.

“Winterbreath is wearing a saddle.”

Éomer thought it only fair to get his own back. “It’s what you usually do with horses, you ride them,” he answered.

“Ride her! Now? Oh, may I?” she exclaimed.

Éowyn laughed. “Of course you may. That’s why we’ve got our own horses here. I thought we could all go for a ride together. I’ve been stuck too long in camp as it is, it will be nice to get out a bit.”

“I’d love to,” the princess assented eagerly, but then her face fell. “I’m afraid I can’t, though.”

“Why not?” Éomer asked.

She gestured down at the dress she wore. “I’m not wearing a riding skirt, because I don’t need one when riding side-saddle behind my brother. This is just a normal dress.”

Éomer had seen the slashed riding skirts the ladies here in Gondor wore on horseback and had thought them elegant, but not terribly practical. However, he refrained from saying so.

“Aren’t you wearing leggings under your skirt?” he asked.

Blood rushed to the princess’s cheeks and he realized too late that this could be taken as a highly improper question.

“What I meant so say is that surely Éowyn could lend you something to go over them,” he tried to explain.

“Yes, I’m sure we can sort something out,” his sister agreed with barely a quiver in her voice. She linked arms with the princess and nodded to Éomer. “You go ahead and see if any of our other guests want to come along as well. We’ll meet you there.”

His orders received, the King of Rohan went to do as he was told.

*

*

*

A/N: Many thanks to LadyBluejay for correcting this and for Willow-41z and the ladies at the Garden of Ithilien for their comments.

The names Hostsplitter and Clovenhoof are gratefully borrowed from the Welsh Triads of the Horses.

The Wild Rider

Four white stockings, a child will ride you,
Three white stockings, a maid will ride you,
Two white stockings, a bride will ride you,
One white stocking, a queen will ride you.

(Rohirric children’s rhyme)

***

Princess Lothíriel concentrated on her horse, moving from a walk to a gentle trot, and talking to the mare in a soft voice. Éomer felt relieved to see that she had a good seat and held the reins firmly but lightly. Winterbreath listened to her new rider attentively and responded willingly to whatever aid she was given. At first, the princess had almost tried too hard, but after a while she had relaxed and her old reflexes had taken over.

She looked completely different in Rohirric dress. Éomer wondered who normally helped her choose her clothes, since she couldn’t see the colours for herself. Éowyn had lent the princess a white linen blouse; it was of a style his sister particularly favoured. A sleeveless tunic embroidered with small white flowers and a pair of tight-fitting buckskin trousers went with it. In Éomer’s view, the vibrant red of the tunic suited Princess Lothíriel much better than the dull brown dresses she had worn so far.

They had decided to go for a ride to the northern gate of the Rammas Echor, the great wall encircling the Pelennor, and possibly beyond that and along the Great West Road a little way. Not too far, though, as they had to be back in plenty of time for the betrothal dinner later on that evening. Princess Lothíriel’s brothers had been less than thrilled when they had found out about the present given to their sister, but they had both decided to come along. Now they rode on either side of Éowyn and Princess Lothíriel, eyeing their sister almost warily. As for the princess, Éomer did not think she was aware of anything except her horse.

Firefoot snorted impatiently and he leant forward to pat the grey’s neck. The stallion was spoiling for a run, but they were forced to keep to a sedate pace by the sheer size of their party. Not only Lady Annarima and her entire family had decided to come along, but also the two young Gondorian noblemen and rather to his amusement a large contingent of his own riders. He got the impression that they had come mostly to catch a glimpse of the Princess of Dol Amroth. The tale of how he had ended up with an additional packhorse had made the rounds of the camp in no time at all last night. Even his bard had chosen to join their outing.

Éomer watched the two women riding ahead of him, talking animatedly to each other. They might be clad alike, but there the resemblance ended. Éowyn wore her blond hair loose, flowing down her back, whereas the princess had her dark tresses bound into a tight bun at the back of her head. Of course here in Gondor, people associated loose hair with similar behaviour, although the more daring ladies were starting to let a strand of hair escape every now and again. No doubt they felt encouraged by the example set by their beautiful Elven queen.

In fact, one of those more daring ladies rode next to him right at that very moment. As if feeling his eyes on her, Lady Wilwarin looked up and smiled at him.

“What a charming idea to go for a ride, my Lord King,” she said in a soft voice. The white palfrey she rode was gentle and well behaved and as pretty as its mistress.

“It is nice to get out a bit, isn’t it?”

“Especially as the weather is so spring like,” Lady Wilwarin nodded. Her riding habit clung tightly to her curves, leaving her long, slender arms bare.

“And such a lovely horse you have given dear Princess Lothíriel,” she said with a gracious indication of her hand.

“Well, actually it’s Éowyn’s gift,” he had to admit in all honesty.

“How kind of her. The poor princess, she gets about so little.” Lady Wilwarin lowered her voice. “So terribly sad, don’t you think?”

Éomer had long ago learnt not to discuss one woman with another, so he only nodded noncommittally.

Ahead of them, Éowyn laughed. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” she asked her companion.

It pleased him to see that his sister had formed a first tentative friendship in her new homeland. Observing her with the other ladies of the court, he had often been reminded of a hawk amongst a flock of songbirds. Granted, she would probably spend most of her time in Emyn Arnen, helping Faramir rebuild Ithilien, but even so, it was good to see her make new friends.

Princess Lothíriel nodded eagerly. “I’m sure I can manage.”

Elphir drew in a sharp breath. “Lothíriel, I really do not think it a good idea.”

Éomer politely excused himself to Lady Wilwarin for a moment and urged Firefoot forward to join the group. “What idea?”

“Lothíriel would like to go for a short gallop,” Éowyn explained.

Éomer considered the matter while the princess lifted her face to him, a silent look of entreaty on it. Her grey eyes had that slightly unfocused gaze, that seemed to make them even larger and more melting.

Only little-travelled, their road led from the eastern gate near Osgiliath to the northern gate leading onto the Great West Road. From where they were, it ran straight for about two leagues before turning north towards the gate, and he could see no one else on it. Firefoot shifted impatiently, as if sensing his rider’s mood.

“I don’t see why not,” Éomer said slowly, “as long as you’re careful. After all, we’ll be with you.”

Lady Wilwarin had followed him and now leant over towards the princess. “I’m sure it is a delightful idea, but are you certain you are up to it, dear Lothíriel?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the princess replied at once. “I promise to take care.”

Elphir made another sound of protest while Amrothos looked dubious. “I’m not sure you know how to be careful,” he began, only to be interrupted at once by Princess Lothíriel.

“Nonsense! You’re just afraid you’ll be left behind on your slow nag.”

With a grin, she urged her horse to a faster pace and Éowyn joined her, lifting Windfola into a gentle canter. Éomer matched her on Princess Lothíriel’s other side, keeping a close eye on her. Whilst Winterbreath was known for her even temper, horse and rider were still in the process of getting accustomed to each other and he did not want to risk anything.

The princess laughed with sheer delight. “Oh, can we go faster?”

Éomer shot a look back over his shoulder. They had drawn well ahead of the rest of the party, only her two brothers having chosen to follow them.

“Well, perhaps…”

The princess leant down over Winterbreath’s neck, dug her heels into her sides and was off like an arrow shot from a bow. Firefoot neighed and would have followed her, if Éomer hadn’t automatically checked him. For one frozen heartbeat he met Éowyn’s startled glance, then they both urged their horses after the princess. Behind him, he could hear Amrothos swearing furiously.

The princess rode as if wild wolves out of Mordor were after her. A warhorse, Firefoot had been selected primarily for strength and endurance, and although he had considerable speed, the princess had a head start and her horse carried a much lighter burden. Éomer hung on grimly and urged his stallion to greater effort, but he knew he had little hope of catching up with her. Had the horse bolted with her after all?

After a harrowing couple of minutes, Princess Lothíriel straightened up in the saddle and slowed her horse down again. When he drew level with her, she turned a face glowing with happiness towards him.

“Oh, Éowyn!” she exclaimed. “How absolutely wonderful. You have no idea how much I’ve missed having a good run on a horse.”

Éomer bit back the first words rising to his lips. “Princess Lothíriel,” he said, enunciating each word very carefully, “let me make one thing clear to you, …”

She gave him a kind smile. “Oh, it’s you, King Éomer. Wasn’t that fun? Do you know, it’s been over eight years since my last proper ride!”

Éowyn had reached them now, the two princes still trailing behind her. She took just one look at his face, before addressing the princess herself.

“What were you thinking of, Lothíriel? We said to go for a controlled gallop!”

“Not a race across half the Pelennor!” Amrothos put in indignantly.

With a twinge Éomer saw the happiness drain out of the princess’s face, as it finally dawned on her that her companions were displeased with her. Éowyn was right to reprimand her, though. It had been a dangerous and foolish thing to do.

“But you said the road ran straight and clear!” the princess protested. “I fail to see the problem.”

Éowyn exchanged an agonised look with him, obviously unwilling to point out to her new friend that the problem was her being blind. Her two brothers also didn’t quite meet his eyes and let their horses fall back a little, leaving him facing the princess.

He cleared his throat. “Princess Lothíriel, you could easily have fallen and done yourself an injury.”

She twisted the reins in her hands. “I suppose I was a little bit reckless…”

“A little bit?”

She hung her head. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” But then she straightened back up. “However, my brothers can confirm that I’m a good rider.” She turned back in the saddle, as if searching for her brothers. “Can’t you?”

“Well, that’s true enough…” Amrothos got neatly caught between his sister’s confident smile and his brother’s indignant glare.

The princess turned back to Éomer. “See?” she said happily. “But I promise to be careful with my wonderful new horse.”

She leant forward to pat the mare’s neck and Éomer gave up trying to remonstrate with the princess. He would just have to make sure it did not happen again.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked up at him. “I promise to give you warning next time,” she said with an impish smile, “or better still, I’ll give you a head start.”

Éomer was left speechless by this generous offer.

***

Once they had passed the gate in the Rammas Echor, they took a little travelled side path that led them along a stream flowing down from the White Mountains into the Anduin east of them. The area was heavily wooded and as they passed below the forest giants with their low hanging branches, a definite chill in the air reminded them that it was still only spring.

After a while, they reached a large forest glade, where the stream flowed in a gentle curve around a pebbly beach. The opposite bank was steep and thickly covered in ferns and bramble bushes, but on the nearside an expanse of green grass lay like a giant emerald set in the break between the trees. At their arrival, a couple of pheasants were startled into flight and hurriedly took to the cover of the trees.

By common consent, everybody stopped for a break and dismounted. With approval Éomer noticed that Éothain wasted no time in posting sentries all around the clearing. Even in peacetime, you could never be too careful. There had been rumours of occasional orc bands still roaming these forests.

He stretched his arms out contentedly, enjoying the spring air, and watched the ladies choose a sunny spot and settle down on a blanket that a servant had brought along for their use. The meadow was dotted with wild flowers, and in their bright red and blue dresses, they seemed like exotic blooms themselves. Lady Wilwarin’s two young noblemen had disappeared into the forest, mentioning something about looking for game, but she didn’t lack for admirers.

She smiled graciously at a remark Elfhelm had just addressed to her, looking almost like a queen holding court. Éomer had been so busy with his guests – and particularly with the princess – that he had unfortunately not had the opportunity to exchange more than a few words with her.

His squire came up to him to take Firefoot’s reins and lead the stallion over to where his riders were watering their horses. With an amused smile, Éomer noticed that Oswyn had first helped the princess take care of Winterbreath. Apparently his own importance in his squire’s eyes had dropped considerably.

Just as he intended to join the ladies in the warm spring sunshine, Elphir came up to him. “May I have a quick word with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Éomer nodded.

The prince drew him a bit aside. “It concerns that pony,” Elphir explained. “My father would like you to know that we are quite willing to take care of it ourselves. You need not burden yourself with it.”

Éomer shook his head. It continued to amaze him what importance the family of Dol Amroth seemed to attach to the whole affair. As if it mattered that he had another packhorse in his train.

“It’s no trouble at all. Anyway, I promised the princess I’d take care of Galador.”

Elphir shuddered at the name. “If you say so. But please do not get rid of the pony, at least not whilst you are in Gondor.”

Hadn’t the man heard that he had given his word? And moreover, he had the distinct impression that the princess would think nothing of pursuing him all the way to the Riddermark to demand an explanation, if she ever heard of it. He did not think that the prospect of having to face down the King of the Mark in his own hall would deter her at all.

“I won’t,” he said brusquely.

Amrothos had joined them as well. “You see, a nobleman from Dol Amroth adopted a couple of her strays,” he explained, “and afterwards it turned out he had the dogs put down, because they were too much trouble.”

Elphir sighed at the memory. “Lothíriel took Lord Pelendur to task in front of the assembled court, calling him a dishonourable, contemptible scoundrel.”

Éomer gave a curt laugh. “I’m not surprised. In my opinion he deserved it, if he broke his word.”

“I suppose so,” Elphir said, “but let me tell you, it caused quite a stir. Father was upset with her. The way she said it, everybody thought at first that he had, well you know what…” He gave a meaningful look.

Amrothos grinned. “Elphir here threatened to feed him to the fishes. Poor Pelendur still rarely dares to show his face at court, even though nowadays she’s just icily polite to him.”

“Anyway,” he added with a sly grin, “I think we were lucky last night to only end up with a pony.”

“Why?” his brother asked.

“Well, you know, she might instead have decided that the ladies working in the tavern needed rescuing…”

For a moment the three men looked at each other, then they simultaneously burst into laughter.

“I would have liked to see your father’s face at that,” Éomer remarked, sending them into fresh bouts of hilarity.

“What’s so funny?” Éowyn asked from behind them. They stopped laughing abruptly

“It’s rather a complicated joke,” Éomer prevaricated. It sounded lame even to his own ears.

His sister put her hands on her hips and regarded them with narrowed eyes. “Too complicated for me to understand, I suppose,” she said with a lift of her eyebrows.

When they didn’t answer, she turned to Elphir. “I came to ask if you’ve seen your sister?”

Éomer looked over towards where the ladies sat on their blanket and noticed that indeed, the Princess of Dol Amroth was missing. A bolt of alarm shot through him. What had happened? That girl needed a constant minder.

Amrothos waved towards the stream. “I think she took Alphros to have a look at the river.”

“The river!”

When he turned to look, he did in fact see the slim figure of the princess standing on the pebbled beach with her nephew. She had taken her boots off and rolled up the ends of her trousers. Now she stood with her bare feet in the water, laughing at something the boy had said.

“Is it safe?” he asked involuntarily.

Amrothos gave a shrug. “Oh, I don’t think it’s deep there and anyway, she grew up in Dol Amroth and swims like a fish.”

The two bent down now, collecting some of the larger stones. They took turns to balance them atop each other in two piles. Alphros’s laughter rang across the clearing when his aunt’s pile kept falling over. Éomer smiled when he recognised the game as one he had played himself as a boy, called ‘toppling the two towers’ in the Mark. With an unexpected pang of envy he wondered what it would be like to have a wife and son, a family of his own?

That moment, a sudden loud snapping sound from the forest caught their attention. The three men whirled round. It sounded as if something was forcing itself through the undergrowth. Behind them, a horse neighed in alarm.

“What’s that?” Amrothos exclaimed.

The sentries at the edge of the glade had come instantly alert and were scanning the trees. Over on the grass, the captain of his guard, Éothain, exchanged an anxious glance with his king. What was happening?

Then two men stumbled out from between the trees, forcing their way through the thick bushes at a run. Their clothes were torn in places and they were waving their arms about wildly. With a shock, Éomer recognised the two young noblemen who had accompanied Lady Wilwarin.

“Let them through,” Éomer called in Rohirric, when his guards barred their way. With a frightened look over his shoulder, one of the two stumbled towards them.

“King Éomer!” he gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Éomer asked sharply.

His face scratched and bloody, his eyes wide with fear, the man pointed to the forest. “Some sort of animal,” he stammered. “It came after us.”

The horses were neighing and pulling at their reins and several of his men ran to calm them. Something was definitely wrong. At that moment a woman screamed. Éomer looked up to see Lady Annarima pointing in the direction of the river, one hand pressed to her mouth in fright. Then she fainted. Beside him, Amrothos drew his breath in sharply.

His heart plummeting, Éomer looked towards the river.

Again many thanks to LadyBluejay for her betaing skills and Willow-41z and the ladies at GoI for their comments!

Blood in the Water

The mark of the true warrior is to know when to act and to do so swiftly and decisively, throwing his enemies into disarray. He will know how to grasp that moment between recognition and action and turn it to his advantage.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

A warg! And not just any warg, but one of the largest Éomer had ever seen crouched in the water, ready to jump. The fur on its back silvered with age, eyes alight with malice, it surveyed the party gathered in the forest glade. Éomer cursed when he saw that the man who had guarded the opposite side of the stream now lay motionless on the ground. The animal must have crept round the edge of the clearing whilst their attention had been fixed on the two young noblemen.

Beside him, Elphir unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion, but hesitated to move, lest the warg be startled into deadly action. Amrothos cursed steadily under his breath, his eyes locked on his sister.

On the beach, Princess Lothíriel turned to her nephew, a bewildered expression on her face. Please don’t say anything! he thought. Too late.

“Alphros, what’s the matter?”

The warg turned its large head towards them. Éomer saw the little boy shaking with fright.

“Alphros?” the princess asked again, her clear voice carrying across the suddenly silent clearing. One of the women whimpered softly.

If the warg had been able to smile, it would have. Éomer knew that they were far more than just clever animals. No, they possessed an evil intelligence and a lust to inflict as much pain as possible. This one looked like a survivor from the Ring War and the fact that it had chosen to approach from the river, attacking them on their weakest side, showed its cunning. Why hadn’t they brought any archers!

“Keep still,” Éomer commanded in the voice that had carried across the battlefield of the Pelennor, and she froze where she stood, grasping that something must be very wrong indeed. Alphros clutched the edge of her tunic and whispered a few words to her and he saw the blood draining slowly from her face.

Still clutching her boots in one hand and her thin wooden cane in the other, the princess slowly edged forward, and Éomer realized at once that she wanted to put herself between the boy and the beast. A brave thing to do, but probably futile. He had seen wargs tear out a grown man’s throat and then move on to their next victim in less time than it took to draw a sword.

Up in the trees, a magpie scolded loudly at the unwonted disturbance, the only sound to break the tense silence. Éomer had experienced this particular feeling before, being balanced for one breathless moment at the edge of a cliff, before plunging into a whirlpool of violence and bloodshed. His chance to act – if he could take it.

“Firefoot! Here!” he called.

The big grey reacted instantly. He pulled away from Oswyn’s slack grip and in a couple of long strides reached his master. Éomer made a grab for the cantle of the saddle as the stallion ran by. He leapt up, and catching his foot in the near stirrup, used the momentum to swing up. They had practiced this manoeuvre a hundred times, but never before in such deadly earnest. His heart beating furiously, he gripped his legs tightly around the stallion’s sides and reached for his sword.

All the time, Éomer knew that he would be too late. He had to cross the clearing; the warg only had to pounce. As he saw it, his only chance lay in startling the beast so much that it decided to turn tail and run.

He yelled as he drew his sword. Ahead of him, the warg lifted its head, mouth hanging half open as if in a grin, to show a formidable array of sharp teeth. It had not pounced yet, almost as if it wanted to wait until the very last moment to extend the agony of the prey. Or the anguish of the rescuer? No easily startled youngster this, but a veteran fighter and not in the least intimidated. For a heartbeat, the glittering black eyes met Éomer’s, a malignant awareness in them.

At that moment, the princess stepped forward and brought her thin wooden cane down on the warg’s head with so much force that the stick broke in two.

“Alphros, run!” she shouted.

By some lucky chance her cane had smacked on the beast’s sensitive nose. Waving the remaining end, she thrust its jagged edge forward just as the warg swung his head towards her. Stabbed near its eye, the warg yelped with pain and drew back. The beast paused at this unexpected fierceness and Alphros took off at a stumbling run. Éomer shouted again as the warg snarled with renewed rage and turned to savage its chosen victim.

But she had bought Éomer almost enough time. Just a couple of Firefoot’s large strides lay between.

“Lothíriel, drop!” he bellowed.

And the princess, bless her, did exactly as told and threw herself down.

Firefoot’s ironclad hooves struck the ground a fingerbreadth away from her head and then he flew across the prone figure in one mighty jump, meeting the warg’s attack in midair. Éomer swung his sword at the beast’s head, but by incredible reflex, the warg managed to twist aside and avoid the blade.

With a splash Firefoot landed in the shallow water, slipping on the gravel of the streambed, as he attempted to turn around to face his foe. Éomer threw his weight to the left to help the big grey to balance himself, nearly falling off in the process. The stallion found his footing again and charged the warg, who now crouched in the water.

Éomer cursed himself for not having brought his lance with him. Though made for fighting from horseback, his sword had nowhere near the reach of a lance. And it was a bad idea to get too close to a warg whilst fighting. They could rip out a horse’s unprotected belly in a single bite.

But they had battled wargs before and by this time Firefoot shared his master’s fury. He did not make the mistake of rearing up, but instead bore down on the animal with a loud neigh of rage. Threatened by those deadly hooves, the warg lost its nerve and jumped aside, snarling up at the stallion. The wrong move. Now he presented a clear target to Éomer.

Leaning over as far as he could without losing his seat, Éomer put all his strength into one mighty stroke of his sword. Gúthwinë bit so deep into the warg’s throat, that when the beast collapsed, the sword was nearly pulled from his grasp. With a last gurgling snarl the big animal sank into the shallow water, which instantly turned a deep red as its lifeblood washed away.

Getting his excited stallion under control, Éomer interposed himself between the dying warg and the princess behind him, just in case the beast tried one last lunge. A heartbeat later the great carcass lay still.

He looked up to see his men running towards him. They were only halfway across the clearing; the whole fight had taken so little time. One of the young Gondorian noblemen still stood where he had fought his way out from the bushes, looking about him in confusion. Éomer slowly felt the tension draining out of him and brushed his hair from his face. As usual after a battle, sweat soaked him to the skin.

Slowly he dismounted and turned round to see to the princess. On her feet again and with her face drained white, she held the poor splintered cane before her as if ready to ward off further attacks. Éomer took a step towards her.

Then Amrothos reached her and pulled her into his arms. “Lothíriel!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

With a sob, she buried her face against his chest and clung to him. “Is it over?”

Amrothos hugged her tightly. “The beast is dead.”

“Alphros?”

“He’s safe.”

Behind Éomer, Firefoot snorted softly and he turned to look to his steed. The princess deserved some privacy to recover. He quickly checked over the grey’s legs, but to his relief all was well.

He patted Firefoot’s neck, now stained dark with sweat. “Thank you, old friend,” he whispered. The stallion lowered his head and softly blew in his hair. He knew he had done well.

Oswyn came running up to lead the horse away and rub him down. A moment later, his captain, Éothain, came to report. To Éomer’s relief the man guarding the other side of the stream had not been killed as he had at first thought. Apparently the warg had not bothered to finish him off altogether when it had spied more desirable prey. However, the rider had a wound to his head, bleeding copiously, and deep lacerations to one arm. Once bandages had been applied, they needed to get him to a healer as quickly as possible.

He turned to see how the princess fared. She sat on a big boulder, Amrothos beside her with his arm around her shoulders. He went to join them and the prince nodded at him.

“What was it, anyway?” Princess Lothíriel asked her brother.

Éomer tried to imagine what it would have been like, to have a fight going on around her without knowing just what went on. Surely it would be utterly confusing and terrifying.

“A warg,” he said.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were enormous in her chalk white face and he could still see some of the terror lingering in them. Traces of tears streaked her cheeks.

“So it’s true what Alphros said,” she whispered. “I had thought he might be wrong and it was only a wolf.”

“Only a wolf!” Amrothos exclaimed. “One of the biggest wargs I have ever seen! And what were you thinking of, to hit it over the head? That truly angered it.”

“I’m sorry,” the princess apologized. “But I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing to defend poor Alphros. He was shaking with fright.”

She was still clutching the remains of her cane. “A warg! I attacked a warg…” she whispered as if to herself. What little colour she had regained left her face again.

“You did exactly right,” Éomer interrupted with more force than he had intended. Now why did Amrothos look surprised at that, he wondered, couldn’t the man see what a gallant sister he had?

“I would not have reached you in time if you hadn’t distracted the beast for that crucial moment,” Éomer said firmly. “I thought it a very brave thing to do.”

Quite obviously the warg had not expected its diminutive prey to fight back, not knowing that with the Princess of Dol Amroth, size had nothing at all to do with fierceness.

Some of the colour came back into her face, but she shook her head. “Not at all.”

“How did you know where to hit it with your cane?” Éomer asked. He had been wondering if that had just been sheer luck.

She gave a shaky smile. “Oh, that was easy. I could tell from its breathing where to aim and besides, it smelt.”

Éomer shook his head. Easy?

Elphir now joined them, cradling his son in his arms. The little boy sobbed quietly.

“Is that Alphros crying?” the princess asked and got up at once. “Where is Annarima?”

Elphir motioned with his head to where the women clustered around his wife. “She fainted.”

Éomer saw that his sister and Hereswyth, Elfhelm’s wife, tended to Lady Annarima, who was awake now and seemed to be suffering from a bout of hysterics. He decided to leave the matter to them. The Marshall’s wife, an eminently sensible woman, always remained calm. Even when surrounded by her numerous and extremely boisterous offspring, he’d noticed. She would be well able to deal with this.

The princess reached out a hand to hesitantly stroke her nephew’s hair. “Please don’t be afraid, Alphros. You know your father would never let anything bad happen to you.”

“I want to go home,” the little boy demanded tearfully.

“We’ll leave here as soon as we can,” Éomer promised.

The princess seemed to be struck by a sudden thought. “King Éomer thinks you were very brave,” she said, taking a leaf out of his book.

The sobs changed into hiccups and Alphros lifted his head. “Really?”

Éomer knew a cue when he heard one. “Yes, very brave,” he answered at once.

“I told you the men would protect us, didn’t I,” the princess said. “And they did.”

Her voice rang with confidence, but Éomer could see that her hands were still shaking. The sudden urge to go and cut the warg up into small pieces rushed through him. Very small pieces. That beast had died far too quickly, he thought. The depth of his rage surprised him.

However, a better target existed. He motioned to one of his riders. “Those two Gondorian fools, bring them here.”

The man did not need to ask whom he meant and a short while later brought the two young noblemen to face his king. Éomer remembered now that they were the sons of some minor lord from Lebennin. It gave him some satisfaction when he noticed their scratched and bloody faces and torn clothing.

“My Lord King, you wanted to speak to us?” the elder of them stammered, obviously not liking the look on Éomer’s face.

“What were you thinking of, to lead a warg right to a party containing women and children?” he asked without preamble.

The man took a step back. “Truly, I’m sorry. But it came after us! We didn’t know what to do.”

“So you ran,” Éomer stated dryly. He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. All around them, his men had fallen silent and some watched openly.

“I’m sorry.” The man swallowed convulsively.

His younger brother had taken refuge behind him, but he could not hide from Éomer’s gaze there. They were young and obviously unused to responsibility of any sort, but in Éomer’s eyes that did not excuse their thoughtless behaviour. At their age he had already led his own éored. Knowing that his decisions could mean life or death for the men under his command had been a sobering experience.

By now, the only sound to be heard was muffled sobbing from Lady Annarima’s direction. He enjoyed letting the silence stretch almost to breaking point.

“The next time, you will either use your heads or your swords,” he finally said, his voice so low that they had to bend forward to hear him, “but you will never again – I repeat: never again - endanger anybody who is riding under my protection. Is that clear?”

He put the lash of the whip into those last words, making them jump.

“Yes, King Éomer,” they both nodded.

He had not finished with them yet, though. “Good. You can stay here after we’ve left and flay the carcass. I want the pelt.”

He didn’t really, but he thought it might teach them a lesson. They looked suitably alarmed.

“But what if there’s more of them?” one of them asked.

“Climb a tree,” Éomer advised him.

Éowyn and Hereswyth had calmed Lady Annarima sufficiently that they could think of making their way back to their camp. Another brief delay ensued when Alphros refused to sit behind his mother, insisting that he was not a baby and could ride his own pony. Elphir solved the matter by simply telling his wife that the boy would be better off riding on his own. Lady Annarima pressed her lips together, but kept her peace.

He had half expected Princess Lothíriel to want to ride behind her eldest brother, but she gamely mounted Winterbreath again and actually seemed to take comfort in the company of the mare. She even managed to smile at Oswyn when he led the horse up for her.

With everybody mounted so they could finally leave, Éomer cast a last look back. The two young noblemen stood by the dead warg, clutching their swords and watching it nervously. Almost as if they expected the animal to come alive again at any moment. Good, he thought.

As they filed out of the clearing he happened to find himself riding next to Lady Wilwarin.

“What a dreadful thing to occur,” she said softly. “I nearly fainted away at the sight of that beast.”

Éomer felt glad she hadn’t. One fainting woman quite sufficed, but he didn’t deem it tactful to tell her so.

“I’m sorry you were frightened,” he said instead.

She cast him a look from under her eyelashes. “Well, I knew I was safe under your protection.”

Painfully aware just how false that statement had nearly turned out to be, Éomer couldn’t bring himself to give the expected gallant answer.

Lady Wilwarin went on regardless. “You were so brave, attacking that horrible creature. My heart nearly stopped with fright, watching you.”

Éomer found he had no taste for conversation. “You are mistaken,” he replied curtly. “It wasn’t I who was brave today.”

With a nod, he excused himself and urged Firefoot forward, wishing to check on how his injured rider fared.

***

Back in the clearing only the trampled ground and the big mound of the warg’s carcass in the river bore witness to what had happened. The two noblemen had tried to drag it to higher ground, but it had been too heavy. Now they stood in the water, their feet wet and cold, and did their best to skin the beast with their hunting knives.

Up on the other side of the riverbank, Muzgâsh watched them from between the heavy undergrowth. Once the Rohirrim had left, he and his men had climbed down from the trees from where they had observed the fight. One of his two guards lifted the bow he carried and cast a questioning look at his master. Briefly tempted to have the Gondorians killed, Muzgâsh decided against it. Their disappearance might put the King of Rohan on his guard and that was the last thing he wanted.

He shook his head and soundlessly led the way back into the forest, to where they had tethered their horses. He had plenty of food for thought. It seemed the reports of the King of Rohan’s prowess as a warrior were not exaggerated after all. The man had moved with a speed that belied his size and a ruthlessness worthy of Muzgâsh himself. Also, it would be no easy thing to get near him. His guards had been alert and well positioned, even though they had been taken by surprise by the warg – just as much as his own men had been, in fact. And his horse seemed to be a force to be reckoned with on its own.

It would take cunning and patience to find a way to get near the man. Fortunately Muzgâsh possessed both. He would study the King of Rohan and find the chink in his armour. The Men of the West were weak. Just look at the way he had risked his life for a mere woman.

Muzgâsh rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. It would not be all that difficult to get within bow range and one of his men had suggested simply shooting the king of the Rohirrim. But the rules were clear on that. If Muzgâsh wanted to prove his worth, he had to kill the other man in a hand-to-hand fight. Besides, he wanted the King of Rohan to recognize his slayer, wanted to see the realization of why he was being killed in the dying man’s eyes.

He had promised the shade of his father: a king for a king.

Many thanks once again to LadyBluejay for her betaing skills and Willow-41z and the ladies at GoI (Gwynnyd, Sulriel, Oshun, Greywing) for their sage comments.

Snake Fish

I swim in the water, yet no fish I am.
I slither through the grass, yet no snake I am.
The sea spawns me, yet its salt kills me.
Do not try to catch me, for your hands cannot hold me.

(Rohirric riddle)

***

Wilwarin studied her reflection in the mirror, quickly smoothing out a frown lest it cause a permanent wrinkle to form. Her dress fell in a shimmering length of bright scarlet to the floor and the flimsy butterfly silk of the sleeves allowed a tantalising glimpse of graceful, white arms. Womanly armour, she thought, only unlike real armour it was designed to give the opponent a glimpse of what lay beneath. Tonight she aimed for elegant yet enticing, remote one moment and provocative the next.

A knock on the door to her room heralded the entrance of her mother. Lady Silivren took one look at her and clapped her hands together.

“You are so beautiful, my sweet!”

Wilwarin looked back at the mirror. Her face was a perfect oval, framed by a pair of curls she had very daringly let escape from the rest of the hair piled up on her head. It had taken her maid over an hour to achieve the deceptively simple style, as if the removal of a pin or two might bring the whole gorgeous mass tumbling down.

The daughter of a minor lord from Lamedon, Wilwarin hailed from a sleepy backward valley, but she had left it behind her long ago. Moreover she had no intention of ever returning there, either. But while her beauty had brought about a gratifying number of offers of marriage from Gondorian lords, she had set her sights higher. After all, if her sister could become a princess, why shouldn’t she dream of similar advancement?

She picked up a small tortoiseshell box from a low side-table to the side. It contained a supply of finely ground malachite, imported at great cost from the south. She took a tiny amount with one fingertip and applied it very carefully to her eyelids. Stepping back, she admired the effect in the mirror. The green colour perfectly matched her eyes, making them seem even more sparkling than they naturally were.

Her mother gave a sigh of contentment. “You look like a queen.”

Wilwarin snapped the box shut. “I intend to be one.”

Her mother regarded her with some alarm. “You’re not still upset about this afternoon?”

Upset? No, she was furious when she thought of the way she had been upstaged by that girl. Not even one of the other ladies of the Gondorian court - veterans at the game they were playing - but a twenty-year-old innocent. Some of her emotions must have shown in her face, for her mother clucked worriedly.

“Don’t let it worry you, my sweet. She’s no competition for you! Why, you are much more beautiful and accomplished.”

“She’s a princess, the daughter of one of his best friends,” Wilwarin reminded her mother.

“But blind as a bat!”

Wilwarin closed her eyes for a moment. “Can’t you see? That’s exactly the point,” she flashed. “He feels sorry for her!”

Her mother shrugged. “Well, of course he does, but -”

“He feels sorry for her and takes an interest in her,” Wilwarin interrupted her. “Who knows where that will lead? He might end up offering her marriage out of sheer pity. After all, it doesn’t take sight to perform the most important task of a bride.”

She stopped herself from saying anything further and took a deep breath. A glance at the mirror revealed an unbecoming pair of red spots on her cheeks. It would not do to be seen like this. She forced the accustomed mask of cool courtesy back over her features.

“The girl is dangerous.” She nodded at her mother. “But unless I’m completely mistaken she is also an innocent. I was taken by surprise today, but I won’t be again.”

She selected a thin gold chain from the array of jewellery laid out ready for her by her maid. On it hung a pendant, an emerald framed by small pearls, the gift of an admirer. As she slipped the chain over her head she noticed with satisfaction that the sparkling stone drew the gaze exactly to where she wanted it to be drawn. Gondorian nobleman, Rohirric king – in the end they were just men.

She gave her corsage a gentle tug to pull it even lower and with a last glance at the mirror turned to her mother. By habit she drew herself up to assume her usual dignified bearing, moving with a slow gliding movement like a warship under full sail.

“Let’s go.”

The battle had only just begun and she had never been one to give up easily. She might have been born without the advantages that high rank provided, but intended to make up for it with sheer determination. After all she deserved to be Queen of Rohan.

***

Lothíriel tugged at the plunging neckline of her dress. “Are you sure this is right?” she asked her maid. “It seems awfully low.”

Hareth chuckled. “Just leave it be. It is nothing compared to what some of the other ladies will be showing.”

Lothíriel slowly turned around in a circle, enjoying the whisper of the cool silk and the feeling of it gently brushing against her legs. For once she wished she could see herself in a mirror. Dear, frivolous Faelivren, her brother Erchirion’s wife, had given this dress to her as a birthday present last year, saying the vivid sea blue would bring out the colour of her eyes. She had been touched by her sister-in-law’s consideration when Faelivren had explained how the sleeves were closefitting so they would not catch anywhere and that for the same reason she had specified that the skirt should come without a train, although that was all the rage at the moment.

Usually her aunt Ivriniel ordered her dresses for her and she tended to choose practical and conservative outfits in dull colours that would not show stains. While Lothíriel agreed with the sense of that, she also enjoyed wearing a truly pretty gown every now and again. Moreover, it would give her the confidence needed amongst so many strangers. Whenever she attended one of her father’s entertainments in Dol Amroth, she could never shake off the impression that everybody was secretly watching her, waiting for the next misstep of the poor, blind princess.

“You look very pretty,” her maid commented.

Lothíriel laughed and reached out to give her a hug. Hareth had looked after her ever since she had been a small girl, in easy and in difficult times.

“Thank you!”

Somebody knocked at the door and Hareth went to answer it.

“Are you ready yet?” her father asked as he stepped into the room.

Lothíriel swept him an extravagant curtsy. “Yes, my Lord Prince, I am.”

A moment’s silence ensued. “You look lovely,” her father said with a catch in his voice.

Sobered, Lothíriel wondered if she somehow reminded him of her mother, whose early death had sorrowed him so profoundly.

“Father?” She took a step towards him, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet.

He took her arm and steadied her. “Do be careful and move slowly,” he reminded her, his voice back to normal. “We have to go now if we want to be on time.”

He father had brought a new cane for her, the old one having been broken when she hit the warg with it. It was not the first to suffer this fate, however, so he always had replacements ready.

The rest of the family waited for them in the forecourt and once everybody had assembled, they could leave. Being on the sixth level, their town house lay very close to the underground passage leading up to the entrance of the Citadel, so they didn’t have far to go. They were not the only ones arriving, and the tunnel echoed with the other guests’ voices and soft laughter.

Once they reached the Place of the Fountain, they turned right towards the entrance to Merethrond, the great Hall of Feasts. As children they had had the run of the Citadel and its gardens and Lothíriel knew the place intimately. One night she had even secretly sneaked a look through one of the high windows placed all along the side of the hall - she’d had to climb a tree to do so. There had been a reception given for the ambassador of Harad. The finery of the ladies in their colourful gowns had impressed her deeply and the ambassador had been simply magnificent in a sweeping crimson robe with a lion’s pelt draped across his shoulders. Little had she known that the next time she would be here, it would be as one of the guests.

Actually, she considered it nothing short of a miracle that her father allowed her to attend the celebration at the Citadel at all. He had been very much shocked when he had heard about the events of the afternoon and would have liked her to retire to bed at once to ‘sleep off the fright’, just like Alphros. Lothíriel had been briefly tempted by the thought of being able to avoid the evening’s entertainment. However, it was Éowyn and Faramir’s betrothal dinner and surely as a witness at their wedding she would be expected to attend. After Éowyn’s kind treatment by giving her such a wonderful horse, attending seemed the least Lothíriel could do to honour her.

She had pointed this out to her father and the ensuing discussion had lasted over an hour and had, at one point or other, involved every member of the family. In Lothíriel’s opinion the only good thing resulting from it was the fact that her father had been too preoccupied to object to the presence of Winterbreath in his stables. In a surprisingly short time a space had been found for the mare, much to her satisfaction.

The other courtiers must have made way for the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family once they recognized him, because in a very short time they entered the hall itself. The low hum of hundreds of people talking to each other emanated from it, reminding her of a huge beehive. Inside the hall, the air was hot from the many candles it took to light the huge space and the mingled scents of beeswax and various perfumes almost made her feel sick.

“I’m going to introduce you to King Elessar and Queen Arwen first,” her father told her.

Lothíriel nodded. She knew that once all the important guests had arrived, a banquet would be served, followed by music and dancing until the early hours of the morning. Her father led her through the throng of people, only exchanging a short word of greeting every now and again. After the third time, Lothíriel gave up trying to recognize the people he spoke to, the background noise being just too much, and she contented herself with smiling politely. Then they ascended a couple of steps and the noise level seemed to drop slightly. Her father stopped.

“My Lord King, my Lady Queen,” he said, “may I present my daughter.”

Lothíriel sank into a deep curtsey. Panic suddenly swept through her at the thought that she did not know if her father had told their liege about her blindness. She secretly cherished the hope of being able to stay in Minas Tirith as one of Queen Arwen’s ladies-in-waiting, so she wanted to make a good impression.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith, Princess Lothíriel,” King Elessar said, his voice strong and resonant. A man used to command.

Black and silver, shot through her mind, but then the queen greeted her and Lothíriel forgot everything else. She tried to grasp the quality of her voice, yet it eluded her like clear water running through her fingers. All colours, yet none, perpetually changing, yet constant and true.

Lothíriel concentrated so hard on trying to decide what colour would be appropriate to her queen’s voice that the meaning of the words completely passed her by. Still listening to the last fading echoes, she suddenly became aware of the fact that everybody waited for an answer from her.

“You have such a beautiful voice, do you sing?” she said the first thing that came into her mind. Then she blushed violently at her breach of protocol. You were not supposed to ask questions of your queen!

“Forgive me,” she stammered.

Queen Arwen laughed: sunlight streaming through new leaves in spring. The huge autumn moon setting over the Western Sea. Starlight on a clear winter’s night. Lothíriel gave up trying to find a comparison.

“Yes, I sing,” the Elf said. “Do you like music, Princess Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel nodded. “Very much.”

“Tell me, Imrahil,” the king addressed her father. “Is it true what I heard about an attack by a warg this afternoon?”

“It is indeed,” her father answered.

Once more, the incident was discussed in exhaustive detail. Lothíriel got the impression that the King of Gondor took it as a personal insult that the beast had slipped through the guard his rangers maintained all along the borders. His voice sounded grim when he questioned her father as to what exactly had happened.

“Unfortunately I wasn’t there,” her father explained, “but here comes Éomer.”

Not only the King of Rohan, but also the bridal couple arrived at that moment. Lothíriel was overjoyed to meet her cousin at last.

“Faramir!” she exclaimed. A moment later she was swept up into an embrace.

“My little cousin. Only just arrived and already in trouble I hear!”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault,” she protested as he set her down again.

“Princess Lothíriel,” the King of Rohan interrupted them. “How are you feeling?”

She smiled up at him. “I’m fine,” she assured him. Why did everyone treat her like they expected her to faint away at the mere mention of the attack? “It takes more than a warg to stop me.”

Even her father laughed at that, but he soon sobered again. “Éomer, my friend, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t,” the King of Rohan replied quickly. “I was only doing my duty. I’m sorry the princess had to endure such an ordeal.”

“Did you see where the beast came from?” King Elessar asked.

King Éomer explained about the two noblemen disturbing the warg while looking for game. Lothíriel suddenly wondered whether they were back yet or still out there in the dark forest somewhere. When the King of Rohan had reprimanded them, she would not have exchanged places with them for anything in the world. His voice had gone so cold and hard that she had shivered at it and she only hoped that he would never find occasion to speak to her in that tone.

At that moment, a fanfare echoed through the hall.

“The signal that the evening meal is served,” King Elessar explained.

The noise level rose again as people started to make their way towards the end of the hall where the tables had been put up. Lothíriel hesitated. She assumed she would sit at the head table, but had no idea next to whom she would be placed. Where had her father gone?

“Princess Lothíriel,” the King of Rohan addressed her, “may I have the honour of taking you in to dinner?”

She gratefully took his arm. “Yes please. I have no idea of where I am sitting.”

He laughed. “I promise to make sure you end up in the right place. Since we’re the witnesses at her wedding, I believe we’ll be sitting to the left of my sister.”

This came as a welcome surprise. Lothíriel had known Faramir had asked the King and Queen of Gondor to be his witnesses, but she’d had no idea whom else Éowyn had chosen. It made her feel more confident of her prospects of surviving the wedding ceremony without any major mishaps.

Taking his time and not rushing her like her brothers sometimes did, he led her across the hall and then settled her in her chair at the table.

“Here we are,” he said as he sat down to her right. “And I promise not to move your wineglass.”

Lothíriel smiled at that. Suddenly last night’s incident at the dinner table seemed funny rather than embarrassing. He really had a gift of making people comfortable and relaxed in his presence.

“And I will do my best not to spill it all over you,” she promised in her turn.

He proceeded to explain how the tables were laid out and where the rest of her family were sitting. Then the servants served the first course, small fluffy pastries filled with asparagus.

Lothíriel knew what to expect, because this time she’d taken the precaution of sending her maid to find out what kind of dishes would be served and in what order. It was a long and complicated menu, but she had plenty of experience in memorizing that kind of thing. In fact, it had been one of her father’s bards who had shown her how to go about it. The trick was to imagine the picture of a place and then put all the items in it. As you mentally walked through this imaginary site, you were reminded at each turn of what you had placed there. The bard had explained that he used this method to memorize complicated ballads and Lothíriel had found it very useful. It was customary to use the picture of a house for this, but she had instead chosen the image of a maze like the one in the Citadel’s garden.

However, it did not help her locate the food once it had been placed on her plate. When the servant had withdrawn, she carefully reached out a hand to feel the rim of her plate, only to realize that it was much too big to be hers alone. Of course, she told herself, this was a betrothal dinner and the guests were expected to share a platter in the traditional manner, just like the bridal couple did. It would not make things any easier for her, though. She just hoped the King of Rohan would not be offended when she used her fingers to unobtrusively feel for her food.

“May I offer you a pastry?” King Éomer asked.

On second thoughts, maybe it would not be quite so bad. “Yes please,” she answered and held out her hand.

But instead of placing the expected pastry in it, the King of Rohan picked up her hand and gave a soft exclamation.

“You were hurt!” His voice had gone grim again.

Lothíriel had completely forgotten about the graze she had suffered on the palm of one hand when she had thrown herself to the ground that afternoon.

“Oh, please, it’s nothing.”

She had not even noticed the abrasion at first and now that her maid had put some ointment of comfrey on it, the cuts would heal quickly. Indeed, it seemed silly to cause a fuss about it when she had so nearly lost her life.

King Éomer turned her hand over to have a closer look, his touch warm and unexpectedly gentle. “I’m sorry.”

Lothíriel recognized the attitude at once from her father and brothers. Another man who thought himself responsible for all the world’s cares, unable and unwilling to accept that some things just were outside his control. A strength and a weakness both, life had taught her.

“Don’t be,” she replied, only to be suddenly struck by the realization that she had never even thanked him properly for saving her life. Did he think her ungrateful?

“My Lord King,” she began, “Forgive me for not thanking you earlier for rescuing me...”

“Please,” he cut her off at once. “I promised your father to deliver you back safely. You were under my protection. Indeed, I blame myself for not taking archers along.”

“Well, you couldn’t have known we would be attacked on a pleasure ride, could you,” she pointed out.

“Even so, I should have taken precautions.” He gently put her hand down. “It’s difficult when others have to pay the price.”

“You mean your injured rider?” She ventured. “How is he?”

“He will live. I stopped at the Houses of Healing to check on him, but they had drugged him with poppy juice.” He hesitated. “The healers had to amputate the arm the warg mangled, though.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” The words sounded terribly inadequate and Lothíriel felt guilty at the thought that the man had been hurt while watching over her.

“Guthlaf doesn’t know yet. I will have to go and speak to him in the morning.”

Guthlaf - no longer just a nameless rider. Lothíriel wondered if he had a family waiting for him back in Rohan.

“May I come along?” she asked impulsively.

“Come along? Why?”

She had forgotten her determination to never again set foot inside the Houses of Healing. But this was more important. “I would like to thank him for guarding me,” she explained.

The King of Rohan hesitated a long time. “It might be unpleasant,” he warned her.

“I know.”

Still he hesitated.

“Please?”

“Very well.” And it seemed to Lothíriel that his voice warmed with approval.

They were interrupted by a servant serving the second course, stewed rabbit on a bed of spring greens. Once more, Lothíriel had to concentrate on eating. She would not embarrass herself in front of the whole court of Gondor by getting stains on her beautiful new dress. To her relief, King Éomer did not expect her to keep up polite conversation while doing so, but just let her get on with this difficult task. A companionable silence settled between them and Lothíriel found herself relaxing.

Stripes of duck in a fig sauce, suckling pig stuffed with fresh herbs, pheasant in a sour cherry sauce and all the little side dishes went by without mishap. Next it would be the partridge pies and then at last the almond and honey cakes that would ring in the round of sweets that concluded the banquet.

When the servant had withdrawn, she cautiously reached out a hand to feel for the pies, but encountered a sticky substance instead. She quickly withdrew her fingers and surreptitiously wiped them on her napkin. What had that been?

Her dismay must have shown. “Is something the matter, Princess Lothíriel?” King Éomer enquired.

For a moment she considered just saying she wasn’t hungry anymore, but then she decided to tell him the truth. “I have no idea what’s on our plate.”

“Jellied eel, I think,” he enlightened her.

Eel? She quickly ran through the list of dishes she had memorized. “That’s impossible!”

He seemed amused. “Why? Isn’t eel served at Gondorian tables?”

“According to the menu, it should be partridge pies.”

“How do you know?” he asked back.

She quickly recited all the items from her memory. “See?” she concluded triumphantly, “No mention of eels anywhere.”

“Did you memorize all that in advance?” the King of Rohan asked, disbelief in his tone.

“Of course. I always do.”

“But why? Why not simply ask for help?”

Lothíriel bit her lip. He wouldn’t understand, nobody did. “I don’t want to be dependant on somebody else all the time,” she tried to explain, feeling unexpected bitterness. “When was the last time you had to ask for help?”

A short silence fell and Lothíriel mentally berated herself for letting her feelings get the better of her.

“Last winter,” King Éomer suddenly said in a low voice.

Lothíriel frowned. What did he mean by that?

“Last winter,” he repeated, “I had to go begging to Aragorn and your father for food to tide us over the winter. We would have starved else, for Saruman had destroyed most of our supplies.”

“Oh!” She’d had no idea of this. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted her. “I will do whatever it takes to have my people survive. But,” his voice softened, “I can appreciate why you would not want to ask for help. Sometimes taking is much more difficult than giving.”

He did understand! “I hate being helpless and depending on the men for rescue all the time,” she burst out. “Sometimes, I wish I were able to fight.”

Lothíriel remembered saying good-bye to her father and brothers when they set out for what they thought would be their final battle in Minas Tirith. She had wanted nothing so much as to kill some orcs herself, for daring to threaten her family.

He sighed. “Fighting and killing is what I’m good at, yet at times I’m still helpless. I was unable to protect my own sister from the machinations of my uncle’s advisor.”

“But at least you can do something.”

“I know. But even now that I am king, there is still famine and illness, orc raids…” He sighed again. “So many times we are too late. In fact I would have been too late today, if you hadn’t acted for yourself and distracted that warg.”

Lothíriel shuddered at the memory. The worst had been the stink of rotting meat emanating from the beast and not knowing what she faced. “I just acted by reflex,” she waved his words aside.

“In that case you have good reflexes. Most women would just have stood there, too frightened to do anything. Or else have fainted.”

She shrugged the compliment away. “I simply didn’t have the time for that.”

He laughed. “Well, if you can stand up to a warg, you should also be able to ask for help when faced with something you do not recognize being placed on your plate.”

Lothíriel had to grin. “In a way that’s infinitely more difficult,” she admitted. King Éomer chuckled.

“Tell you what,” he said after a moment in a much lighter tone, “Shall we make a pact and arrange a signal for when you actually do need help?”

“A signal?”

“Yes. Just mention eels and Rohan will ride to the rescue.”

Lothíriel laughed. “Like the beacons of Anórien, my Lord King?”

“Exactly!” he replied. “And will you call me Éomer? All my friends do.”

Lothíriel was sure her cheeks betrayed her blushing. “I’d be honoured to.”

A/N: Concerning the riddle: eels are spawned from eggs in the sea and once they have reached a certain size begin to travel up the rivers, even slithering overland at times. Once they’re adult they will return to the sea, mate and die there.

As always many thanks to my beta, LadyBluejay and also to Willow-41z and the ladies of GoI (Pen52, Sulriel, Gwynnyd, Greywing) for their comments.

Emerald Eyes

Eyes like emeralds, shining bright,
Teeth like pearls, that catch the light,
Hair like onyx, midnight fall,
Smile like diamonds, captures all.

(Anonymous admirer: Paean to Lady Wilwarin)

***

Lothíriel certainly didn’t lack for partners. Éomer watched with amusement as a Gondorian lord, a friend of Elphir’s, forestalled Cadda from taking a turn on the dance floor with her. Like himself, the bard did not usually show any interest in dancing, but he seemed to take a kind interest in Lothíriel.

Éomer had partnered her for the traditional opening dance, but had then thankfully retired to the sidelines to enjoy a glass of wine, talk to his friends and watch the ladies. Being the nephew of the King of the Mark, he had been obliged to master Gondorian dances, but had never truly enjoyed doing so. However, since tonight they celebrated Éowyn’s betrothal, there should also be some Rohirric dances performed later on. These were rather more energetic affairs and he looked forward to them – with the right partner.

“Well, Éomer,” Faramir said next to him, following his glance, “Now that you’ve met my cousin, let me give you some advice: don’t let her foist any animals on you.”

Éomer groaned when he saw the other man’s evil grin. “You’ve heard,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

Faramir laughed. “Éowyn told me all about it, but I have to admit the speed at which this happened surprised even me. I thought I’d be able to give you ample warning.”

Éomer shrugged. “Against some things, warnings are in vain anyway.”

“When that mood takes her, Lothíriel does resemble a force of nature,” Faramir agreed. They exchanged a rueful grin.

Two lines of dancers had formed now and as the stately cadences of a Gondorian court dance filled the hall, the men bowed and the ladies curtsied. Briefly, there was some confusion when Lothíriel couldn’t find her assigned place. Éomer would have started forward, but Faramir put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Watch.”

Half a dozen men leapt to her aid, amongst them both her brothers. Éomer caught a quick glimpse of Lady Annarima, looking annoyed at being abandoned by her husband like that. Then Lothíriel was shown her place and the dance could continue.

Faramir laughed. “You see, where other women collect admirers, my cousin collects champions.”

Éomer watched with interest as the princess executed the complicated dance steps with neat precision.

“How does she do it?” he asked, intrigued.

Faramir took a sip from his glass and watched his cousin thoughtfully. “Sheer determination, I think. I remember when for a while everybody played a board game from the south called Shah. She did not rest until she was able to beat all her brothers at it. The same with dancing, Lothíriel used to spend hours and hours practicing, determined to please her father. She knows the steps by heart and she just expects you to be in the right place - so that’s where you’d better be.”

Éomer nodded. When dancing with him, the princess had seemed completely relaxed, trusting him to make sure they would not collide with any of the other dancers. He wondered if she would like Rohirric dances, in which you held your partner round the waist and whirled around the dance floor with her.

Faramir swirled the wine round in his glass, staring down at it. “I hope Lothíriel will be able to stay in Minas Tirith for a while. Who knows, she might even meet someone and settle down here.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t she rather young for that?”

“Yes and no. The thing is, her family underrates her. I believe she would be quite capable of running a small household if she married some minor lord. Down in Dol Amroth, she reminded me of a bird kept in a gilded cage.”

“Ah! So Éowyn asking her to be her witness was your idea?”

“I went on a visit down to Dol Amroth last winter,” Faramir explained. “Lothíriel spoke of her wish to come to Minas Tirith, but Imrahil proved adamant about not letting her come.”

He shot Éomer a grin. “However, your sister’s prestige carried all before her.”

Éomer grinned back. The reverence, bordering on awe, that Éowyn was held here in Gondor never failed to amuse him. Slayer of the Witch King or not, he had seen her looking dirty and grubby too many times when a child for him to think of her as anything but his little sister.

“The horse was Éowyn’s idea, though,” Faramir added. “I didn’t know about it, or I would have warned you. On a horse Lothíriel is absolutely fearless, even after all that has happened.”

Éomer hesitated a moment, but then his curiosity got the better of him. “What did happen? She mentioned an accident.”

Faramir’s face darkened. “Yes, eight years ago, here in Minas Tirith. I suppose in a way it all began with her mother’s death. Beruthiel was so light-hearted and beautiful, and when she died of a fever…” He sighed. “For a while Imrahil seemed to go away. Here in body, but not in spirit. It’s difficult to describe.”

“I know what you mean,” Éomer interrupted him. Too well did he remember his mother’s grief at his father’s death. She had just faded away, unwilling or unable to fight the illness that finally claimed her life.

“Lothíriel went wild with grief, getting more and more reckless and not listening to anybody,” Faramir went on. “Then one day Amrothos challenged her to a race on the Pelennor, and she took it in her head to ride Tempest, Imrahil’s warhorse.” He stopped.

“What happened?”

“I was away on patrol at the time. But from what I heard, the horse got into a fight with another stallion over a mare. He threw Lothíriel and she hit her head against a rock. At first the healers thought she had just broken an arm and a couple of her ribs, but when she regained consciousness she had lost her sight. Nobody knows why.” He frowned. “The guards at the gate should have stopped her, of course, but she charmed her way past them. My uncle was furious with them and with the stable boys, Amrothos, the stallion…he had Tempest put down, you know.”

“What!”

Faramir sighed. “Lothiriel cried her eyes out when she heard of it and refused to speak to her father for a long time afterwards. I think most of all Imrahil was furious with himself. But at least that brought him back. And then of course we had all that trouble with the Haradrim as well.” He bit his lip as if he’d said more than he had intended to.

“What have the Haradrim got to do with it?”

Faramir hesitated. “You have to understand, those were desperate times. My father hoped to forge an alliance with Harad and had offered their king a suitable bride for one of his sons…”

Éomer couldn’t believe his ears. “Lothíriel? Surely she didn’t give her consent to that? Why, she couldn’t have been older than twelve years anyway!” He forced himself to relax his hands that had involuntarily curled into fists.

“The marriage wouldn’t have been consummated straight away,” Faramir said defensively and then shook his head. “You are right. I don’t know why I’m still trying to justify my father’s actions. I suppose the plan arose out of his growing desperation, only he could not offer a blind princess to the Haradrim as a suitable bride. When Imrahil found out about it, he quarrelled with my father and took Lothíriel home to Dol Amroth, swearing she would never return to Minas Tirith.”

The sight of his sister laughing with Arwen caught Éomer’s eye. Would he have sacrificed Éowyn to buy peace with the Dunlendings? He did not have to think about the answer to that for a single moment. Did the fact that he would rather fight them to the last man than sell her into that kind of slavery make him a lesser king? He thought not.

“Does Lothíriel know about it?” he asked.

“I don’t think she did at the time.” Faramir shrugged. “But I’m sure she heard all the gossip about it afterwards.”

Éomer shook his head in disbelief. “Surely Imrahil wouldn’t have gone along with that plan?”

“With a treaty signed and when breaking it might mean war with the Haradrim? Or worse, strife within Gondor itself - I don’t know.” Éomer saw Faramir’s fingers tighten around the stem of his glass until they were white. “That’s what my father counted on, you know. For the good of Gondor, he used everyone harshly and himself most harshly of all. In a way Lothíriel was lucky that day.”

Lucky? These Gondorians had a strange idea of luck.

“Oh, dear!” a woman exclaimed softly behind him at that moment and Éomer whirled round, old instincts once more coming to the fore.

It was no enemy behind him, though, but Lady Wilwarin. When she spotted him, she gave him a beseeching look.

“Oh, my Lord King, would you be so kind as to help me?”

She had caught her dress on the leg of one of the chairs provided for the elderly guests, but Éomer freed it without any problems. A brilliant smile rewarded him.

“Thank you so much for coming to my rescue,” Lady Wilwarin said. A little fan dangled from her wrist and now she opened it and fanned herself. “It’s just so hot in here, don’t you agree? I thought to go for a stroll in the garden.” She shot him an inviting look out the side of her eyes.

By his side, Faramir coughed. “I think Éowyn wants me,“ he excused himself with an amused glance at the two of them.

Éomer stepped forward and offered Lady Wilwarin his arm. “May I accompany you?”

“Please do.”

A slight shake of his head at his guards kept them from following him out the hall. After all, he was well able to look after himself.

They left by of the small side doors spaced at even intervals all along the side of the hall. Outside, dozens of small, colourful lamps dotted the gardens of the Citadel and they were not the only ones to stroll along the paved paths leading between flowerbeds and low bushes. When Éomer had ridden up from their camp, he had noticed clouds building up over the mountains to the west, but for the moment the air was balmy and still.

“Shall we go for a walk along the wall? Lady Wilwarin suggested.

Éomer assented and they took one of the smaller paths that led to a flight of stairs hewn into the stone of the big wall encircling the Citadel. The stairs were uneven and at one point Lady Wilwarin stumbled and had to hold on tight to his arm.

“How clumsy of me!” she laughed.

He took hold of her elbow and helped her up the last steps. “Not at all,” he reassured her. The flimsy silk of her sleeves brushed against his fingers.

A low parapet ran the whole length of the wall walk, and leaning against it, they enjoyed a sweeping view of the Pelennor and beyond that, of the Anduin glittering like a ribbon of liquid silver in the moonlight.

He stole a glance at the woman beside him. An exquisite profile: gently arched brows, small straight nose, dainty chin and lips curved in a charming smile. She took a deep breath and the emerald pendant resting on her flawless, white skin sparkled in the muted light.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked.

“Yes,” he agreed, not so much thinking of the view, however.

A small smile seemed to play around her lips. “Is it possible to see your camp from here?”

Éomer pointed out the road leading from the main gate towards the northern gate of the Rammas Echor. “It’s along that road there. You can see a circle of campfires.”

She took hold of his arm again, stood on tiptoe and leant closer to him, to get a better bearing. Her dress brushed against his legs. “Ah yes, I think I can see it!”

She smiled at him. “What a warm reception we got at your camp today. Marshall Elfhelm told me such interesting stories about the history of Rohan.”

Éomer had wondered what they had talked about at such length. “You are interested in that kind of thing?”

“Oh, I’m not a scholar of any sort,” Lady Wilwarin laughed. “I’m afraid, I’m not clever enough, I leave that to the men. But you must be proud of the noble house you hail from.”

The House of Eorl, he thought, and he the last descendant. With an elegant gesture of her hand she indicated the fields stretching below them. “Minas Tirith would have fallen to the Enemy if it hadn’t been for you, riding to our rescue.” She looked up at him, her large, green eyes filled with admiration. “I will always be grateful to you and your countrymen.”

Remembering the battle and the price he had paid that day, Éomer looked away. “We only fulfilled our vows.”

“You only saved Minas Tirith, you only defeated Sauron…”

She seemed to be determined to make a hero out of him. Éomer shook his head. “We didn’t.”

For a moment Lady Wilwarin looked taken aback. “What do you mean, you didn’t?”

“Frodo the Halfling defeated Sauron. We were nothing but bait really, to distract the Enemy. Fortunately for us, Frodo destroyed the Ring before the jaws of the trap had quite shut on us.”

“Oh!” She turned to look back out over the Pelennor. Hundreds of campfires dotted the black expanse of the fields below, mirroring the stars in the sky above them.

“They say the view from your ancestral seat, Edoras, is magnificent, too,” Lady Wilwarin took up the conversation again after a brief pause.

Éomer considered this for a moment. “That’s true. To the south you have the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, and to the north our grasslands extend as far as you can see. And the wind…” All of a sudden, he felt stifled by the still air around them and thought with longing of the clean, cold mountain air of home.

She sighed. “How well you describe your homeland. I wish I could come and see it.”

“Perhaps one day you will?”

A sudden silence stretched between them, giving his polite words more significance than he had intended.

“Perhaps,” she agreed softly. She lifted her face up to him, her lips parted very slightly, and the air was so calm, he could detect the delicate, musky scent of her perfume. She stood very close to him. The world seemed to narrow to this space and point in time.

A burst of raucous laughter issued from the garden behind them, breaking the spell. Éomer took a step back and looked round. A group of young noblemen had gathered around one of the small fountains scattered across the garden. One of them had just been dunked in the water and swore violently while the others stood around him and laughed.

Éomer turned to Lady Wilwarin. “Shall we go back?” he suggested. The language used by the hapless victim could only be considered unsuitable for the delicate ears of a lady.

She lowered her eyes and agreed in a soft voice, but for a moment it seemed to Éomer that a flash of rage flickered across her face. He shook his head. Surely he was imagining things.

They walked along the wall, to where another flight of stairs led down to the back entrance of Merethrond. Just as they were about to enter the hall past the big double doors, Éomer looked back over his shoulder. The group of young noblemen had moved on, but it seemed to him he caught a glimpse of someone in a light coloured dress strolling down the main path towards that end of the garden. Something about the slightly built figure seemed familiar. He frowned, but then dismissed it as a coincidence. Lothíriel was by no means the only woman to wear a light blue dress that evening and she wouldn’t be in the garden all on her own now, would she.

Nevertheless he felt slightly uneasy when he could not find the princess amongst the dancers anywhere and when he spotted Amrothos on the other side of the hall, he excused himself to Lady Wilwarin to go and talk to him. However, Amrothos did not know where his sister had disappeared to, either.

He waved towards crowd. “Lothíriel has been dancing all evening, she’s bound to be around somewhere. Or, more than likely, father has taken her home already.”

Éomer frowned at his insouciant tone. Briefly he considered hunting down Imrahil to see if indeed Lothíriel had retired already, but his unease kept growing by the minute. All of a sudden, he decided he did not have the time and turned on his heel.

Outside all was quiet. The few couples strolling along the garden paths looked at him in surprise when he hurried by, but he disregarded them in his growing concern that something had happened to the princess. He had not formed a very high opinion of some of Gondor’s nobility. Might those young noblemen think it funny to play a practical joke on a blind woman? Lothíriel had been through enough trouble for one day, he did not want to see her distressed any further. When he reached the small fountain where he had last seen the group, only the puddles of water on the ground bore witness to the fact that they had been there at all. He could hear no laughter or see any sign of them. Remembering the view from the wall, he took a shortcut to the staircase leading up to it.

The flowerbeds and bushes stretched before him in the moonlight, peaceful and quiescent, as if to mock his anxiety. None of the ladies that he could see walking with their escorts along the paths wore a light blue dress. Perhaps he had overreacted after all? But, just to be sure, he would have a look a bit further along the wall.

Rescue

It was said of Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden, that he had a labyrinth built to guard his treasures. In it dwelt a fearsome beast, half man, half bull, and none who entered it ever escaped its confines again.

(Telemnar: Ancient tales of Númenor)

Éomer was getting annoyed with himself. He had nearly come full circle, and still he could not spot any sign of either Lothíriel or the group of young noblemen he had observed earlier. No doubt the princess had long since retired and he was making a complete fool of himself by looking for her in the Citadel gardens.

Ahead of him, he could already see the stone wall enclosing the old, disused maze with its central mount. Heavily overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle, it marked the end of the public part of the garden. Just about to turn back, he cast a last look around. Then he heard it: muffled laughter.

Éomer took the steps down from the wall two at a time, following the faint sounds of merriment. He had the keen night vision of the Rohirrim, but the wall to his right cut off most of the moonlight and he cursed when he stumbled in his haste. The laughter got louder and suddenly he could make out a break in the vegetation, a door set in the wall. At that moment it swung outward with a protesting creak and a group of young men spilled out, all but falling at his feet. They were panting and shaking with laughter, clearly much the worse for drink. Their clothes looked damp with water.

He took a threatening step forward. “What are you doing here?”

One of the young men looked up at him, blinking in confusion, and then scrambled to his feet when he recognized him. “King Éomer! We were only having some fun.”

His patience snapped. “Fun? What kind of fun?”

The young man motioned behind him to the door. “We only wanted to have a look at the old maze.”

Éomer knew that this area of the garden had been neglected under Denethor and now was locked up until it could be set to rights. “How did you get in?”

The noblemen exchanged a guilty look. Éomer’s presence seemed to have a sobering effect on them. “We forced the door,” one of them finally admitted.

“Got lost in there as well,” another one said and gave a hiccough.

“Fortunately she told us the way out,” his friend added.

Éomer pounced on that last statement. “She? Who is she?”

At the look on his face they moved closer together. “The princess…”

“I knew it,” Éomer exclaimed. “What have you done to her? You will be sorry for this!”

They blanched and all tried to talk at the same time.

“Really, my Lord King, we didn’t do anything!”

“On the contrary, she helped us!”

“We got lost and it’s so dark in there!”

Éomer took a deep breath, tempted to simply take one of them by the scruff and shake some sense out of him. Instead he fixed the one who seemed to be their tentative leader with a stern eye. “You there. What exactly has happened here?”

One of the others chose this moment to hurriedly disappear behind some bushes. Presently, retching noises could be heard. Éomer rolled his eyes. Had he ever been that young?

“It was like this, my Lord King,” the young man he had singled out began. “We only intended to go a little way into the maze, to have a look at it. But then Tarlang there,” he motioned at the bushes, “got spooked by some noise and ran away. By the time we’d caught up with him, we’d lost our way.”

Probably a dare, Éomer thought. “But how did Princess Lothíriel come into it?“

They wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “She heard us calling,” their leader finally admitted.

“Calling?”

“We were lost. We thought if we shouted for help maybe somebody would come and rescue us.”

If he hadn’t been so worried about Lothíriel, Éomer would have laughed out loud at their embarrassed faces. “She found you?”

The young man shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, as it happened, we were only about three turns from the exit anyway. We just did not realize it at the time.”

Éomer shook his head. Too panicked or inebriated to find their way out of a simple maze! But there were more pressing matters to attend to. “Where is the princess now?” he asked.

The young man made a vague gesture at the door behind him. “She said she wanted to have a look around.”

“She’s still in there?” Éomer felt fresh alarm course through him. “Are you telling me you left a blind woman alone at night in that place?”

“But she knew her way!” one of them protested. “She told us to go ahead.”

Their leader seemed to be the most sober of them. “I’m sorry, my Lord King. We shouldn’t have done that. I suppose we were just so glad to get out…” His voice petered out under Éomer’s withering glare.

“We could go back in and search for her,” one of the others suggested.

Éomer closed his eyes for a moment. Just what he needed: a group of drunken noblemen bumbling their way through the maze, no doubt losing their way almost at once and hollering for help.

“I’m going in myself,” he decided, making a shooing motion. “Gather up your friend and see that you get out of here.”

They obeyed with unbecoming alacrity, dragging their half conscious companion with them. With an exasperated sigh, Éomer turned to the door. He’d seen the maze from the wall and did not judge it to be all that big. It should not prove too difficult to find the princess in there, and when he did find her, he intended to give her a piece of his mind. What had she been thinking of, to go wandering off in there? What a foolish idea to take into her head!

The sides of the corridors were made from castellated yew hedges and had obviously not been cut for a while. If he stood on tiptoe he could sometimes catch a glimpse of the rest of the maze in the faint moonlight, but he kept stumbling over stones and fallen branches hidden in the deep shadows at his feet. A faint breeze had sprung up and the bushes creaked eerily. When an owl hooted behind him, he nearly jumped.

“Lothíriel!” he called out. Wouldn’t she be frightened by the night’s noises?

No answer. Ahead of him the path ended in a dead-end and he had to turn back. Éomer retraced his steps to the last turn and took another branch of the path. Then he suddenly hesitated. Hadn’t he passed that gnarled bush earlier on? He had noted at the time that it looked like an old man bending down, yet there had been a widening of the path just beyond it that he could not spot now. He frowned. This was just an ordinary maze. The paths did not shift like they were said to do in Fangorn Forest.

“Lothíriel!” he called again, but only got the scurrying sounds of a small animal seeking for shelter for an answer.

Éomer decided to return to the exit and have a look from the wall-walk to see if he could spot the princess. He should really have done that at the beginning. With quick steps he made his way back, turning into the long passage that would bring him to the gate, only to nearly run into a wall. At first, he just stared at it in surprise. Smooth and made of stone, it obviously formed part of the wall bordering the maze, yet it had no business being there. Looking up at the sky, Éomer felt disorientated for a moment. The moon stood on his left, not behind him as it should have done.

Slowly, he walked back to the last turning, noticing only now that the hedges curved very slightly. He stood there staring at the three possible paths. One of them led past a bush overgrown with ivy and Éomer was pretty sure he had already been down it, but the others seemed strangely familiar, too. Another look at the sky showed him clouds moving in from the west, obscuring the stars and threatening to soon deprive him of the moonlight. With fresh determination, he plunged down one of the corridors.

It took him three more dead-ends to admit that he was well and truly lost. If only he’d had an axe with him, or better still a dwarf as well, he would have made short work of the maze! But the small eating knife he carried would make no impression on the tough stems of the bushes. Once again he had reached the same turning as before, this time coming past the ivy-covered bush. He cursed loudly in Rohirric and felt slightly better. As he stood there, debating whether he should attempt to climb up on one of the bushes, he heard a female voice calling.

Éomer looked around. He had noticed at the outset that a small mound stood in the middle of the maze. By craning his neck, he now managed to make out its darker shape against the backdrop of the starlit sky. A figure in a light dress sat on the stone parapet that topped it.

“Lothíriel?” he shouted.

“Éomer? Is that you?” She sounded very much surprised. “What are you doing here?”

His relief at finding her changed into annoyance. “I’m looking for you!”

“Oh! Does my father want me? Is it already time to go home?”

Éomer decided to ignore that. “How did you get up there in the middle, anyway?” he asked in an accusing tone.

“I just followed the right path. There’s a nice breeze up here, why don’t you join me?” He could have sworn there was a trace of laughter in her voice.

Éomer fought with his pride. “I’m lost,” he finally admitted.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Like I just said, I’m lost!” he snapped.

“No, I mean what does the section you’re in look like?”

“Green and dark!” Then he sighed. “There are four pathways here, one of them leads to the northern wall and one of the bushes is covered in ivy.” It seemed rather a slim description to go on.

“Is one of the passages narrower than the others?”

He had a closer look. “Yes, the one leading to the wall.”

“And the passage next to it has a big stone on the ground that blocks a hole in the hedge?”

Éomer hunkered down and sure enough found a big stone there, just as she’d said. “Yes!”

“In that case, I think I know where you are. Well, all you need to do now is to say the word.” She was definitely laughing at him.

“The word?”

“Yes, and Gondor will ride to your rescue.”

Éomer suddenly remembered their dinner conversation. “Lothíriel! I’m warning you…”

She chuckled. “The word?”

Once again he fought with his pride. “Eels.”

“I’m coming. Stay where you are and don’t move,” she admonished him. Then she disappeared from view.

With a sigh he leaned against one of the hedges and settled down to wait. Now that he stood still, all the nighttime noises seemed unnaturally loud. The owl hooted again and he spotted some bats flying by. A rustling sound behind him indicated some small animal, perhaps a mouse, looking for food.

Then he heard it: steps and the light tapping of a cane against stones and other obstacles on the way. He straightened up, just as Lothíriel emerged from one of the corridors.

“Éomer?”

“Here!” He stepped forward to take her hand and she smiled up at him.

“See? I told you I’d find you.” Then she became more serious. “Actually, you were lucky I heard you. You have to be careful you don’t lose your way in here, that’s why the maze is usually closed off.”

She didn’t go as far as to call his behaviour foolish, but he got the impression the word was on the tip of her tongue. “Still,” she continued, “I’m sure the King of Rohan’s absence would eventually have been noticed and a search party sent out before you starved to death.” Lothíriel grinned unabashedly now.

“I suppose I have to be grateful you spared me that ignominy.”

She laughed. “We’re allies, aren’t we. Follow me!”

She led the way back down the path she’d come from, one hand trailing along the side of the corridor, the other sweeping the ground for obstacles with her cane. If Éomer hadn’t already been lost anyway, he would have been in a very short time. The trail followed no logic that he could make out and at times they almost doubled up on their own tracks. Lothíriel didn’t hesitate even once, however. Then a darker shadow loomed on his left and he realized they had reached the mound in the middle.

“This is not the way out!”

She chuckled again. “I know a shortcut from here, but I thought you might enjoy having a look at the maze from above first.”

A flight of steep steps led up the side of the mound to a platform encircled by a parapet of roughly cut stones. Lothíriel made a sweeping motion with her hand.

“The labyrinth of Denethor. He had it built for my aunt Finduilas, but it’s been neglected since her death.”

Looking at it from this vantage point, Éomer saw that the convoluted layout of the maze did follow a common plan. It was divided diagonally into four parts that seemed to flow into each other. The twisted paths actually suited what he’d heard about Denethor.

“To the west you have the White Tree,” Lothíriel explained, “and it’s along its trunk that you enter the maze. Then to the south is depicted a ship on the ocean and to the east some kind of animal. I think it’s supposed to be a bull, but I’m not sure what it signifies.”

She turned around slowly, pointing out each quarter. “The last one is the crown and stars to the north. You have to find your way across each part before you reach the centre.”

He stared at her. “How do you know what lies where?”

Lothíriel smiled. “We used to play ‘Rangers and Haradrim’ here as children. In fact, you’re standing on our secret fortress at the moment. I know the maze like the back of my hand.” A shadow crossed her face. “One summer we played at finding our way through it blindfolded.”

The clouds that had been continually marching across the sky chose that moment to finally obscure the moon and a gust of wind sprang up, whipping his hair across his face. Lothíriel laughed in delight and spread out her arms, turning her face into the wind.

“This is almost like being on the seashore!” Another gust set her gown to fluttering wildly and pressed it against her slim body. Then the wind dropped as abruptly as it had arisen.

Éomer cast a dubious look at the clouds. “I think we’d better go back or we might get caught in the rain.”

She nodded. “I agree, it smells like rain.”

Éomer had expected her to lead the way back through the maze, but instead she walked around to the back of the mound. He saw a gaping black hole with some steps leading down into the darkness. Without hesitation she started to descend.

“Where are you going?” he asked in alarm.

She looked round, one hand resting lightly against the wall. “This is the shortcut I told you about. We’ll have to hurry, though.”

Éomer didn’t like the look of it. “Can’t we go back the way we came?”

“This underground passage is much quicker. It runs straight to a gate in the eastern wall and from there it’s not far to Merethrond.” She held out her hand. “Trust me.”

What could he answer to that? In the dim light her face showed as no more than a lighter spot in the darkness, yet he could sense a smile on it. So he took her hand and she led him down the steps. Very shortly they turned a corner and the darkness became complete.

“Two more steps and then we’ll reach the passage underneath the maze,” she told him. “The ground should be even and uncluttered.”

Her words echoed eerily and every sound they made, from their steps to the tapping of her cane, seemed magnified by the blackness around them. Éomer kept trying to make out shapes in the darkness, even though he knew it was useless. In the end he closed his eyes, forcing himself to trust to her guidance, her fingers warm and dry, drawing him forward.

Something soft brushed against his face and he stopped abruptly. “What was that!”

She chuckled. “Spider webs, I think. Just duck your head.”

“A bit too late for that, my Lady Princess. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

This accusation made her laugh. “Well, it’s not every day I have the King of Rohan at my mercy,” she shot back. “But we’re nearly there.”

She pulled at his hand and with a resigned sigh he started walking again, making sure to keep his head well away from the ceiling. Soon after she slowed down.

“There are more steps here, leading up to the exit of the maze. Be careful, they are uneven.”

She had to let go of his hand to manage the stairs and he heard the soft rustle of her gown as she climbed. Then he suddenly spotted the faint trace of an outline of light in the darkness and could not help but speed up his steps.

“Oh no!” She stopped so abruptly that he nearly ran into her. “I’m so stupid! There is a door at this end to keep people from of wandering into the tunnel. It’s probably locked.”

Éomer took her by the elbow and gently squeezed past her. “Let me have a look.”

The exit did indeed prove to be locked, but Éomer wasn’t going to let such a paltry thing as a door stop him from getting out under the open sky again. He ran his hands along the top and down the sides to feel for the hinges. There were none, so the door must open outwards.

“Move back,” he ordered the princess and threw his full weight against the door.

A bit to his surprise, the door gave way at his very first attempt and fell with a loud crash to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Once that had settled, he helped Lothíriel across the threshold and then just stood there, enjoying the feeling of the cool night air against his face.

“Oh it’s good to be out again!” he exclaimed.

One of the lamps illuminating the garden hung from the branches of a nearby tree and seemed so bright that it made his eyes water. He turned back to Lothíriel, just in time to see an expression of sadness pass fleetingly across her face. It hit him then that while he stood in the light again, she still walked in her own darkness and always would.

“Lothíriel…”

She shook out her skirt. “Let’s go back to Merethrond. My father might be worrying about me.”

They started walking down one of the garden paths. Just as they had turned a corner and Éomer could actually see the front entrance to the Hall of Feasts, the first raindrops began to fall.

Lothíriel hastened her steps. “We’ll get wet!”

He took her hand. “Let’s run.” The raindrops, fat and heavy, beat a tattoo on the leaves of the bushes, but still she hesitated.

“Trust me,” Éomer said.

She laughed. “Very well, it’s only fair.”

Gathering up her skirts, she gave his hand a squeeze and they started running. By the time they reached the eaves of Merethrond she was breathless with laughter.

“What fun!” she exclaimed when they stopped under the portico for a moment to catch their breath.

They had made it just in time, the rain was streaming down now. The few other guests, who had been caught out in the open and arrived back after them, all got soaked to the skin.

Lothíriel smoothed out her skirts. “Shall we go inside?”

“Just a moment.” He had spotted the remnants of a spider’s web in her hair and reached out to brush it away. She jumped under his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “But you have something in your hair.”

Lothíriel lifted her face up to him, cheeks rosy with exertion. “It’s all right; you just startled me for an instant.”

She held still as he brushed the last strands of spider web away from her hair, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat on her cheek, smoothing away a smudge of dirt. Lothíriel shivered.

He suddenly remembered the men guarding the doors. Gondor’s finest, they stood staring straight ahead, ignoring them, yet he did not want to cause any gossip.

“You’re cold, let’s go inside.”

A/N: Many thanks to LadyBluejay and the ladies at GoI (Willow-41z, Gwynnyd, Sulriel, Lady A) for their comments.

And also thank you all very much for your many reviews and your continued support - it’s much appreciated! The end of the year is a very busy time for me, both with my family and at work, so I am going to have a bit of a break over Christmas and the next chapter won’t be posted until sometime in January.

Have a peaceful Christmas and a good start to the New Year.

Lia

The Houses of Healing

What makes a rider? His horse.
What makes a warrior? His sword.
What makes a king? His honour.
What makes a man? His heart.

(Saying from Rohan)

Lothíriel hummed to herself as she picked up another roll of bread from her breakfast tray.

“That’s a gay and lively tune,” her maid remarked. “A new song you’re learning to play?”

Lothíriel stopped when she realized what music she hummed: from one of the dances of the Rohirrim. She busied herself with settling her tray more securely on her lap and taking a sip of tea.

“No, just something from last night.”

She could hear Hareth drawing the curtains and opening her bedroom window, admitting birdsong and the smell of moist earth from the garden outside. The breeze of fresh air did not have the coolness of early morning anymore and Lothíriel wondered how late it was.

“Did you sleep well?” her maid asked, still bustling about. “No bad dreams?”

The comment surprised Lothíriel. “Bad dreams? No. Why?”

Hareth stopped for a moment. “You’re asking me why? Lothíriel, you were attacked by a warg yesterday!”

“Oh! The warg!” Lothíriel found she had forgotten all about it. “No, I didn’t dream about that.”

She could almost see the old woman shake her head. “The resilience of youth,” Hareth muttered. “And I nearly died of fright just hearing the tale.”

Floorboards creaked as her maid crossed the room towards the wardrobe. She clucked her tongue. “Really Lothíriel, what did you do to your lovely dress? The hem is all dirty. And where did you pick up all these spider webs?”

Lothíriel tried not to look guilty. “I had a look at Denethor’s maze. You know we used to play there as children.”

“Lothíriel, you didn’t go wandering about the garden all on your own, did you? Your father won’t like it if he hears of it.”

“I was perfectly fine. The King of Rohan had the kindness to accompany me.”

Her maid shook out the dress. “The King of Rohan? Isn’t he the one who saved you from that warg yesterday?”

Lothíriel nodded. She smiled when she remembered Éomer’s words to her father at the end of the evening, when the Dol Amroth party had retired. Being thanked once again he had replied, “On the contrary, I am in your daughter’s debt.”

Unlike most of her father’s entertainments at home, the evening had turned out quite enjoyable after all. Very enjoyable to be honest. The Rohirric dances were less complicated and much livelier than their Gondorian counterparts. Once Éomer had explained the steps to her, she had picked them up very quickly. And although at first the sensation of having a man so close and feeling his warm hand resting on her waist, guiding her, had been rather strange, she had soon got used to it.

Taking another bite from her roll, she wondered if it would be possible to play Rohirric music on her small harp. The tunes had a strong rhythm, a bit like a slow heartbeat, overlaid with quite a complicated melodic line. When she had mentioned such to Éomer’s bard, Cadda had offered to teach her how to play some of the simpler tunes. However, she felt unsure if the bard had offered out of mere politeness or had meant it sincerely.

“So what are your plans for today?” Hareth interrupted her musings.

Lothíriel had very definite ideas on that. “I intend to go riding again.”

“Does Prince Imrahil know about it?”

“Not yet,” Lothíriel admitted.

Hareth chuckled. “I recognize that stubborn expression on your face. Shall I get your riding dress out?”

“Yes please,” Lothíriel nodded. She pushed the tray away and swung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to overset the remains of her breakfast.

She would have liked to wear the clothes Éowyn had lent her the day before, but Hareth informed her they were dirty and had to be washed first, so she settled on a light tunic with a traditional riding skirt instead. Just as her maid did up the last pair of laces, somebody knocked on the door.

“Lady Lothíriel!” She recognized the voice of one of the servants. “Prince Imrahil requests your presence in the library.”

Before she had the chance to ask why, the girl left again. Lothíriel mentally reviewed the events of the night before, wondering if any of them might have aroused her father’s displeasure. Had he heard about her solitary walk in the gardens?

However, when soon afterwards she joined her father in the library downstairs, a pleasant surprise awaited her.

“Lothíriel! How nice to meet you again.” Éowyn’s cheerful voice was unmistakable. “And dressed for riding already, how convenient.”

Lothíriel found herself clasped in a quick embrace and then the other woman linked arm with hers. “We can be off straightaway then.”

“Lady Éowyn, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” her father intervened. He sounded downright flustered.

Lothíriel couldn’t blame him, she felt a bit overwhelmed herself. “What idea?”

“Didn’t you arrange with my brother to pay a visit to the Houses of Healing?” Éowyn asked.

“Why yes, but–”

“Good. He’s going to meet us there.” Éowyn gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Shall we go?”

“Lady Éowyn,” her father protested. “Your offer is very kind, but I really think Lothíriel should have a day of rest today, to recover from the terrible ordeal she had to endure.”

Lothíriel reached out a hand. “Please father, I’m fine. I said I would go and see that poor rider who got hurt in the attack yesterday.”

He clasped her fingers. “Lothíriel dearest, are you sure? I do not want you to upset yourself with all those painful memories.”

She only hesitated for a moment. “I think I can manage. Éowyn and Éomer will be along, after all. I feel that it is my duty to thank Guthlaf for what he did.”

“Well…”

“Please, father?”

She heard him sigh and he released her hand. “Very well, daughter. I just hope you won’t regret this.”

Éowyn started to pull her towards the door. “That’s settled then,” she said. “I promise to deliver your daughter back safely…later.”

The door shut behind them before Lothíriel even had the chance to say good-bye to her father and she found herself inexorably pulled forward.

“Hurry up before Prince Imrahil changes his mind,” Éowyn whispered.

Lothíriel hastened her steps. “Why the rush?”

“Don’t you want to attend the riding competitions later on today?” the other woman asked back.

Lothíriel had heard that in the afternoon, the Rohirrim planned races and displays of their horsemanship. “Why yes, I’d love to!”

Éowyn laughed. “I thought so! Well in that case we’d better be gone before your father realizes I didn’t specify when exactly I’d bring you back.”

In the courtyard, Winterbreath already waited for her, bridled and saddled, and they were out the gate and winding their way through the morning traffic before Lothíriel had stopped laughing.

The Houses of Healing were situated on the same circle, but further to the south-east than their town house and it did not take them long to get there. When they arrived, they were greeted by Éomer who awaited them.

“Success!” Éowyn laughed.

“Just as I thought,” her brother replied. “Sending in the Slayer of the Witch King carried the day.”

He swung Lothíriel down from her horse. She was starting to expect it.

“The Warden is waiting for us,” Éomer explained in a more serious tone as he settled her hand firmly on his arm. “Shall we go in?”

Lothíriel nodded, her palms suddenly sweaty at the thought of visiting the place she had sworn never to return to. Then the doors creaked open and the smells hit her: the soap used to clean the flagstone floor, the astringent scent of medicines and herbal teas - pain, anger and despair.

“Lothíriel?”

She had no recollection of digging her fingers into his arm, of coming to a complete halt before she even crossed the threshold. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest and all her instincts shouted at her to run! Why had she agreed to come!

“Lothíriel?” he asked again, his voice as gentle and soft as if he tried to calm a skittish filly. “Are you all right? I can go in on my own, you know. Would you like to wait in the garden?”

Lothíriel hesitated. To wait in the garden, in the fresh air? She desperately wished to agree to his suggestion, but at the same time she felt ashamed for running away from her memories that way. It seemed cowardly. Besides, she truly wanted to visit the rider. It was just that what had been an easy decision to make last night proved much more difficult to face in the morning’s harsh reality.

She took a deep breath. “No. I want to come.”

“You will tell me if you feel unwell?”

Lothíriel nodded, and they entered the house. Their steps echoed hollowly in the long passage leading to the Warden’s office. She knew the layout well, a small central courtyard encircled by corridors with treatment rooms arranged on either side and a gate leading into the extensive gardens beyond. They passed a number of people on the way and her ears automatically identified the sounds she had come to know so well: the tapping of crutches against the floor, the brisk walk of healers on their rounds and the soft murmur of voices from behind closed doors. She shivered.

A large hand covered hers for a moment and squeezed it. So he had noticed - little seemed to escape the man. Comforted by the brief contact and his solid presence by her side, she relaxed slightly.

The Warden greeted them warmly when they reached his office, but she did not recognize the voice with its soft southern accent. Then she remembered her father mentioning that the old Warden had retired after the Ring War. He hesitated for the barest moment when presented to her.

“Princess Lothíriel? How nice to meet you. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Although she knew her clipped tones bordered on rudeness she could not manage more than that and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

“We have come to see one of my riders, Guthlaf,” Éomer said. “How is he?”

“Weak from the loss of blood, but he should have regained consciousness by now,” the Warden answered. “We had to administer drugs last night to perform the procedure on his arm.”

“The procedure?” Éowyn asked.

The Warden cleared his throat. “Unfortunately his lower arm proved to be too badly damaged by the animal’s mauling to be salvageable. Also warg bites are prone to fester. We had no recourse but to take the arm off just above the elbow.”

His discomfort of having to discuss these gory details showed in his voice. Yet how harmless it sounded. To take it off. Lothíriel knew the correct term would have been to saw it off. Someone had once described the big, serrated knifes, sharper than any butcher’s blade, to her. The thought of having them applied to a man’s flesh and bone sickened her and she could feel her gorge rising.

“If Guthlaf’s conscious again, I would like to go and see him,” Éomer said quietly.

“Yes, of course.” The Warden opened the door to his office. “I will show you the way. Perhaps the ladies would like to have a look at the gardens? They are very pretty this time of the year. Let me call a servant.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Éowyn interrupted him. “We are coming along, too.”

He seemed to recall who he was talking to, for he raised no more objections. “Of course. This way, please.”

To reach the rider’s room they had to cross the small sunken courtyard with its cheerfully babbling fountain and ascend a couple of steps on the other side.

“I advise you to keep your visit short, so as not to overtax your man. Also, you might find him slightly disoriented from the drugs and rather … upset,” the Warden warned Éomer.

“Yes, I imagine so,” Éomer replied in his driest tone. “Thank you for showing us the way.”

He waited pointedly until the man recognized his words for the dismissal they were and took his leave.

“Upset!” he murmured under his breath, so softly that Lothíriel did not think he meant anybody to hear him. Some kind of signal seemed to pass between brother and sister.

“Let’s go in,” Éowyn said.

The first thing that struck Lothíriel was the sheer youth of the rider. His voice rough and tense with suppressed pain when he recognized his king, she nevertheless judged him not much older than herself.

“Éomer King!” an incomprehensible stream of Rohirric followed.

Éowyn steered her to one side of the bed where a couple of chairs stood ready, while her brother took a seat on the other side and tried to calm Guthlaf down. The rider sounded feverish and Lothíriel wondered if the healers had given him poppy syrup – how well she remembered the sickly sweet taste of it.

The realization that it could have been her lying in the bed flitted through her mind and chilled her to the bone. At the time of the fight, her only concern had been to save Alphros, yet she could so easily have ended up dead or badly hurt. The thought of becoming even more dependent on others and losing still more of her precious freedom quite simply terrified her.

The rider kept repeating the same words over and over. Lothíriel leaned towards Éowyn.

“What is he saying?” she whispered.

Her friend hesitated. “He’s asking, why him.”

Lothíriel nodded in understanding. She recalled posing exactly the same question when she had woken up from her accident, to find herself in excruciating pain from her broken ribs and arm and with a headache like she had never experienced before or since. But the worst had been the stricken silence when she had complained she could not see and demanded they remove the blindfold across her eyes. “There is none,” her father had answered at last.

Éomer’s voice was deep and soothing, filled with an inner strength, and slowly the rider calmed down. Nevertheless, with the anguish still in his words, Lothíriel felt like an intruder. Why had she insisted on coming? She did not know anymore what she had hoped to accomplish. Then she heard Éomer mentioning her name.

“Princess Lothíriel has come to see you, Guthlaf,” Éomer translated for her.

She leaned forward. “I wanted to thank you,” she said haltingly, “for standing between me and harm’s way.”

Her words dropped like stones into the leaden silence.

“You’re the blind princess.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve lost my sword arm. Your Gondorian healers took it off.” He almost spat the words out, but his Westron held surprising little trace of a Rohirric accent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Éomer made a protesting sound. “Guthlaf, the princess is not to blame. The healers did as they thought best, to save your life.”

“I wish they hadn’t bothered.” The brief flash of anger seemed to have exhausted him. “My apologies, my lady,” he added after a moment.

“No offence taken.” Lothíriel leaned forward. “You speak Westron well,” she said, thinking to distract him from his troubled thoughts.

“I grew up in Meduseld and learnt the speech of Gondor there,” the rider explained. “My father was Háma, the Doorward of Théoden. Captain of the king’s guard, like his father before him.”

She could hear him shifting on his bed, as if in pain. “Éomer King,” he said, “what shall I do now? Being a warrior is all I know!”

Éomer sighed. “Guthlaf, don’t worry about that. Worry about getting well again. You are still a member of my guard.”

“Will I be able to retrain to the other arm?”

“It’s too early to say,” Éomer replied after a short pause. “First you have to regain your strength.”

“But you don’t think so,” Guthlaf said in a flat tone.

“No. I said we’d have to wait.” A hint of steel had crept into Éomer’s voice and the rider seemed to suddenly recollect whom he was addressing.

“My Lord King, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Guthlaf, the Riddermark needs more than just warriors, it also needs craftsmen, and men to guard the horses and...”

“It doesn’t need useless cripples,” the rider interrupted him. “Why didn’t they just leave me to die!”

Éowyn drew her breath in sharply. “I thought so too, once, that I would have preferred to die in battle rather than be healed in body.” Her voice softened. “Yet I learnt differently.”

Lothíriel remembered raging at the healers, her family, the whole of Arda, when after exhaustive treatments, it had become clear that she would never regain her sight. Looking back at that time she suddenly realized how far she had come since.

“Nobody is useless,” she said firmly. “I’m sure you will find your place in life.”

“That’s easy to say for a princess. What can half a man like me hope to achieve?”

Lothíriel would have liked to reach out a hand and touch him, but she feared to accidentally brush against a wound. She leaned forward. “Guthlaf, it’s his mind, his heart and his honour that make a man, not how many hands he has.”

She stopped abruptly when the rider inhaled heavily. Had she been too blunt?

“Lady, what woman will look at me now and not feel repulsed?” His voice broke and he sounded very young again. “I have a girl waiting for me back home. What will she say?”

“If she has any sense at all, she will be grateful you survived. And let me tell you, if your girl decides to turn her back on you for this, you’re better off without an utter fool like that.”

“The princess is right,” Éomer agreed gravely. But Lothíriel was beginning to know the King of Rohan well and she heard just the slightest trace of laughter in his voice. What had she said that amused him?

“You do not need two hands to cradle a newborn infant,” she insisted, “or to play with a child or to…” She had intended to say to love a woman, but thought better of it. Her voice petered out.

The rider sighed. “I just want to know, why me?” But he sounded calmer now.

“That I cannot answer,” Éomer said. “But although I know this will be small comfort, think of what could have happened if we had not encountered the warg. What if it had preyed on defenceless villagers, on children?”

A long silence descended, broken only by the sound of sparrows chirping in the garden outside and the lazy buzz of a bumblebee. The smell of a lilac tree in bloom drifted in through an open window.

“You are right, my Lord King,” the rider said. “That does not bear thinking about.”

“You’re a good man, Guthlaf.” Éomer’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “I have to go now, but I will come and visit again soon.”

Lothíriel got up, too, when she heard the others do so. “May I come and see you again?”

“I’d be honoured.”

Lothíriel found that the prospect of returning to the Houses of Healing had lost much of its terror. Once the door to Guthlaf’s room clicked shut behind her, she turned to Éomer.

“Was I too blunt? Are you sorry you asked me along?”

He laughed, an open and cheerful sound seldom heard in this place. “Not at all. While nobody will ever call you honey-tongued, nobody will ever be able to accuse you of not being honest either. It’s a quality we value in the Riddermark. I believe Guthlaf will feel better after our visit, at least for a while. It’s a long road he has to travel.”

She mulled his words over for a moment. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes. I know the Houses of Healing far too well, but it never gets any easier.”

They slowly started walking back towards the exit.

“So do you think he will be able to retrain to the other arm?” Lothíriel asked.

“I don’t know,” Éomer sighed. “It’s not just a matter of learning to handle the sword with your other hand, but also the fact that he won’t be able to hold a shield. With some cases in the war, where men had their hands hacked off, we...” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to burden you with that kind of gory detail.”

Lothíriel frowned. “I hail from a long line of warriors. I would much rather have you tell me the unvarnished truth. Just treat me like one of your men.”

“That would be difficult.”

Why did he sound so amused? And was that a snort of laughter from Éowyn? But before she could ask, he carried on explaining.

“If the lower arm’s still intact, we can rig up a shield, but with Guthlaf that’s not feasible – also his balance will be changed. We’ll just have to wait and see.” He hesitated. “I’m just not looking forward to facing Beornwyn.”

“Beornwyn?”

“His mother. She has already lost her husband at the Hornburg and now her eldest son comes home injured from what should have been a carefree visit to Gondor.”

“It will be you having to tell her?” she asked.

“It’s my duty.”

He sounded tired and discouraged, Lothíriel thought with a pang. She wished there were something she could do, to help him bear the weight of his obligations and ease his worries. But what help could she possibly offer? After all, she was no wise councillor or mighty warrior.

Silently, they made their way out, to where his guards awaited them with their horses. Once the doors of the Houses of Healing had shut behind them, she took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air and turned her face upwards to the warming rays of the morning sun. It felt good.

After he helped her mount Winterbreath, Éomer let his hand rest for a moment on her thigh.

“Thank you for coming.”

A/N: I hope you’ve all had a peaceful and relaxing Christmas and a good start to the New Year. As always many thanks to the ladies at GoI, but especially to LadyBluejay and Willow-41z.

Strangers and Spices

The skilled warrior will take no more than a heartbeat to discern both weaknesses and strengths of his opponent. He will not see them in the brandishing of a sword or the drawing of a bow, but in the eyes of his foe. For there he will perceive the true essence of the man.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

Lothíriel clutched his arm and gasped. Éomer watched, amused, as she leaned forward to make sure she would not miss a word, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ of excitement.

“…and then the dragon made another pass at our hero, diving down out of the sun to rake him with his iron claws. But Baranor, mighty warrior and beloved of Silmarien the Fair, did not quail under the onslaught.”

The storyteller paused dramatically and the crowd held its collective breath. Lothíriel tightened her stranglehold on Éomer’s arm and he got the impression she would have liked to jump up and down with excitement, just like the children who were standing at the front of the circle.

As the old man went on to tell how the hero defeated the dragon through some highly improbable feat of arms, Éomer found watching Lothíriel’s face much more interesting than listening to the story. She spared no attention to her surroundings, but appeared completely captivated by the tale, biting anxiously at her bottom lip while the fight went on and clapping her hands in delight when Baranor finally killed the beast and declared his undying love to the beautiful Silmarien.

“Oh!” she breathed, “wasn’t that simply marvellous?”

Éomer smoothed out the much-abused sleeve of his tunic and exchanged an amused glance with Faramir. His sister’s betrothed had joined them on the way down to the main gate of Minas Tirith. He had suggested they stop off at the fair, as he needed to buy something – a plan which had been enthusiastically endorsed by the ladies.

“Marvellous,” Faramir agreed. “Do you think we can go on now?”

Lothíriel grinned at him, quite obviously not fooled by his stern tone. “Getting impatient, dearest cousin? At least I don’t stop at every stall selling womanly fripperies.”

“No, but you do wherever a bard or storyteller plies his trade. That’s the third one.”

The old man had picked up his hat and came round collecting his reward from the crowd. His eyes brightened when Éomer tossed him a small silver coin.

“Many thanks, noble lord, to you and your lovely lady wife.” He bowed deeply before he passed on.

Lothíriel ducked her head, but not quickly enough to hide the colour spreading across her cheeks. Éomer thought it rather endearing, the way she blushed at the slightest provocation, but not wanting to embarrass her further, he settled her hand in the crook of his arm and turned to walk on.

Suddenly, off to the side, he sensed more than saw movement. Out of nowhere, a warning trickled ice-cold fingers down his back. Éomer slewed round, one hand going to the hilt of his sword, ready to either defend or attack. In the same motion he pushed Lothíriel behind his back.

“Éomer?” she asked in confusion, clutching at him.

His guards had come instantly alert. Taut as a bowstring, he scanned the crowd. It had almost dispersed, yet on the opposite side of the small square, a tall man stood, staring at him. Éomer caught a quick impression of a swarthy face and piercing black eyes before the man hurriedly ducked behind some passers-by and disappeared down one of the side alleys between two tents.

Faramir had his own sword half drawn. He frowned. “What is it?”

After a moment, Éomer shrugged. “I’m not sure. Just somebody staring at us.”

Yet the premonition of danger still sang through him. The man had moved with the smooth efficiency of a trained warrior. His captain, Éothain, sent two of his guards to have a look down the alley where the stranger had disappeared, but they returned after a moment, shaking their heads. Then Lothíriel’s white face caught his attention and he felt remorse for frightening her.

He took her hand and placed it on his arm again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“Should we return to the horses?”

He considered this for a moment. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Whatever danger there was, it’s over.”

Yet Éomer cast another look back before they left the square, all the while chiding himself for overreacting. His guards picked up his mood and scanned the crowd suspiciously. He had left a couple of his men waiting with the horses outside the fair, but Éothain had insisted on taking the rest with them. While Éomer dispensed with guards altogether back home in Edoras, his captain had proven adamant about always having them along in Minas Tirith. Perhaps he had a point. Yet nothing happened as they walked further along the narrow lane lined with stalls on either side, and Éomer forced himself to relax again. The war was over; he would really have to get used to living in peacetime. But sometimes old habits died hard.

The princess had walked by his side silently, but now she lifted her face to him. “Was it someone you knew?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m not even sure what made me react like I did.” He sighed. “Old instincts coming to the fore, I suppose.”

A frown appeared between her eyes as she mulled this over. “You should trust your instincts. Promise me to take care.”

Touched, he smiled down at her. “I will. Anyway it’s probably nothing.”

Next to them, Éowyn and Faramir walked arm-in-arm and Éomer felt his spirits lift when he heard his sister laugh at something Faramir said. In the years before the war, such carefree sounds had become rare in Meduseld. It warmed his heart to see her happy at last, even though he would miss her greatly.

Éowyn turned to Faramir. “What is it you wanted to buy?”

“A fireboat for tonight. There should be a row of stalls selling them a little bit further along. In fact I think I can see them.”

“What’s a fireboat?” Éowyn and Éomer asked at the same time.

Faramir looked surprised. “Don’t you have that wedding custom in Rohan? They’re like small toy boats. You place the stub of a candle in it, light it and send it down a river. Tradition has it that they carry your wishes across the Western Sea.”

“Anybody can join in,” Lothíriel added. “It looks really magical at night.”

For a moment Éomer wondered how she would know, before realizing that she must have seen the custom observed when a child. They had reached the stalls pointed out by Faramir and he stopped to look over the wares. The boats ranged in size from tiny nutshells to artfully carved and decorated vessels longer than his arm. Most of them sported sails depicting the white tree of Gondor with the crown and seven stars above it, but there were some with his own beloved white horse on a green field. He picked one up that had a tiny sun carved into the bow.

“May I have a look?” Lothíriel asked. When he passed her the boat she ran her fingers over it.

“Get another one,” she advised him. “The bottom is much too shallow and it has no keel. You see, boats with high rigging might be very pretty, but capsize at the slightest breeze.”

Éomer had to grin. “I bow to your superior nautical knowledge.”

One boat after another underwent a close inspection until she pronounced herself satisfied with one of them. Éomer started haggling.

“Are there any with the swan of Dol Amroth?” Lothíriel asked him when he had finished his purchase.

Éomer had a look around, but could not spot any. “I don’t think so.” Seeing Éowyn and Faramir buying their boat together, he was struck by an idea. “Would you like to share mine? After all, you chose it. I’m sure it’s big enough to hold two candles.”

She blushed even more furiously than before. “Oh no, that would not be seemly!”

Éomer wondered what he had said to cause her embarrassment. “I meant no offence.”

“I quite understand,” she stammered. “It’s just that you only share fireboats with your family. Or if you’re engaged…”

Had he inadvertently proposed marriage to Lothíriel? “That’s not what I meant,” he assured her hastily.

“No, of course not,” she agreed, her cheeks still aflame. “I think I’ll get one with the white tree.”

But in the end she settled on a modest sized boat with the white horse of Rohan on its sail. With a smile she fingered the pair of roughly carved sailors on the deck. “After all, I’m Éowyn’s witness. They can carry my wishes to the Valar for me.”

Faramir was appealed to for a loan by his cousin, and the stallholder promised to have their boats delivered to the camp of the Rohirrim. He seemed very much pleased to have such illustrious customers.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Éowyn suggested when they walked on.

Lothíriel sniffed the air. “I think I can smell berry tarts.”

Faramir laughed. “You’re a glutton for sweets, Lothíriel!”

The stalls lining their path sold a bewildering array of foodstuffs, from grilled skewers of lamb over small pastries stuffed with carrots and peas to freshwater fish wrapped in cabbage leaves and then steamed. Under an awning, an enterprising merchant had set up a row of tables where for a small fee you could eat your food sitting down. At Faramir’s bidding, little boys ran off eagerly to fetch a selection of food and some ale to drink.

Faramir grinned as he pulled Éowyn down to sit on the bench next to him. “I have to warn you, I don’t know about the quality of the ale, but I think it’s still the better choice than wine.”

Éomer sat down opposite them and Lothíriel quite naturally slipped in beside him. Some of his men joined them at the table, while the others stood guard. Éomer no longer considered this an unnecessary precaution.

Lothíriel beamed up at him. “This is such an adventure!”

He had to smile at the unfeigned pleasure on her face, like a child presented with an unexpected treat. Yet this was the same woman who had told Guthlaf in a voice ringing with quiet authority what made a man – and what didn’t. The Princess of Dol Amroth proved full of surprises.

He remembered that her father had not wanted her to visit the fair. Surely Imrahil would not object to her going in his and Éowyn’s company, though. “We’re not getting you into trouble with your father, are we?”

She shrugged. “Possibly. But it’s worth it. Anyway, the day after tomorrow is the wedding and he can’t very well forbid me to go.”

Faramir leaned over. “Lothíriel is a firm believer in asking for forgiveness after the deed.”

“I admit, it’s a policy which has served me well in the past,” she grinned, “and which I learnt from a certain Ranger.”

Éomer and Éowyn exchanged a look. That kind of friendly teasing sounded familiar.

Wearing an innocent expression, Lothíriel turned to Éowyn. “It might shock you to hear that our Prince of Ithilien here has a chequered past.”

“Lothíriel!” Faramir said warningly, just as Éowyn leaned forward eagerly. “Do tell!”

“Well…” the princess lowered her voice, “for example, there is the appalling tale how one summer, young Lord Eradan of Lebenin found his saddlebags full of rotting oysters on his way home.”

Faramir looked thunderstruck. “You were only a toddler! How did you hear about that?”

“Amrothos.”

“Rotting oysters?” Éowyn interjected, trying to look disapproving and failing utterly.

Lothíriel nodded. “Apparently poor Lord Eradan had to burn his saddlebags, including all their contents, and was left without a stitch of spare clothing to wear.”

“Believe me, that pompous ass deserved it,” Faramir snorted

Éomer tried desperately to keep a straight face. “You shock me with this tale of my sister’s husband-to-be. It makes me wonder what kind of man I have betrothed her to.”

Éowyn folded her arms in front of her. “Well, as it happens, I have a few interesting stories to tell as well.”

It was Lothíriel’s turn to lean forward. “You do?”

“Let’s not go into those,” Éomer interrupted hurriedly, thinking of some of the pranks he had gotten up to as a boy. The deaths of his parents had put an abrupt end to that part of his life, but their old housekeeper in Aldburg still had a large stock of such tales. Fortunately for him, the arrival of their food and drink saved him from further questions.

The little boys returned to place platters full of assorted dishes on their table and pass down pitchers of ale and earthenware cups from which to drink. Éomer handed the least chipped ones to Lothíriel and Éowyn.

Not being watered down too much, the ale actually surpassed Éomer’s expectations, and Lothíriel’s presence made the meal memorable. She possessed an infectious enthusiasm, exclaiming with pleasure when presented with her favourite foods and proving eager to try anything unknown. Éothain sat on her other side and was too polite to refuse when she urged him to taste some heavily seasoned meatballs, a southern delicacy. His captain’s face and hasty grab for his cup of ale after eating just one of the spicy things warned Éomer to plead a full stomach when she turned to him with the same offering. He had the niggling suspicion that even the dogs might spurn it.

The dogs! With a start Éomer became aware of the fact that their table had attracted the attention of several of the strays that roamed the fair in search of a bit of food to scrounge. One of them did in fact sit right behind their bench, a hopeful grin on his face and his tail wagging. Éomer felt something closely resembling panic sweep through him at the vision of ending up with a pack of assorted dogs to take home to the Riddermark with him in addition to Galador. A bit of quick thinking was clearly in order. He leaned over to give terse instructions in Rohirric to the guard sitting at the end of their bench. The man looked surprised for a moment, but then nodded and got up.

Shortly after, one of the boys who had brought their food came along, bearing a plate full of scraps. He whistled and the dogs got up eagerly to follow him. At Éomer’s nod, his guard went along to make sure no ugly fight erupted. With a satisfied smile, Éomer turned back to his own meal, only to encounter his sister’s thoughtful gaze. He suddenly remembered the searching questions Éowyn had asked that morning as to his whereabouts the night before and gave her a small frown. Éowyn dropped her eyes, but it seemed to Éomer he saw a smile lurking in them.

Fortunately Lothíriel had remained completely unaware of his little subterfuge, plying Éothain with questions as to the great horse fair held each autumn in Edoras.

“It’s not just about selling horses,” his captain explained, “but also about having a relaxing break between the hard work of the harvest and the winter settling in.”

Lothíriel nodded. “We have similar traditions down in Dol Amroth, involving the sea.”

One of the little boys delivered a plate of tarts and she picked one up and offered it to Éothain. “Try these, I can smell rhubarb.”

His captain thanked her and regarded the pastry dubiously.

“Do you know what is planned for this afternoon?” she asked him.

Éothain took a small, cautious bite. “The main event will be an archery competition on horseback, and some of our young riders will display their skills. And races, of course.”

Éomer picked up a tart as well. Hot from the oven, the sour taste of rhubarb went well with the sweet pastry. “There is a saying in the Riddermark that if more than two Rohirrim meet, they will hold a race.”

Lothíriel laughed. “In Dol Amroth we say the same about sailors. The number of times my brothers have raced each other across the bay! I presume there will be lots of different races?”

“Oh yes. Only the distance covered varies.”

“Tell me, can anybody take part?” She nibbled her rhubarb tart, looking thoughtful.

Éomer nodded. “Yes, the races are open to all contestants, whether from Rohan or Gondor.”

“Not that the Gondorians will have any chance anyway,” Éothain put in.

She smiled demurely. “You think not?”

Éomer had taken another bite of his pastry and now he nearly choked when he finally realized where her questions were leading. “Lothíriel! Don’t even think about– “ He stopped abruptly when he saw the mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“You…” There was a world of threat in his tone.

She looked up at him, her beautiful grey eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Yes, my Lord King?”

He suddenly became aware of his men watching him, grinning widely. A stern glare on his part wiped the expression off their faces and turned the laughter into hastily muffled coughs. At least he still commanded the respect of his riders, if not of the Princess of Dol Amroth.

“You will come to a bad end one of these days,” he told Lothíriel roundly.

She laughed at him.

Their meal finished, they returned to where the rest of his men waited with the horses. It proved slow going, with crowds forming around jugglers, soothsayers and musicians wherever the lane widened slightly. Éomer spotted a man on stilts that were twice his own height and another one who conjured small coins out of thin air. At one stall Éowyn bought some colourful ribbons and the princess would have liked to stop every time she heard a bard or storyteller. But while Éomer would not have minded lingering longer at the fair, in the afternoon he was expected to judge some of the contests at their camp, so they had to push on. Finally, they left the fair behind them and the crush of people lessened. Their horses were tethered in the shade of a copse of trees a little way apart.

Lothíriel had walked back arm in arm with Éowyn, and now the two joined him where he stood checking his stallion prior to mounting him. The princess took out a piece of bread from one of the pockets of her gown.

“I saved this from our midday meal. May I feed it to Firefoot?”

The stallion took a step towards her and swivelled his ears forward eagerly. Éomer laid a warning hand on his neck. “Gently!” To Lothíriel he said, “you may.”

She held out her hand and the big grey daintily picked up the piece of bread, velvet lips brushing across her palm.

Lothíriel reached up to stroke Firefoot. “Thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

She turned to Éomer. “Amrothos said he was magnificent.”

Éowyn leaned over to pat Firefoot and flashed Éomer a wicked grin. “And what is my brother going to get?”

Éomer frowned at her. “The princess has already thanked me.”

Lothíriel chuckled. “Anyway, I only had the one piece of bread.”

Éomer could not suppress a certain amount of irritation when his sister doubled up with laughter. It was high time she got married off.

A/N Many thanks to LadyBluejay, Willow-41z, Greywing and all the other authors at GoI.

Tokens

My love has claimed a ribbon from me,
so tied to each other forever we’ll be.
To a far off land he had to go,
to face a dark and mighty foe.
I wait for the day of his return
when his reward at last he’ll earn.

(Popular ballad from Rohan)

Back at the camp, they found organized activity. Éomer’s men had fenced off a big field to the south to use for the archery competition and a couple of smaller ones for riding displays. Also they had set out a rough racing course that led to the Northern gate of the Rammas Echor and back. Small awnings provided shade for the visitors, and in the centre a raised platform with a large pavilion had been erected for Éomer and his guests. The white horse flew above it, fluttering in the slight breeze.

Once their horses had been taken care of, they made their way over to where Elfhelm stood directing the preparations. Éomer had put the Marshall of the East Mark in charge of organizing the event as he had a talent for this kind of thing and an able assistant in his wife.

“Éomer King,” Elfhelm greeted him. “We’re all set up. The first races will start any moment.”

Éomer had no doubt that his Marshall had things well in hand. As a young rider, Éomer had gained his first experience of fighting orcs under Elfhelm’s command and had seen the single-minded determination the man applied to any task he was given.

He nodded his thanks. “Have any of our guests arrived yet?”

Elfhelm led the way over to the pavilion. “A few of them, yes.”

The first to meet them was Lady Wilwarin. She stood talking to a young man and looked up with a pleased smile at their arrival. Her companion bowed deeply and Éomer recognized him as the elder of the two noblemen who had disturbed the warg the day before. From what his sentries had told him, the two brothers had not made it back until the early hours of the morning, but they had delivered the warg pelt all in one piece. Éomer answered the man’s look of trepidation with a cool nod. He hoped the young nobleman had learnt something from the whole affair.

Lady Wilwarin held out her hand. “King Éomer, how nice to meet you again.”

“My pleasure,” he assured her.

Elfhelm beamed at her. “Lady Wilwarin has been so kind as to agree to hand out some of the prizes later on.”

She gave a gentle smile. “Please, it’s an honour.”

Éomer could feel his sister bristling next to him. “An excellent idea,” he intervened hastily before Éowyn could say anything. It seemed to him that his sister had taken an unreasonable dislike to any of the ladies of the court of Gondor in whom he had shown the slightest interest, but especially to Lady Wilwarin. Perhaps Éowyn still hoped for that mythical woman to show up and capture his heart, but he had to be realistic. The Riddermark needed a queen, and soon. He had no delusions of being immortal. A single orc arrow, a poisoned Southron blade, could deprive his country of her king, throwing the Mark into disarray with no clear heir defined.

Observing the look of animosity Éowyn shot at Lady Wilwarin, he thought it better to distract his sister, before unkind words were exchanged.

He turned to Lothíriel. “I’m to judge the archery competition now. Perhaps in the meantime, Éowyn can show you around.” He thought that for the princess, the event would be supremely boring, anyway.

She withdrew her hand from his arm and some of the previous animation left her face. “Of course. I’m afraid I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.”

That was not what he had meant. But before he could utter a protest, Lady Wilwarin had taken his other arm. “I’ve heard so much about the fabulous skill of the Rohirrim on horseback. How exciting to see them for myself, at last!”

His sister gave him a hard look, but linked her arms with Lothíriel and Faramir. When they turned to go, Éomer felt strangely regretful. However, soon he was too busy greeting the rest of his guests to spare any further thought on it.

Éomer had put up the prize for the archery contest himself, a fine gelding from the royal herd at Edoras and he was curious to see how the famous bowmen of Gondor would fare on horseback, compared to the Rohirrim. An oblong area had been marked off and straw butts put up at one end. The rules were simple: the contestants had to canter across the field, shooting three arrows at the butts, which would be moved ten paces further back after each round.

Anybody had the right to take part and the afternoon dragged on as the hopeless archers were gradually weeded out. His men had to catch no less than three horses that threw their riders and bolted. Éomer could only shake his head when one man could not even get his nag to move into a canter. At least his own riders did not disappoint him, the best of them quite plainly astonishing the crowd with the ease with which they placed their arrows dead centre. Even so, he could see some of Faramir’s rangers and the men of the Tower Guard would not be easily defeated.

Lady Wilwarin handed out the prizes for the races, silver cups engraved with stylised horses. Éomer had to admit she did it very prettily, yet he found his attention wandering after a while, searching the crowd for Éowyn and Lothíriel. Unfortunately, with the popularity of his riders there were rather a lot of blond and black haired couples. Loud cheering and laughter drifted over from the other enclosures and he had the niggling suspicion that they were enjoying themselves rather better than he was.

Éomer felt some relief when after a while Aragorn and Imrahil joined him. Aragorn winced when he saw a young soldier ride by, wobbling dangerously in the saddle and missing the target completely.

“How is the contest going?” he asked.

Éomer shrugged. “That was the last of them. Twenty-three Rohirrim have made it to the second round and thirty-one Gondorians.”

After a polite bow to Lady Wilwarin, Imrahil looked round searchingly. “Where is my daughter?”

“She’s having a look around with Éowyn. Faramir is with them.”

Imrahil frowned. “When your sister picked her up this morning, I did not realize she meant Lothíriel to accompany her the whole day.”

Éomer put on his blandest face. “A regretful misunderstanding. I think my sister is very pleased to have made a new friend in Lothíriel.”

Imrahil gave a stiff bow. “We’re honoured, of course.”

Aragorn held a twinkle in his eye. “I think I can see them now, they’re making their way through the crowd.”

Éomer turned round quickly and spotted the two women almost at once. He also noticed that Cadda had joined the group as well. The women were laughing at something the bard said and he gave Lothíriel a hand ascending the steps leading up to the wooden platform, from which the guests could observe the archery contest.

Imrahil stepped forward. “Lothíriel!”

The princess stumbled slightly, but caught herself quickly. “Father? Have you been here long?”

“No, I only just arrived. I’ve been looking for you.”

Lothíriel gave a vague wave at the crowd. “Éowyn showed me around.” She smoothed down her hair. Éomer suddenly spotted a blue, satiny ribbon twined around the long plait she wore falling down her back. A quick glance at his sister showed a similar green one woven into her blond hair. Then he remembered Éowyn buying a whole bunch of them at the fair.

“Éowyn, a quick word,” he said in Rohirric and beckoned to his sister.

Pulling her to the back of the pavilion, out of earshot of the others, he jerked his head at the princess. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Éowyn gave him her haughtiest stare, letting him know she hadn’t yet forgiven him for his earlier attempt to get rid of her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Éowyn, you know perfectly well I’m talking about the ribbon,” he said, his irritation rising.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What about it?”

“Have you been playing ribbon snatching?”

“What if we have?” she asked, lifting her chin.

A popular pastime in the Mark at gatherings and fairs, it consisted of riders picking up scarves or lengths of ribbon from a woman’s hand while riding by at high speed. The more daring ones actually snatched them right from their chosen lady’s hair.

“She’s our guest. You should not encourage her in such dangerous activities.”

Éowyn threw back her hair in defiance. “There is no danger involved. Elfhelm’s men have put up a fence to prevent any accidents. You stand behind it and just hold out the ribbon to whichever rider you favour.”

“Well, it’s undignified,” Éomer protested.

Éowyn snorted. “You’ve become very staid all of a sudden, brother. I seem to remember you used to be pretty adept at it. Also at claiming your reward after…”

Éomer took a deep breath, reminding himself how much he really loved his sister. Besides, Faramir might object to him strangling her just before the wedding. A quick look at his guests showed them politely ignoring the altercation between brother and sister going on behind them. Fortunately most of them would not be able to understand it anyway, as they were speaking in Rohirric. Even so, he lowered his voice. “You’re making her the talk of the camp.”

“I am?” she raised an eyebrow. “Last night you disappeared into the gardens with her for half the evening, came back covered in dust and spider webs and then spent the rest of the evening dancing with her!”

“I have already told you that I followed her because I was worried something had happened to her. She showed me the maze, that is all.”

Éowyn shrugged. “I’m just saying that thanks to you, there is considerable talk involving Lothíriel already. A bit of ribbon snatching won’t harm her. In fact she enjoyed it.” She held out a placatory hand. “Come on, brother. It’s simply that the story of her bravery in standing up to that warg has grown with the telling and our riders think a token from her hand will bring them luck in the races.”

Éomer knew how superstitious his countrymen could be. Thinking of Guthlaf, he sighed. “That’s the only good luck to come out of that.”

Éowyn’s face softened and she linked her arm with his. “Oh Éomer, let’s not quarrel. And I believe the second round of the archery contest is about to start.”

They moved to rejoin their guests. “Anyway,” Éowyn whispered in his ear, “you needn’t worry about any of your riders having the temerity to collect the traditional forfeit. One look at you and they will not dare.”

Unfortunately, Éomer did not have the time to think of a suitably crushing reply to that statement before his guests claimed his attention again.

The second round was in fact well under way, and already some more contestants had been forced to retire. Faramir slid a possessive arm around Éowyn’s waist when they joined him.

“Any problems?”

“No,” both of them replied at the same time. They exchanged a grin.

“Just a small difference of opinion,” Éomer explained.

Just then he encountered a mirthful look from Aragorn, who stood talking to Imrahil nearby. He suddenly remembered the fabled keen ears of the ranger and that he spoke Rohirric. But how well did he know the customs of the Mark? Pretty well, Éomer suspected all of a sudden.

Faramir nodded at a rider cantering by, placing his arrows in the centre of the targets with deceptive ease. “That one’s pretty good.”

Éomer recognized Beow, the best archer of his éored. “He is. But I think some of your rangers will be hard to beat.”

“Maybe if they could use their longbows,” Faramir agreed, “but on horseback I believe the Rohirrim have the edge.”

Indeed, by the end of the second round more contestants from Rohan than from Gondor were left. Two of the butts were removed, the other one was shifted further back and the remaining twenty men got ready to shoot again. At eighty paces, only the best of them could hope to make it to the next round. Éomer’s own expertise lay with the sword, not the bow, but he knew enough to make out which archers had merely been lucky and which had true skill - the lucky ones did not make it this time.

The races had finished by now, the last prizes handed over gracefully by Lady Wilwarin. Éomer noted grimly that a considerable number of the winners sported green or blue ribbons. There seemed to be a positive glut of them.

One by one the remaining bowmen dropped out, until by a hundred paces only three were left. When much to Aragorn’s chagrin one of the Tower Guard missed his next shot, that left just Beow and one of Faramir’s rangers. The crowd cheered wildly when both of them managed to hit their targets. Éomer had to admit that he had not seen archery at this level for a long time.

“What is happening?” a voice asked at his elbow. Lothíriel had joined them, Cadda at her side.

“There are only two contestants left now,” Éomer explained. “But I’m afraid you have had rather a boring afternoon.”

She shook her head. “Oh, not at all. Cadda has been so kind as to keep me amused with stories from Rohan.”

“It’s a pleasure with such an enthusiastic audience,” the bard said with a smile. Éomer could not help frowning when he saw the blue ribbon he had tied round one of his wrists. Another one.

“Who is left?” Lothíriel asked. “Anybody from Dol Amroth?”

Éomer shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no. A rider from my own éored and a ranger of Ithilien are the last two.”

The crowd gasped when Beow again managed to place his arrow dead centre. Lothíriel grabbed for his arm. “And now?”

“Beow has qualified for the next round.” Éomer could not keep the pride out of his voice.

Faramir’s ranger rode in next, sitting easily in the saddle, and took aim. The crowd had gone quiet in anticipation and Éomer noticed one pretty redhead especially, watching the rider intently, a look of fierce concentration on her face, as if it were her shooting. A sweetheart or wife perhaps? The whir of an arrow broke the expectant silence and then the crowd started cheering.

Éomer exclaimed in surprise. “I don’t believe it, another hit! We’ll have to move the targets even further back.”

He cast a look at the sky. The sun had just set behind Mount Mindolluin and the light was fading fast.

Lothíriel clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m pleased for Faramir. Although I’m sure your rider is very good as well,” she added, putting a consoling hand on his arm. “In fact it’s a shame they can’t both win. It would be so nice – one man from Rohan and one from Gondor.”

Éomer stared at her for a moment. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself? “But they can,” he said slowly, “You are right. It would be a fitting reminder of the friendship between our countries.” He looked over to where Faramir and Éowyn stood together. “And also of the marriage soon to forge closer ties between us.”

Lothíriel removed her hand from his arm. “Yes of course.”

He frowned for a moment. Had he said something to upset her? But at that moment he caught sight of Elfhelm and waved his Marshall over. Explaining the change of plans only took a minute and then his squire was sent off at a run to their camp. By the time Oswyn returned, leading another fine gelding from Éomer’s personal herd, the two winners were already lined up facing the pavilion.

Éomer turned to Éowyn, who had always been meant to present the prizes in this contest. “Will you do the honours?”

She nodded. “Yes of course. But why don’t you let Lothíriel hand over one of the horses. After all, it was her idea.”

“Me?” the princess stammered. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

Éomer took her hand. “Please do.”

She hesitated for a moment, but then gave him a shy smile. “If you wish me to.”

He helped her down the steps and led her over to the two horses. “You choose one for Beow. That way, nobody can accuse me of favouring my own rider.”

“What are they called?”

Éomer took the first gelding by the bridle and guided her hand to stroke his head. “This is Nimblefoot.”

The horse snorted softly when she stroked him. Curious or perhaps hoping for a treat, the other gelding also extended his neck.

“And here comes Greymane,” Éomer added.

Lothíriel ran her hand along his nose. “I think I can guess what colour he is, so I won’t ask,” she said with a cheeky grin. “And I will choose him.”

He laughed and helped her lead Greymane over to where Beow and Faramir’s ranger stood, awaiting their prizes. Éowyn followed them, leading Nimblefoot by the bridle. A crowd had gathered around them and silence fell, as he got ready to announce the winners.

“Your name?” he asked the ranger.

“Damrod, my lord.”

The man had the look of Numenor – black hair and grey eyes that met his gaze squarely. Éomer remembered seeing him on the march to the Black Gate.

He mounted the platform and raised his voice. “Hear me, people of Gondor and Rohan! Before you stand Damrod of Ithilien and Beow of the East Mark. Neither one was able to best the other today, so I declare them joint winners.”

The crowd cheered and the two men shook hands, the respect they bore each other evident.

“Let it be a sign of the eternal friendship between our countries,” Éomer continued, “either of us ready to come to the other’s aid in time of need.”

He did not believe in long speeches, so when the renewed clapping and cheering died down again, he jumped down from the platform and nodded to Éowyn to carry on.

She held out the reins to Damrod and the ranger bowed to his lord’s wife-to-be and thanked her. By his side stood the red-haired woman Éomer had seen earlier on, a baby on her hip.

He turned to help Lothíriel, but hearing her cue, she had already handed over Greymane’s reins to Beow.

“May he bear you to good fortune,” she said gravely.

“Thank you, my lady.” The rider touched his arm, where he had fastened a blue ribbon. “Your token has brought me luck.”

Lothíriel put her head to one side. “Oh, you’re one of those,” she laughed. “I’m pleased to hear it works, although your skill might have rather more to do with your success.”

Éomer stepped up to them and took her arm. Somehow he did not think Imrahil would be amused to hear of his daughter’s activities that afternoon. “Princess Lothíriel,” he said, emphasizing her title, “we have to get ready to ride down to the Anduin soon.”

His rider took the hint and excused himself with another word of thanks. Lothíriel smiled up at Éomer. “Of course, the fireboats! I wouldn’t want to miss them. Do we have to hurry?”

“Well, there’s still plenty of time, but the archery contest took longer than I anticipated.”

Faramir waved them over. “Lothíriel! Do you remember Damrod from my visit to Dol Amroth last winter?”

She held out her hand. “Yes, of course I remember. Congratulations on your win.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The ranger bowed over her hand. “May I introduce my wife, Noerwen?”

The woman passed the infant to her husband and gave a graceful curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, Princess Lothíriel.”

The baby chose that moment to protest at being relocated so suddenly. “Is that yours, Damrod?” Lothíriel asked. “You mentioned Noerwen was expecting your first child.”

“Yes she is,” the man replied proudly. “Her name is Lírulin.”

“May I hold her?”

Damrod passed the baby over, and as if only waiting for this signal, most of the other ladies present also crowded round. Éomer suddenly found himself in the centre of a gaggle of women cooing and exclaiming over the tiny being in Lothíriel’s arms. Watching the baby giving a happy, toothless smile, he wondered if he would ever have a wife by his side and a child of his own. An eager son or a spirited daughter to teach how to race the wind across the Riddermark.

He looked down at Lothíriel softly stroking the infant’s downy hair and caught a wistful expression on her face. For a moment he could almost believe her to be cradling their own child in her arms. She looked beautiful.

He shook his head at these fanciful imaginings and then got distracted by his men leading up their horses.

“We’ll have to go now,” he reminded Lothíriel.

She reluctantly handed the little girl back to her parents and took her leave of them. Éomer gave her a boost onto Winterbreath’s back and turned to mount Firefoot. As he did so, his eyes fell on Oswyn holding the bridle. His squire had a blue ribbon twined round his upper arm.

A bolt of irritation shot through him. Was there anybody left who didn’t have one of those?

A/N: Many thanks to Cuthalion for letting me borrow Damrod and Noerwen from her tale Winter Fire

As always I'm grateful to LadyBluejay, Willow-41z and the other ladies at GoI for their advice.

Fire

Fireboat, fireboat, carry my wishes across the sea.
To the bride and groom long life and healthy children,
Good fortune and love that lasts the test of time.
Fireboat, fireboat, carry my wishes across the sea.

(Traditional Gondorian wedding blessing)

Dotted with hundreds of flickering lights, the Anduin stretched before Éomer like a river of stars. Far away behind them in the west, the last lingering traces of the sun still painted the sky a lighter shade of blue, but here in Osgiliath night had fallen. A lot of the town still lay in ruins, but even in the dim, orange light of their torches they could see signs of the rebirth of the former capital of Gondor all around them: walls newly whitewashed, houses rebuilt, gardens carefully tended.

Along the banks of the river, people had gathered to launch their fireboats and the bridges were crowded with spectators leaning over the balustrades. The crowd was in a festive mood, and laughter, snatches of songs and music floated through the still night air. Huge bonfires had been erected along the way, emitting sparks and plumes of smoke, and already impromptu ring dances had formed around them. The whole area was packed with people, but seeing the triple banners of the tree and seven stars, the swan-prowed ship and the white horse, they soon made way. Faramir and Éowyn riding at the front were showered with good wishes, the Steward of Gondor being much beloved by the common folk.

Once they reached a large square fronting the Anduin, they dismounted, and leaving their horses in the care of some of Aragorn’s men, made their way to the riverbank. Stone steps ran the whole length of it, leading down to where large flat rocks lay half submerged in the water. The Mûmakil Stones, Faramir had called them. Legend had it that many years ago a wizard had turned a host of the huge creatures into stone when they tried to attack Gondor.

His squire had remembered to bring along the carefully wrapped fireboats and Éomer now stopped to look for Lothíriel. He spotted her a little way off, being helped down the uneven steps by Amrothos, who had joined them on the way to Osgiliath.

But before he could call out to the princess, he found himself hailed by Lady Wilwarin. She gave him a winsome smile.

“Oh, King Éomer, would you give me a hand? These steps are a bit slippery.”

He had no problems with his footing himself, but then he wore sturdy riding boots. Politely he offered her his arm, and clinging tightly to him, she managed the descent without any mishaps.

Her glance lingered on his empty hands. “You have no boat of your own?” she asked, offering him hers.

It took Éomer a moment to take in the import of her words, for he had been distracted by the sight of Lothíriel and her brother taking off their boots and placing them carefully on the lowest step of the stone stairs. What were they up to?

Lady Wilwarin still held out her fireboat. Lavishly decorated with tinsel, it sported no less than three masts, rigged out with small canvas sails.

Éomer motioned to where Oswyn stood patiently waiting, holding the two packages. “Thank you. But my squire has mine.”

“Oh!” for an instant she seemed disconcerted, but Éomer had no time to ponder on this, for a little downstream he saw Lothíriel and Amrothos step out onto one of the boulders jutting into the river. It wobbled slightly and although they both laughed, he could not help worrying about Lothíriel’s safety. Somehow her brother had not struck him as the most reliable of persons. Fortunately a quick look up the bank showed the familiar figure of his Marshall.

“Elfhelm!” he called. His voice carried easily over the noise of the crowd; a skill he had acquired on the battlefield.

The Marshall took the steps two at a time. “Éomer King?”

“Elfhelm, would you look after Lady Wilwarin for me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he picked up his packages from Oswyn and quickly made his way downstream. Amrothos and Lothíriel had managed to step from one boulder to the next until they were quite far out. Motioning for his guards to stay back, he went to follow them, nearly overbalancing at one point. The furthermost rock was slightly tilted and not very large. When he jumped onto it, it shifted a little and Lothíriel threw out her arms in surprise. He reached out a hand to take her by the elbow and steady her.

She grabbed his arm. “Éomer, is that you?”

He felt foolish for startling her when he had actually meant to succour her. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “I’ve brought your fireboat.”

A torch in one hand, Amrothos sat hunkered over his own boat, which had a tiny mermaid carved into the prow. He looked up with a grin at Éomer’s arrival. “Good! We were just about to send this off. Now she only has to carry my wishes across the sea.”

Éomer frowned down at him. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway?”

“It’s the best place to launch fireboats from,” Amrothos said with an impudent grin. “Trust an experienced sailor like me.”

Annoyed at his boastful tone, Éomer answered more sharply than he had intended. “It might be, but it’s also downright dangerous. What if your sister fell in the water!”

Lothíriel plucked at his sleeve. “Éomer, I’m perfectly able to swim and anyway, it’s barely waist-deep here.”

“Oh!”

The water looked so inky black in the torchlight, he had thought it much deeper. Amrothos bent down to check the thin strings running from the deck of his boat to the top of the mast, but Éomer was pretty sure he had seen a smile on his face.

He tried to recover some of his ground. “Well, at this time of night, even a soaking would not be a very nice thing.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed soothingly.

Why did he get the impression he was being humoured? Éomer decided to change the subject.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you your boat sooner,” he apologized.

She shrugged. “I quite understand. Amrothos said you had to help Lady Wilwarin with hers first.”

“Well...” he cast a guilty look over his shoulder. Elfhelm seemed happy with the task allocated to him by his king, but Lady Wilwarin had not looked too pleased when he had excused himself. Then up on the steps he spotted Hereswyth, Elfhelm’s wife, watching the scene with her arms crossed across her chest. Had he got his old friend into trouble?

“Do you like the fireboats?” Lothíriel interrupted his thoughts.

He nodded. The sight of the Anduin rivalled the sky above them. “It looks magical, just like you said.”

She smiled up at him. “Yes. I think it’s a splendid custom.”

Boats that had been launched upriver of them floated by, carried on the lazy but inexorable current of the river. While some of them looked like they had been cobbled together on the spot from a couple of sticks and some twine, others were obviously the result of many hours of labour. Éomer wondered what wishes they carried with them when he suddenly spotted one that seemed distinctly familiar. Golden decorations glinted in the torchlight as the boat sailed by proudly, its sails billowing out in a slight breeze. Then just as it passed their position, the current swirled it round gently and it started to tilt to the right. Even as he watched, water began to pour over the side, extinguishing the candle with a hiss and causing the whole boat to capsize.

Amrothos laughed. “I wonder which landlubber that one belonged to? Too top heavy by far!”

Éomer looked back towards the shore and even from this distance he could see the chagrined expression on Lady Wilwarin’s face. What had she wished for? shot through his mind.

Whispering a few words under his breath, Amrothos launched his own vessel. It did not suffer the same ignominious fate, but was swiftly swept away out of sight, merging with dozens of its fellows being carried towards the sea.

“We’ll see if I have more luck betting at the horse races next time,” he said with a grin.

Then he handed the torch to Éomer. “We’re a bit crowded here, so I think I’ll leave you to it. Can I trust you to bring my sister back safely?”

“Of course,” Éomer answered reflexively, but Amrothos had already left their precarious outpost and jumped back onto the stone next to them.

Lothíriel looked rather surprised by her brother’s abrupt departure, but she just shrugged. “Never mind. Maybe he’s seen one of his friends.”

Éomer turned his attention to the two packages he carried and carefully unwrapped the boats from the sackcloth the merchant had provided. The candles had come loose and he had to fix them in their brackets again.

“Would you like to go first?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can wait.”

Éomer knelt down and lit his candle, then he passed the torch to Lothíriel to hold. He stared down at the boat. What to wish for? Love and happiness for Éowyn and Faramir, yet that seemed almost superfluous. The hungry looks the two had exchanged today had not escaped him. They had waited a long time for the fulfilment of their union. The day after tomorrow he would relinquish his sister’s hand and she would no longer call Meduseld home.

Peace and prosperity for the people of the Mark, he thought, and for himself enough strength and wisdom to be a good king. Gently slipping his fragile craft into the water he sent a last selfish wish after it: a little happiness for myself.

He felt slightly foolish as he waited with bated breath to see if his boat would sink or swim. After all, he had never set much store on superstition. But the river treated him kindly, carrying his messenger to the Valar away in its sure embrace.

The princess did not ask him what he had wished for and Éomer did not volunteer. Instead he helped her light her own candle and waited in silent companionship as she knelt down in her turn at the water’s edge.

For a moment she let her fingers linger on the two wooden sailors that had been glued to the main deck, then she launched her fireboat with a graceful motion.

“Go!” she whispered.

For a long time Lothíriel remained there, motionless, her eyes closed as if she could follow the progress of her craft that way. The water lapped gently against their stone and he welcomed the caress of the cool night air after the heat of the day. Éomer felt some of the tension of an annoying afternoon drain out of him.

He touched her gently on the shoulder. “And what did you wish for?” When he had first met her, the answer to that question would have been so obvious to him, he would never have asked. Now he was no longer quite so sure, the way Lothíriel kept defying his expectations.

She raised her face to him. “I only have modest wishes these days.”

It hit him like a punch in the middle. She should not be sitting there, looking slightly forlorn and wishing for modest things. She should be laughing at the world, demanding it give her everything she wanted, because such was her birthright.

With a curse, he threw the torch into the water and bent to pull her to her feet. “Don’t,” he said roughly.

She swayed and had to grab at him, surprised by his sudden actions. “What do you mean?”

He took her by the shoulders. “Don’t let them take your dreams away. Wish for the most extravagant thing you can think of. Ask for the moon!”

Her hands rested flat against his chest and she looked up at him, her eyes unseeing but large and alluring. A shy smile spread across her face. “Perhaps I will.”

Éomer stared down at her, feeling as if he was seeing her for the first time. Delicate pale skin, fathomless eyes framed by long lashes, a single strand of hair escaping its confines and curling against her cheek. Without his volition, his hands slid round her back and down to the gentle curve of her waist. She did not pull away.

Lothíriel put her head to one side. “And what do you wish for, Éomer?” The words were barely above a whisper. How red and inviting her lips looked.

Where had that thought come from? Suddenly the desire to kiss her coursed through him, taking his breath away with its urgency. Knowing that he had no right to do so, he tightened his hold on her. With a contented little sigh she leant into him. Soft and warm. Supple and yielding.

The daughter of one of his best friends, part of his mind reminded him, and a Princess of Gondor. Not to be trifled with lightly. He raised one hand to cup her cheek and ran a thumb across her lips. Her skin lay like smoothest silk under his calloused fingers. A blind woman, trusting implicitly in his honour. Lothíriel.

He struggled to get control of his unruly emotions. “We should go back, your father will be waiting for you.”

“Probably…” She still made no move to pull away, though. The end of her braid brushed against the back of his hand, searing a trail of fire. He couldn’t just let her go. He couldn’t.

“A token,” he breathed, his voice rough.

“A token?”

His hands were already busy unwinding the ribbon from her hair. “May I claim my reward later?” Trying for lightness. Failing utterly.

“Yes.”

She smiled up at him with utter innocence when he thrust his booty in his pocket, feeling like a robber making away with ill-gotten goods. Did she even understand what had passed between them?

Loud clapping and cheering emanated from the shore behind them, making him jump. He cast a look back over his shoulder. Faramir and Éowyn had just launched their fireboat.

He turned back to the woman in his arms, his body sheltering her from the curious glances of the onlookers. Yet he was very much aware of them and also of his guards waiting for him on the bank of the river. There seemed to be no getting away from them lately.

Reluctantly, he released her, only keeping hold of one hand. “Let me help you make your way back to the shore.”

She nodded, an expression of childlike trust on her face as she followed him from one stone to the next, stepping blindly wherever he told her to. When they reached the stairs, Imrahil stood there waiting for them, a cloak thrown over one arm and Lothíriel’s boots in his other hand.

He gave them a piercing look. “Here you are!”

Éomer couldn’t quite meet his eyes and he hoped devoutly that the other man would not read his unchaste thoughts regarding his daughter on his face. Guiltily he fingered the ribbon in his pocket. One of these days his mad impulses would get him into trouble.

Imrahil handed the boots to Lothíriel and told her to put them on. Reluctantly, Éomer relinquished her hand so she could sit on the stone steps. He could not help noticing that her legs were long and shapely. When he happened to look up again, Imrahil’s eyes had gone from cool to distinctly frigid.

The prince helped his daughter up and wrapped the cloak around her. “It is late, Lothíriel. Time to go home.”

Éomer took a step forward. “Will I see you tomorrow?” He remembered dimly that some southern lord planned an entertainment for Faramir and Éowyn.

She nodded. “I will be at Lord Girion’s.”

Imrahil pulled her hand through the crook of his arm. “Let’s see first how you feel in the morning.”

She patted his arm fondly. “Yes of course.” Then she turned to Éomer and held out her hand. “Until tomorrow.”

Conscious of Imrahil’s intense stare boring into him, Éomer planted a light kiss on her knuckles. As if by accident, he let one finger brush across the palm of her hand. Did it tremble ever so slightly? “Until tomorrow, my lady.”

Imrahil pulled her away and gave a cool nod in Éomer’s direction. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

As the party from Dol Amroth made their way up the stairs, Éomer followed them with his eyes. At the top, Lothíriel cast a look back over her shoulder. Éomer had no idea how she did it, but her eyes seemed to find his own unerringly. She gifted him with a smile.

He remembered then that she had never told him her wish.

Muzgâsh beckoned to one of his servants. The top step of the stone stairs provided a wonderful vantage point, even though the common folk were kept back from the part of the riverbank where the King of Gondor and his guests launched their boats.

He pointed to Prince Imrahil. “The woman with the prince. Find out who she is.”

His man bowed and disappeared into the crowd. Muzgâsh fingered his boat. Earlier on he had tried to use it as a pretext to get closer to the King of Rohan, but the guards had turned him away. Guards! The man did not seem to move anywhere without them. At least Muzgâsh had not been spotted this time. He still wondered what had made the man slew round just when he had, that morning at the fair. Clearly a foe not to be underestimated.

Nevertheless the evening had proved educating – very educating in fact. Even in the uncertain light thrown by the torches there had been something about the way the King of Rohan had briefly touched the woman that spoke of more than simple courtesy to Muzgâsh. Perhaps he had just found the chink in his enemy’s armour?

Soundlessly, his servant materialized at his side again.

“The woman?” Muzgâsh asked.

“The daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. She’s blind. Her name–“

Muzgâsh cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “I know her name.”

Lothíriel. He had thought as much when he had seen the protective way the prince had put his cloak around her.

“How fitting,” he whispered.

“My Lord Prince?” The man looked mystified.

Muzgâsh waved him away. “Just a bit of old family history.”

So. The board had been set, the pieces identified and positioned, and the game could begin. He would make his first moves without his opponent even being aware of the fact that he was being cornered. Muzgâsh was an excellent Shah player.

Slowly he made his way down to the Anduin to launch his fireboat. It would look suspicious if he didn’t do so. A fat merchant lent him a torch to light his candle and Muzgâsh forced himself to give the man an affable smile. He knelt down at the edge of the stairs and set his boat on the water. His own gods were far more warlike than these bloodless Elven gods, yet you never knew. Death, he thought as the river carried his offering away in its gentle current.

Death.

Of Butterflies

Those who do not lie will find it difficult to detect falsehood.
This is their weakness.
Those who lie will find it difficult to perceive the truth.
This is their weakness.

(Saying from Gondor)

Lothíriel enjoyed the sensation of firm muscles under her hands, pent-up power temporarily quiescent, but ready to burst forth at any moment. Whispering endearments, she ran exploratory fingers along the strong back. She wanted to know every inch of the great body next to her. Velvety soft, yet permeated with solid strength, it radiated heat. At the very first touch, two days ago, a piece of her heart had been taken, exchanged for a promise of freedom and laughter.

She stroked the wide, powerful chest. Warm breath caressed her cheek and she reached up to bury her fingers in the long hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” she sighed.

Winterbreath snorted as if in agreement and gently butted Lothíriel with her head. Recalled to her task, Lothíriel took up grooming the mare with long even strokes again.

All around her, she could hear the early morning routine of the stables taking place, grooms talking to each other while cleaning the horseboxes, the rattle of a wheelbarrow on the cobbles outside, the creak of the well chain as stable boys hauled up buckets of fresh water for the horses. Comforting sounds that didn’t disturb the tranquillity of her own small corner. She leaned into her strokes, determined that Winterbreath should be the best-groomed horse in her father’s stables.

She thoroughly enjoyed her work and knew there existed no better way to get to know her new horse than to care for Winterbreath’s daily needs. At first, the head groom of Prince Imrahil’s stables had been scandalized to see his master’s daughter wield wisp and curry comb, but he had capitulated when informed that the King of Rohan himself had advised her to do so.

Lothíriel started to hum a Rohirric tune as she worked, but resisted the temptation to take a few dance steps. She had already hit her shin on her bedside table while doing so the night before and stubbed one toe most painfully. Hareth had scolded her for not taking more care, but only half-heartedly, infected by her mistress’s happy mood. The maid did of course have no idea what had caused it, although Lothíriel’s request to get her prettiest riding dress ready for this afternoon might have given her a hint.

The door to Winterbreath’s horsebox creaked and Lothíriel turned towards it. She had paid no attention to the steps going to and fro in the passageway outside. One of the grooms bringing fresh hay? But she found herself greeted by her father.

He planted a light kiss on her cheek. “You’re up early, daughter.”

She nodded toward Winterbreath. “I wanted to spend some time with my new horse.”

Lothíriel could hear him patting the mare’s neck. “A very generous gift from Lady Éowyn.”

“She’s beautiful,” Lothíriel agreed, wondering all the while why her father sought her out so early. His next sentence enlightened her.

“Lothíriel, I’ve been thinking that you should have a day of rest today.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder before she could utter a protest. “You know that tomorrow is the wedding and you will need all your strength to carry you through the long day.”

“Father, I’m not some frail invalid!” She could have added that she wasn’t stupid either and recognized a pretext when she heard one.

“Of course not. But I do not like to see you run yourself ragged with all these dances and excursions. After all, with the long ride from Osgiliath, we didn’t get in until late last night. Believe me, I just have your best interests at heart.”

Didn’t they all. At times it seemed to Lothíriel that she was positively surrounded by people who had her best interests at heart. All of them thought they knew better than herself what she should do with her life and none of them bothered to ask for her own opinion. She reminded herself that her father meant well. Besides, giving him a sharp answer would only confirm his right to treat her like a small child.

She took up brushing Winterbreath with long even strokes again. It had a calming effect on her. “I’m not tired at all, I will manage.” In fact she felt like she could have danced the entire day away. At least with one particular rider from Rohan. Better not mention that to her father, though. The unreasonable animosity he had displayed towards Éomer the previous evening had not escaped her.

“Nevertheless,” her father insisted, “I think it best that you stay in today.”

Hadn’t some great king written that attack was the best defence? Lothíriel decided to try it out. “I promised Éomer, I’d be at Lord Girion’s this afternoon.”

“Lothíriel,” her father sounded unusually hesitant. “I’m worried about you.”

She ducked under Winterbreath’s neck and started on the other side. “You needn’t be. I can look after myself.”

Her father followed her. “I’m worried that you’ve set your heart on something you cannot have.”

“Like what?” she challenged him. Now they were getting near the heart of the matter.

He touched her on the shoulder again. “Daughter, I know Éomer has been very kind to you. Also he’s handsome and charming. But…”

“But?” Her vigorous strokes did not falter. Winterbreath would not have a single speck of dirt left on her coat by the time she was finished with her.

“But he’s like a brightly burning flame, attracting poor moths only to have them throw themselves into his fire.”

Moths – was that what her father thought of her? A drab creature of the dark? She had to bite back an angry retort and turned her face away so he would not see the expression on it.

“It’s not his fault,” her father assured her. “He does it just by being who and what he is.”

Lothíriel remembered the way Éomer’s hands had rested against her back, warm and sure, gathering her in, holding her safe. It had been like coming home on a cold and windy winter’s day and finding a blazing fire welcoming her with its warmth. A place where she belonged. Ask for the moon…

“I am no foolish moth,” she said quietly.

“Dearest, I did not say so. Indeed, to me you are a lovely butterfly.”

A butterfly. Lothíriel wasn’t sure if she considered that an improvement on being compared to a moth.

Her father seemed to notice nothing wrong in her silence. “You are so young and inexperienced. I would not want you to get hurt for anything in the world.”

Lothíriel took a deep breath. It would do her no good to remind her father that it was eight years too late for that. Or that she considered herself a woman grown, although she would of course not reach her full majority until her twenty-fifth birthday.

She tried hard for a reasonable tone. “Father, you worry needlessly. Éomer would never hurt me.”

“Oh, not intentionally, I’m sure. But he might not even realize that the favour he shows you, though perhaps nothing unusual in Rohan, will reflect badly on your reputation here in Gondor.”

Lothíriel wondered what her father had seen at the fireboat ceremony. Surely it had been too dark to make anything out?

“Nothing has happened,” she protested. Yet, a treacherous voice in her mind added. She had every intention of letting the King of Rohan claim the traditional forfeit for his ribbon from her. Éowyn had explained the custom to her at the time, adding that none of the Rohirrim would think to collect it from a foreign princess. Well, one of them would.

“Lothíriel, you cannot disappear into the gardens with a man for half the evening and not expect the court gossips to have a field day with it. And last night – I know customs in Rohan might differ, but frankly the way he eyed you was most unseemly.”

Instead of being scandalized, Lothíriel found that a warm feeling spread through her. “Really?”

“Really,” her father repeated, his voice full of displeasure. “I intend to have words with him.”

Alarm shot through Lothíriel. She did not want the Prince of Dol Amroth to charge through her affairs like an angry mûmak. “Oh father, please, don’t!”

“I’m determined to put an end to this, for nothing good can come of it.” Her father took her arm and gently turned her towards him. “Lothíriel, you realize he cannot make you his queen.”

She had not thought that far, simply enjoyed the memory of being held in his arms, the tender way he had touched her face, the shivers of pleasure that had raced down her back. “Why not?” she whispered.

“Lothíriel…” old and fresh pain in his voice. “The Queen of Rohan is more than just an ornament to the throne. She is expected to reign in her husband’s stead whenever he is away. How could a blind woman possibly hope to rule a people of such fierce warriors?”

She swallowed. “Has Éomer said so to you?” Had he just been playing with her? Suddenly, she was painfully aware of her lack of experience in matters of the heart.

“No.”

Lothíriel felt like she could breathe again. She recalled the rough edge to Éomer’s voice and his reluctance to let go of her hand. The certainty that she wasn’t mistaken in him filled her. But before she could answer, she heard running steps in the passage outside and the door to the box banged open. Winterbreath started with a violent neigh and Lothíriel spun round to calm her.

“Alphros!” her father remonstrated.

“Oh grandfather, it’s you! I’m sorry for startling the horse. But mother sent me to get Aunt Lothíriel. We’ve got visitors in the garden.”

The mare had settled down again. Murmuring soft words of encouragement and stroking her gently, Lothíriel turned to her nephew. “Visitors?”

“Aunt Wilwarin and Grandmother Silivren.”

Lothíriel’s heart sank. Just what she needed. “Very well,” she nodded. “I’m coming.” But before she left, she turned to her father. “Please, may I visit Lord Girion’s this afternoon?”

When he didn’t answer at once, she reached out tentatively to take his arm. “This is important and I know what I’m doing. Trust me…please?”

He sighed. “You know how difficult I find it to deny you. Very well.”

She gave him a quick embrace. “Thank you!”

“But I will accompany you and so will your brothers.”

How many minders did he think she needed? She would have preferred to just have Amrothos along, but knew better than to protest. “That’s fine.”

After returning the brushes to one of the grooms and giving her face and hands a quick wash, Lothíriel let Alphros lead her to the gardens. Her nephew skipped alongside her, chatting away happily, but she found her mind wandering. She had only the vaguest of notions what Lord Girion had planned for their entertainment, although some kind of hunt had been mentioned, but surely they could find an opportunity to slip away. Perhaps Amrothos could be persuaded to help them. The mental picture of what Éomer might say and do filled her with happy anticipation.

“… you will, won’t you, Aunt Lothíriel?” Alphros’s voice broke into her daydreams.

“Sorry, will I do what?”

“Haven’t you been listening?” he asked her accusingly. “I said, can you ask the King of Rohan if I can have a tooth of the warg that attacked us.”

“The warg? Are you serious?”

“Minardil doesn’t believe how big it was, so I said I’d get a fang to show him.”

Lothíriel remembered that she had met Minardil, his best friend and the son of Alphros’s personal guard, on her first evening.

“Well, I can try,” she said.

“Good! That will show him!” She got the impression that for her nephew, the terror of the incident had already receded and become a story – one where he played the hero.

She smiled down at him. “I will ask, but mind you, I’m not sure if the fangs were saved.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He clapped his hands. “Thank you! Did you know father has said I may come along for the hunt this afternoon? And Minardil as well!”

Lothíriel had to smile at his enthusiasm when he eagerly told her his plan of becoming the greatest hunter of Middle Earth when he was grown. It kept him busy until they reached the gardens.

“Here they are,” he announced.

Lothíriel found herself greeted most graciously by the Ladies Wilwarin and Silivren.

“My dear Princess Lothíriel,” Annarima’s mother exclaimed. “How are you today? Do please sit down and have a chat with us.” Without asking for her leave, she took Lothíriel’s elbow and led her to a bench.

Forcing herself to be polite to their guests, Lothíriel suppressed the urge to shake her off. Lady Silivren sat down next to her, a nauseating wave of perfume surrounding her. “The sunshine is not too hot for you, is it? Would you like a servant to fetch a cushion for you?”

Lothíriel took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Thank you, I’m fine.” She was well used to being treated as a mixture between an idiot child and a sickly invalid.

“Lothíriel, what have you been doing?” Annarima asked, “Your dress is covered in grey hairs.”

“Oh!” she should of course have gone to change her clothes, but her mind had been elsewhere. Moreover, Hareth had selected her oldest tunic to work in the stables. Lothíriel decided to brazen it out. “I’ve been grooming Winterbreath.”

It did not take sight to imagine the disdainful looks being exchanged at her words. Fortunately, after a short, strained silence, Annarima turned the conversation to gossip about the other members of King Elessar’s court. Lothíriel leaned back and let her mind wander to more pleasant matters while she pretended polite interest. In the past, she would have been deeply embarrassed at being caught in old and dirty clothes. Today she could just shrug it away, as if she’d been gifted a suit of invisible armour against such petty annoyances.

Poor Alphros had to sit on his grandmother’s lap to be fussed over while all the particulars of the warg attack were rehashed in exhaustive detail. Somehow Lady Silivren’s sympathies seemed to lay mostly with Annarima, even though she had fainted away and not seen any of the fight. Guthlaf’s fate appeared completely forgotten.

Lady Wilwarin had taken a seat on her other side. Now she leaned over to touch Lothíriel lightly on the arm. “Tell me, would you like to join me on a short walk around the garden?”

Lothíriel hesitated for a moment, but the desire to get away from Lady Silivren’s overbearing attentions outweighed her reluctance to accept Wilwarin’s company and she agreed.

Since she had her cane along, Lothíriel had no problem finding the way, but even so Wilwarin insisted on linking her arm with hers. “We can have a nice cosy chat,” she laughed.

Once they were out of earshot of the others, she leaned in closer. “Dear Lothíriel, you have no idea how happy I am.”

“You are?” Lothíriel asked warily.

“He has said I should tell you, that he considers you his dear friend.”

“He?” Why did she have a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach?

“Éomer.” Wilwarin managed to make a honey sweet endearment out of the name. “He’s such a lovely man, isn’t he, and so kind and gallant.”

“Tell me what?” Lothíriel interrupted her rudely.

“Éomer has asked me to marry him.”

Lothíriel stopped abruptly and wrenched her arm away. A cold hand gripped her heart. “It can’t be!”

Wilwarin seemed not to have noticed her agitation. “I couldn’t believe it myself,” she said chattily, “but he accompanied me home last night and then he proposed to me. It was so romantic, the moonlight and the stars above us…” She gave a sigh. “He’s so handsome! Well, of course you wouldn’t be able to tell, but you can take my word for it.” She tittered.

Lothíriel started to hate her.

“My mother says half the women of Rohan and Gondor are secretly in love with him,” Wilwarin went on with a laugh.

Lothíriel felt the foundations of her happiness crumble like a sandcastle overtaken by the rising tide, the destruction swift and inevitable. No! It couldn’t be true. Wilwarin had to be mistaken or else she was lying. Desperately, Lothíriel tried to concentrate on the other woman’s voice, sifting truth from falsehood through the pounding of blood in her ears. If only she could see her face!

“It’s a heavy responsibility of course, but Éomer persuaded me in the end, telling me how long he has searched for a worthy queen. Do you know Marshall Elfhelm?”

Not trusting her voice, Lothíriel nodded mutely.

“He has told me that the Queen of Rohan is expected to rule by her husband’s side and acts as underking in his absence.”

In a horrible way, this tied in with what her father had told her. But how could Éomer think for even a moment that somebody like Wilwarin would make a suitable queen? More suitable than me anyway, for she can see, Lothíriel thought bitterly. She turned away and tried to force some semblance of order on her chaotic feelings. In this part of the garden, the paths were lined with roses, blooming early in the warm weather. The scent of them filled the air, so rich it almost sickened her.

She was a fool! Several times, Éomer had mentioned an alliance by marriage and she had known he referred to his plans to wed Wilwarin. Oh yes, she had known, but his touch had made her forget all about it. A sense of deep betrayal filled her. If he meant to marry Wilwarin, why had he acted the way he had last night?

Pebbles crunched as the other woman stepped up to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I can see you’re surprised. Indeed I was myself, when Éomer asked me to become his wife. You will promise not to tell anybody, won’t you?”

Lothíriel still kept her face turned away. “Why not?” It seemed a strange request.

“We’re keeping it a secret for the time being. You see, the Rohirrim don’t like the idea of a queen from Gondor. Just a few more days until Éowyn’s wedding is over.”

Dimly, Lothíriel recollected Éomer mentioning something similar when he had taken her to have a look at Galador. Yes, it all added up. A dull numbness had replaced the sense of betrayal. She shrugged. “As you please. I won’t tell anyone.”

Wilwarin’s gown rustled as she leaned closer. “Dear Éomer said he looks on you almost as family and that he wanted to share the happy news.”

A terrible suspicion dawned on Lothíriel. “He said to tell me?” she asked haltingly.

“Oh yes. He thinks of you as a sister.”

A sister? That had been no brotherly touch last night. Had she been so transparent with her feelings and this was meant as a warning from Wilwarin? Or worse, as a kind hint from Éomer? Did he feel sorry for her? She drew herself up and forced a smile on her face before turning round.

“My congratulations to you and King Éomer.”

“Thank you, I will relay your good wishes.”

Lothíriel gave a nod. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have to get ready for this afternoon.”

“Of course.” The satisfaction in Wilwarin’s voice was hard to miss.

But instead going of back to the house, Lothíriel first turned her steps further into the garden. She would need a little time on her own before she could face the world again.

“Where’s Lothíriel?” Annarima asked her sister when Wilwarin rejoined them.

“She went in to get changed.”

Her mother laughed. “Well, about time! She looked like a stable-girl, covered in all that horsehair.” She patted the bench next to her. “Come and sit down, my sweet.”

Annarima regarded her closely. “You look very pleased with yourself, sister.”

Wilwarin hesitated for a moment. Her eyes fell on her nephew, still sitting on his grandmother’s lap, a bored expression on his face. She gave him a smile. “Alphros my dear, why don’t you run along and fetch us something to eat from the kitchen.”

The boy jumped up and agreed with alacrity. Unless she was very much mistaken, they would not see him again for some time. Lady Silivren leaned forward. “You have something to tell us?”

Wilwarin nodded and quickly recounted what had just happened.

“King Éomer has proposed to you?” her mother squealed.

“Not so loud!” Wilwarin hissed. “You know perfectly well he hasn’t.”

“But you just said–“

Wilwarin rolled her eyes. “Mother, you’re so slow at times! Don’t you see I had to do something? You remarked yourself on the infatuated look King Éomer gave Lothíriel last night.”

She had seen it herself and known at that moment that if she didn’t act quickly, her aspirations to become Queen of Rohan were doomed. While Prince Imrahil could be trusted to raise objections to having his little girl married off, she did not think that anything could stand in King Éomer’s way once he had really made his mind up.

Annarima had listened with a frown. “So you lied?”

Wilwarin nodded coolly. “Yes.” She knew her sister wouldn’t betray her. “Or do you want her to become Queen of Rohan?”

When she saw her sister’s hesitation, she smiled. “Lothíriel would outrank you then, wouldn’t she? How would you like having to curtsy to her and to give her precedence?”

“It still doesn’t seem right,” Annarima objected, “And what if she mentions this to King Éomer?”

“She won’t. The Princess of Dol Amroth admitting she fell for a man, only to have him offer for another woman’s hand? But even if she did, I would just say it’s all a misunderstanding. After all, there were no witnesses.”

Her sister frowned in worry. “It’s still risky.”

Wilwarin shrugged. “If you risk nothing, you will gain nothing.”

And she had everything to gain, for she was determined not to end up like her mother, married to a minor lord and dependent on her daughter’s charity to live a life of adequate means.

Lady Silivren clapped her hands. “Aren’t you clever!”

Wilwarin smiled. She had gambled and bought herself some time. All she needed now was another moonlight walk with the King of Rohan. She would have had him the other night, if it hadn’t been for those noblemen fooling about. A kiss, a half-spoken promise was enough to snare him, for he would never go back on his word. Men and their stupid honour.

“I’m really doing Lothíriel a favour,” she pointed out to the other two, “for she can’t become Queen of Rohan anyway, can she.”

“That’s true,” her mother nodded, “nothing but unhappiness would await her in Rohan. She could never cope.”

Wilwarin firmly pushed the memory of Lothíriel’s stricken face away. Anyway, as a princess she wouldn’t want for a good match. No doubt her father had a nice Gondorian nobleman in mind already and soon the King of Rohan would be forgotten.

Yes, she was definitely doing Lothíriel a favour.

While not very large, the garden of the townhouse of the Princes of Dol Amroth sported several hidden corners and crannies. Lothíriel knew them all. She sat curled up in a niche of the great wall, the stone cool against her back, her head resting on her drawn up knees. Honeysuckle grew in abundance all over the place, spilling its sweet scent into the air.

They would be gone by now, but still she couldn’t bring herself to go back to the house. Surely a little time still remained before she had to get ready to join her father and brothers for their excursion. How she wished now that she had agreed to stay at home. Could she plead a sudden headache? But that would be cowardly and no doubt Wilwarin expected her to do just that. No, she would have to face Éomer sooner or later, so better to get it over and done with.

Lothíriel plucked a sprig of honeysuckle and started to shred the delicate petals methodically.

“You are a complete fool!” she told herself.

She could hardly be the first girl to fall for the handsome King of Rohan. No doubt he had seen many cases of hero worship and had thought to give her a kind hint. Only she didn’t like him because of being a hero – she had plenty of those in her own family. No, she liked him for his unthinking kindness, for trying to understand what it meant to be blind, for making her laugh. But she would get over this silly, childish infatuation. Why, three days ago she had not even known him and she had been perfectly happy. Surely she could go back to that blissful state of ignorance again.

But her mind kept returning to the memory of the night before. She had obviously put too much importance on Éomer’s tone of voice, had let herself be swept away by the sensation of having him hold her in his arms. Would a look at his face have told her that he only had a light-hearted flirtation in mind? She sighed. He had after all done nothing except to beg a ribbon from her, just like many others of the Rohirrim. He could not have known that she also gave him a piece of her heart with it.

Lothíriel was reminded of a story Hareth had told her as a little girl. A king had exchanged his heart against a piece of stone and had wrought bands of iron and ice around it so he would never feel love or sorrow. As a child she had felt sorry for him.

Now she felt envy.

A/N: Wilwarin is Quenya for ‘butterfly’

Aftermath

The rich man knows his worth.
The steadfast man knows his mind.
The wise man knows his heart.

(Saying from Rohan)

***

“Éomer King?”

With a groan, Éomer rolled over and opened one eye. Just enough morning light pervaded his tent to enable him to see the sparse furnishings.

“What is it?” he croaked.

Oswyn opened the tent flap and stuck in his head. “Your wash, my lord.”

Éomer sat up gingerly and motioned for him to come in. Oswyn had long ago learnt to announce his presence before entering, for the first time he had omitted to do so, he’d caused his king to surge stark naked out of bed, a dagger in each hand. A habit left over from the war that, and one Éomer would have to break when he got married. Another groan escaped him.

His squire rolled in a shallow wooden tub, positioned it in one corner and then left to fetch water. Éomer rested his head in his hands. It was throbbing gently, with not quite a hangover, but definitely more than a headache. When he had got back the night before, he had joined a group of his riders celebrating Éowyn’s upcoming nuptials. They had sat around the fire, reminiscing about times past and passing beakers of ale. He should have gone easy on it. Or was it the after-effects of a different sort of intoxication?

Oswyn reappeared a moment later with two buckets and set them down by the tub, careful not to spill any of the water on the ground. Then he busied himself laying out a towel and fresh clothes. Éomer wrapped a robe around himself, strolled over and tested the water with one toe. Fresh from the mountains and ice cold, as usual. Still, it would do him good after last night.

His squire straightened up, a pair of boots in one hand. “Would you like me to get some hot water for you, my lord?”

Éomer shook his head and then winced. “No, that’s fine.” All the water had to be fetched from a nearby stream and he did not want to make more work for the servants than necessary. Let the ladies and children have their hot baths, he could manage.

He also waved away his squire’s offer of assistance. “I’m not old and feeble yet, Oswyn. You go and get Firefoot ready.” His squire nodded and ducked out the tent.

Now if it had been his wife offering to give a hand, that might have been a different matter. Éomer clamped down hard on that thought. Why did his unruly mind insist on straying in that direction? Of course he knew why, even though he still had no idea what had gotten into him the night before. After all, Lothíriel was not the first pretty woman he had held in his arms – but the first princess. And to think that he had considered his tendency to give in to mad impulses firmly under control! At least he hadn’t committed the complete folly of kissing her in plain sight of everybody.

His glance fell on a small table standing in one corner of his tent and the blue ribbon lying on it. Éomer picked it up and let its shiny length run through his fingers. Did Lothíriel know what she had agreed to? He rather doubted it and knew he had no right to go through with claiming his due, unless he also meant to offer for her hand. To do anything else would mean to destroy that unconditional trust in her eyes.

A blind queen? For the first time he let his mind contemplate the idea. His advisors would probably have seizures at the mere thought. Bar a very few, they would never be able to see past Lothíriel’s blindness to her courage and rare honesty. And her youth and inexperience spoke against her as well. Being Queen of the Mark was a heavy burden to lay on such small shoulders. Did he have the right to even think of it?

He let the ribbon fall to the table again and balled his hands into fist. Why did the crown have to pass to him? As Third Marshall of the Riddermark he would have been free to marry whomever he pleased, but now invisible fetters bound him: duty and love. Why did you have to die, Théodred? he thought angrily. No answer. There never would be one now.

With a sigh Éomer dropped his robe and stepped in the tub. For a moment, he eyed the ladle resting against one side, but then he shrugged and picked up one of the buckets. Resolutely he upended it over his head. The shock of cold water running down his body drove the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and he could not help cursing.

“Éomer?”

He recognized his sister’s voice. That brought him even more fully awake.

“Éowyn! You can’t come in.”

She laughed. “Hurry up! It’s getting on and I’ve brought breakfast for you.”

Not sure how long his sister’s patience would hold, he hastily finished his wash, dried himself and put on a pair of trousers and his boots. As an afterthought he picked up a certain blue ribbon and stuffed it into one of his pockets. He definitely did not want his sister to spot that. Then he held the tent flap open for Éowyn to enter. She slipped in and deposited the tray she carried on the table. Delicious smells wafted from it and Éomer’s stomach growled.

Éowyn looked him over critically. “Well, my handsome brother, aren’t you dressed yet? If go out like that, you’ll have half the womenfolk of the camp swooning over you.”

He gave her a pained smile and started on the bowl of hot porridge she had brought. He had the sinking feeling there only existed one woman that he wanted to swoon over him and she wouldn’t do so at the sight of him. However, he wasn’t about to tell that to his sister. First he wanted to sort out his own muddled emotions about the events of the previous night.

Apart from the porridge, the tray also held rolls of freshly baked bread, a small pot of honey and a mug of piping hot tea. Éomer felt his headache receding as he filled his empty stomach. Éowyn wandered over to the clothes his squire had laid ready for him and selected a shirt and tunic from them. “Put these on,” she told him.

Once he had done so, she stepped round his back and towelled down his hair. “We don’t want people to think you’re a barbarian king from the Northlands.”

He smiled involuntarily. “But that’s what I am. Just like you’re a wild, untamed Shieldmaiden.”

She gave him a playful punch in the back. “I am nothing of the sort. On the contrary, in another day’s time I will be a refined Gondorian lady.”

Éomer nearly choked on his tea at that picture. “Yes, I’m sure. You’ll be sitting in the garden, doing embroidery. Does Faramir have the slightest idea of what he’s let himself in for?”

Éowyn laughed and started to brush out his hair. “Soon you’ll have to find someone else to do this for you,” she remarked in a conversational voice.

“Hmm.” Slightly cheered, Éomer had to hide a grin. He had suspected that it wasn’t sisterly care that had brought Éowyn into his tent so early, but rather sisterly curiosity.

Silence stretched between them until Éowyn could stand it no longer. “Oh come on, Éomer! Out with it, what happened between you and Lothíriel last night? Imrahil didn’t look too pleased about it.”

“Nothing has happened.” Yet. Without warning, the memory of caressing Lothíriel’s smooth skin flooded through him and he realized he would not be able to forgo claiming his forfeit. Her dark, unseeing eyes had tugged at his very soul.

Éowyn touched him hesitantly on the shoulder. “But…”

He turned round and gently took her by the wrists. “Sister, you’ll have to trust me to manage my own affairs. I’m a grown man, you know.” Although so far, he’d just gotten himself into a right mess. While he did not think that Lothíriel had objected to his treatment of her, he had a pretty good idea of what Imrahil might say about the same issue.

Éowyn searched his face, and whatever she read there made her frown worriedly. “I know. I just want you to be happy.”

Éomer touched her briefly on the cheek. “I will be. Don’t concern yourself with me, think of yourself and Faramir.” He could hear the jingle of harness and a familiar wicker outside the tent. “Oswyn has brought the horses,” he said. “Time to go.”

Before they stepped outside, he picked up his cloak and fastened it at the shoulder with a circular gold brooch. His fingers lingered for a moment on the familiar device of the running horse encircled by a cunning pattern of interlaced designs. It had been his father’s and he hoped would one day be his son’s. He sighed.

After greeting Firefoot, Éomer automatically checked the position of the sun. Late morning already, but his men were all ready and they would be able to leave straightaway. He swung up on the stallion and gave the signal to move out.

Lord Girion of Lossarnach had inherited his lordship at the death of his father Forlong the Fat on the Pelennor Fields and his demesne lay in the shadow of the White Mountains. To get there, they had to ride south first, passing between Minas Tirith and the Harlond. The horses were eager for a run and they made good time, so that in little over an hour they reached the southern gate of the Rammas Echor, where they turned west.

Having the same goal, several other groups of riders joined them as they made their way up a wide side-valley that a stream had eaten into the sides of Mount Mindolluin. Homesteads with storks’ nests perched precariously on the chimneys lined the way and every time they passed one, children came running, climbing on the fences and exclaiming at the exotic looking Rohirrim. The fields looked carefully tended, the pigs, cows and other animals well fed. A fertile country, it reminded Éomer very much of the West Mark.

After a while, the road started to climb the western side of the valley, leading through dense underbrush up to a grassy plateau. The Lords of Lossarnach had built a small hunting lodge at the edge of it and it was here that the meet would assemble. As they approached, they could hear the excited barking of dogs and over on one side stood a row of perches where falconers put up their charges. A small courtyard fronted the house, with a row of stables either side. It was packed with people and horses, but Éomer could make out their host standing on the low steps leading up to the door, talking to Aragorn and Arwen. Having inherited his father’s legendary girth, Lord Girion was easy to spot.

Éomer quickly scanned the crowd, taking note of Faramir and his rangers making their way towards them, but mainly interested in another sight. Over in one corner, a group of Swan Knights stood waiting by their horses, and he could make out both Imrahil and Amrothos. Surely that meant that the Princess of Dol Amroth attended the event as well.

It took a disconcerting amount of self-discipline not to search for her at once like a lovesick youth, but to go and greet his host first.

“King Éomer,” Lord Girion exclaimed in his booming voice, “how nice to see you.”

Éomer had met Girion on the march to the Black Gate and had great respect for him. When he introduced Éowyn, the man bowed deeply. “The incomparable White Lady of Rohan.” He turned to Faramir. “Now if only I were twenty years younger I would give you a run for this lovely lady’s hand.”

Faramir laughed. “I think you enjoy your status as a wealthy widower too much to do that.”

Girion clutched at his heart. “You wound me! Or are you afraid of what a formidable rival I might make?”

Even Éowyn, whose eyes usually took on a glassy look at this sort of compliment, had to laugh.

Girion beamed at them. “I was just telling King Elessar and Queen Arwen what a splendid meal we have prepared for you. But first the hunt!” He went on to enumerate all the various treats he had arranged for them. “My men have tracked a herd of deer, some wild boars and even a big stag for you to hunt. For the ladies with their falcons we have arranged pheasants, partridges, ducks and wood pigeons to hunt here on the plateau.”

Éomer nodded politely, but his attention was wandering again. “I have got to go and greet Imrahil,” he excused himself after a moment.

“You do that,” his sister said, unsuccessfully smothering a grin. As he turned to go, he saw Aragorn and his queen exchange a speaking look.

It took him a while to cross the courtyard, because he had to exchange greetings with all his acquaintances, but at least everybody made way for him – one of the advantages of being a king. He had almost reached the circle of Swan Knights when he spotted Lothíriel. She was leaning her head against Winterbreath’s neck, stroking the soft coat of her horse, and something in her manner made him pause. She looked almost apprehensive, the way she stood slightly hunched over, clinging to the comfort of her mare. Then he got a glimpse of her face. A look of deep unhappiness on it, she had her eyes closed as if she wanted to shut out the world. At the sight, Éomer felt sudden rage kindle within him. What had caused this? Had her father scolded her for coming out on the stepping-stones with him the night before?

“Lothíriel!” he called and she started violently. At once, he cursed himself for not announcing his presence in a better manner. What had gotten into him?

Straightening her back, she turned towards him, her face a careful blank. “King Éomer.”

He felt as if he had been doused with cold water for the second time that day. King Éomer? He had thought they had dispensed with titles. A sinking feeling pervaded his stomach.

“Lothíriel,” he said again, more softly. “Forgive me for startling you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She clutched Winterbreath’s reins as if they were a lifeline, her knuckles turning white with pressure. Éomer had to stamp down hard on the urge to take her in his arms then and there. He desperately wanted to make her smile at him like she had last night. Or alternatively draw and quarter whoever had caused this unhappiness – before cutting him into small pieces, boiling him in oil and then killing him. His hands curled into fists.

“It does matter,” he said gently, “to me.”

That moment Imrahil came up behind her, laying a protective hand on her shoulder and Amrothos materialized on her other side. Identical cool grey eyes looked him over with open disfavour, matched by the chill in their voices as they greeted him.

“Everything all right, dearest?” Imrahil asked.

“Yes of course.” She took a step back into the shelter of her father’s presence.

What had happened? This was not the same woman who had smiled at him last night at their parting with such open joy, self-possessed and sure of herself. It couldn’t be something he had done, it had to be her father’s influence. He glared at Imrahil, who glared right back. Yet for a moment it seemed to him that below the other man’s animosity lay surprise and worry.

Trying to think of a way to get her to talk to him unguardedly, Éomer took a step closer. “Lothíriel, would you like to take a short walk with me?”

Alarm chased across her face. “I don’t think we have time for that,” she stammered. “Isn’t the hunt about to begin?”

Éomer cast a look back over his shoulder. Gesturing expansively, Girion still stood on the steps of his lodge, talking to Arwen and Aragorn. “Plenty of time yet.” He lowered his voice. “I need to talk to you.”

She hesitated. Beside her, Imrahil bristled visibly. “Perhaps another time. Like my daughter just said, the hunt will start soon.”

Éomer gave him a challenging stare. “Not for a while yet.”

Ignoring the other man, he turned to Lothíriel. “Please?” he said, willing her to hear the need in his voice.

Still she hesitated, clenching and unclenching the fingers holding Winterbreath’s reins. What had Imrahil said about him to cause this anxiety?

“I won’t give up until you do, you know,” he said in a last desperate bid, crossing his arms across his chest. And he determined at that moment that indeed he wouldn’t.

Lothíriel seemed to recognize that he would not yield easily. “Very well,” she agreed, “a short walk.”

“Daughter…”

Lothíriel shook her head. “I’ll be fine, father. Amrothos can come along and watch over me.” She sounded bitter.

Then she lifted her chin. The nod she gave Éomer could not be called cordial. “Lead the way.”

When he offered her his arm, she took it, but only laid a hand very lightly on it, hardly touching him at all. In uncomfortable silence they made their way across the courtyard and round one side of the house. A couple of apple trees, slightly neglected, stood there amongst high grass. Éomer waved his guards back and at a soft word from Lothíriel, Amrothos stayed there as well, leaning against the wall and watching them through narrowed eyes. Éomer led Lothíriel to the shade of one of the trees, where they would be out of earshot. The barking of dogs and noise of the assembled guests talking to each other was muffled by the bulk of the house here.

The moment he stopped, Lothíriel removed her hand from his arm. Éomer studied her. She wore a pretty riding dress, distractingly tight fitting across the top and accentuating her narrow waist, yet despite the warm red colour she looked pale and drawn.

“What’s the matter, Lothíriel?” he asked. “Is your father annoyed with us?”

She shook her head. “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

“Then what troubles you?” Something in her face warned him she would not welcome him taking her in his arms, although he badly wanted to do so.

“A slight headache, nothing more.”

She turned away from him, rubbing a hand across the bark of the apple tree as if seeking distraction. As he watched those long, elegant fingers, all of a sudden he was struck by the desire of having her run them through his hair. Or across his skin? With a wrench he pulled his mind back to the matter at hand.

“Won’t you tell me? I’m sure I can help.”

At that, she spun round, as if goaded past bearing. “You know perfectly well what is the matter. Or at least you should.”

He couldn’t help it, he had to reach out for her hand. “What do you mean?”

“How can you ask such a thing after what you did last night,” she snapped, withdrawing her hand from his and taking a step back. “Don’t touch me!”

It dawned on Éomer at that moment that the man to be drawn and quartered and then cut into small pieces was himself.

Diplomacy

The true lady will always show an amiable and pleasant countenance to the world. At no time will she allow any sign of inner turmoil to spoil her gracious manner, nor will she ever lift her voice above what is considered appropriate in polite society.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment)

Éomer stared down at Lothíriel, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. In the distance, the dogs were still barking loudly and the branches of the apple tree above him moved in the slight breeze, throwing dappled shade on her face. No longer luminous with joy, but tense and angry. His fault.

“You’re talking about what happened at the fireboats.”

“Yes, obviously,” she bit off.

He lifted a hand and then let it fall to his side again. Once again his imprudent impulses had got him into trouble. “I know I got carried away.” Yet she had not objected, he was sure of it.

“Carried away? You touch me in that manner and then go and…” her voice broke and to his horror he saw tears in her eyes.

He took a step toward her. “Lothíriel, please. I’m sorry! Believe me, I never meant to cause you any unhappiness.”

“Well you have.”

Éomer felt even worse. If one of his riders had forced his attentions on an unwilling woman, he would have punished him most severely. To have her accuse him of taking advantage of her and to see her in such distress cut him deeply. Yet at the same time he could not believe that he had misread her so completely. Perhaps he had overwhelmed her by asking for too much too quickly? She was so young and inexperienced after all.

“You are right,” he said, “I deserve some censure for what I’ve done.”

Tentatively, he picked up her hand again. Stiff and unyielding, but at least she didn’t pull away this time. “I don’t know what got into me – I just acted without thinking. Will you believe me when I say I never intended for this to happen?”

Lothíriel turned her head away and nodded without a word.

He grasped her hand more tightly. “I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

She sighed and seemed to soften slightly. “I know you would not intentionally set out to hurt me. Father explained to me that customs differ in Rohan.”

In his heart, he knew they did not differ in that respect, but he eagerly grasped at the excuse she offered him. “Perhaps they do. I’m deeply sorry if my actions offended you.”

Lothíriel gave a tiny shrug. “Let’s just forget about it.”

Éomer finally saw his way clear again. Like a filly made jumpy by inexpert handling, she needed to have her trust restored. He would just have to step very carefully from now on and endeavour not to startle her again.

“Can’t we be friends?” he asked.

A small nod. “Yes of course. I value your friendship.”

Looking at her, Éomer cursed himself for a beast. This serious-faced young woman bore no resemblance to the girl who had teased him with a mischievous grin at the fair the day before. Only now did he realize what a gift her smile last night had been and how much he wanted another one.

“Please don’t look so unhappy,” he exclaimed impulsively, touching her lightly on the cheek. “I know I overstepped the line, but I meant no harm. Perhaps in time we can make a fresh start.”

She trembled at his caress. “What do you mean?”

The feeling of her soft skin proved intoxicating. He knew he trod a thin line, yet he could not resist letting his fingers roam to the nape of her neck. How he would have liked to undo her heavy braid.

“I know I should not ask this here and now, but I simply can’t help it,“ he whispered. “You and me?” Desire flooded him. Those lips…

“You are the King of Rohan. What would people say…” she swallowed back more tears. “No, there can be no you and me.”

Yet he felt her leaning towards him and for a moment it seemed to him he could hear an echo of his own longing in her low voice.

“Lothíriel…” he chose his words very carefully. “I might be a king, but I’m also a man. And surely there is nothing shameful when there are feelings between a man and a woman? It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

She thrust his hand away as if it burnt her. “You dare!”

“Lothíriel?”

She cut right across him. “I don’t care how customs differ in Rohan, but that kind of dishonourable and contemptible behaviour is not acceptable here. You deserve a flogging for suggesting such a thing after your actions last night.”

He blinked. Dishonourable and contemptible behaviour? Surely she was overreacting? Why, he hadn’t even kissed her! A spark of anger stirred within him.

“You can’t tell me you disliked it completely,” he said without thinking, “I felt you respond to me.”

She gripped her cane as if she wanted to hit him with it, no longer looking young and vulnerable, but almost menacing. He was suddenly reminded of her facing down the warg.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to say that. You are a despicable scoundrel!”

Amrothos came running towards them, his face grim at his sister’s obvious distress. “What do you think you’re doing!” he barked at Éomer and pulled Lothíriel into his arms.

She pushed him away, still incandescent with rage. “Oh, let me be, Amrothos. I don’t need your help to deal with this scum.” She rounded on Éomer. “Don’t you dare come near me again! Or King of Rohan or not, I will personally skewer you with a sword. I’m going home now.”

With an angry swish of her riding skirts she turned on her heel and strode away. After a last glare at him, Amrothos hurried after her. In the distance, the dogs’ barks had reached a new frenzied pitch.

Éomer was left contemplating his unmitigated stupidity. What had possessed him to utter those fatal words? It seemed he could not touch the Princess of Dol Amroth without committing some fresh folly. With a curse he slammed his fist into the trunk of the innocent apple tree, causing it to shudder. Then he rubbed his aching knuckles and cursed some more. Slowly, he walked back to his guards, only to be met by accusatory looks after venting his feelings in that way.

“What is it?” he snapped.

Probably loath to provoke his legendary temper, his riders lowered their eyes, but he could feel their unease in the tense silence as they walked back to the courtyard. Even Éothain looked disturbed at his king’s behaviour.

As they rounded the corner of the house, a sudden noise made Éomer look up. It sounded like hundreds of wings beating and before his astonished eyes a huge flock of birds rose into the air from behind the stables. Faintly, he could hear the excited shrieks of falcons from beyond the courtyard.

“My pigeons!” somebody wailed and Éomer’s attention snapped back to the house.

Girion had an expression of outraged incredulity on his face as he stood watching the birds slowly dispersing into the wooded hills around them. Then a man wearing the green and brown garb of a huntsman came running into the courtyard, forcing his way through the crowd towards the steps of the house.

“My lord!” he shouted. “They’re all gone!”

“I can see that myself,” Girion barked.

The man looked confused for a moment, then he followed his master’s glance. “Oh, the wood pigeons as well!”

The crowd had fallen silent at his words. Girion looked down at his man. “As well?”

The huntsman made a helpless gesture with one hand. “Somebody opened the doors to all the cages.”

“Are you telling me all my birds are gone? The partridges and quails? The pheasants? My ducks?”

The man nodded unhappily.

Girion went red in the face. “And where were you while all this happened?”

The poor man flinched. “The dogs!” he stammered. “Somebody threw sausages and meat to the dogs and they got so excited, they started fighting each other. We needed all the men to separate them and that’s when we think it happened.”

Yelling emanated from behind the stables and then a group of Girion’s men emerged, dragging something between them. As they made their way through the crowd, Éomer realized they held two boys. Just as they passed his position, one of them looked up, his face white, and with a shock Éomer recognized Alphros. He started forward. What had Lothíriel’s nephew been up to?

“Get Prince Imrahil,” he ordered one of his men and then pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the steps of the house. Once he reached the vantage point, he glanced over towards the Dol Amroth party. They were on horseback already, but his rider had reached them and stood talking to the prince, holding onto his stirrup. As he watched, Imrahil dismounted hurriedly and started to make his way towards them, the rest of his family following behind.

Lord Girion stood staring down at the two bedraggled looking boys his men had deposited at his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We caught them, my lord!” one of the men said. He held a small cage aloft with two wood pigeons in it. “They were just about to set these free.”

Imrahil had reached them now. “Alphros! What has happened?”

Girion turned towards him. “You know them?”

Elphir stepped forward, his face thunderous. “My son. You will explain your treatment of him.”

The guards let Alphros go hurriedly, and with a sob he ran into his father’s arms. Elphir gave him a hug and raked the men standing on the steps with a grim glance. They shrunk back, but the one holding the cage stood his ground.

“We caught them setting the birds free,” he reiterated.

“Nonsense,” Elphir snapped. “My son wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Lothíriel stood behind him and Éomer wondered if she had anything to do with her nephew’s prank. But the surprise on her face told a different story.

Behind her loomed one of Prince Imrahil’s guards and now the other boy looked up, guilt written large across his face. “I’m sorry, father,” he whispered. Then he lifted his face to Lord Girion. “But we had to do it.”

“Minardil!” Imrahil’s guard said warningly.

The boy shook his head. “It’s not fair! The poor things were all cooped up to be slaughtered. They wouldn’t have had a chance.”

Elphir took his son by the shoulders. “Is this true?” he asked. “You let Lord Girion’s birds loose?”

Alphros nodded miserably and Girion’s face darkened. Éomer remembered he had a well-known temper, although his fury was usually directed at orcs. “This is an outrage!” Girion bellowed. “I want them punished.”

Imrahil’s guard stepped forward. “They will be.” Elphir looked displeased as well.

All this time, Lothíriel had stood by her youngest brother’s side, asking for whispered explanations. Now she joined the group on the steps.

“May I have that cage?” she asked Girion’s man.

Surprised, but used to obedience, the man handed it over.

“Are these the last birds?”

Éomer had a sudden premonition of what was about to happen. In her face he recognized the hushed calm that fell before the first gusts of a tempest unleashed their violence. But he could not make up his mind what to do.

The hunter nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

Unhurriedly she searched for the door, slipped the hook and opened it. The two occupants fluttered out and took to the skies.

“Lothíriel!” Imrahil said on a strangled note.

Girion went as red as a beetroot. “What are you doing!”

She calmly handed the cage back. “Just releasing them to freedom, where they belong.”

“My men spent three weeks catching those birds for the ladies to hunt!”

“Shame on them then.”

“Lothíriel,” Imrahil intervened, “You will explain yourself.”

She lifted her chin and Éomer thought she looked magnificent in her anger. “It was my idea. I told Alphros and Minardil to free the poor birds.”

Her nephew looked up at her, surprise quickly replaced by hope. The other boy closed his open mouth with a snap and lowered his eyes. Girion was momentarily struck dumb by her words and like a master fencer, Lothíriel took the opportunity to get the next hit in.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him roundly, “catching poor, defenceless creatures with the express purpose of killing them just for your entertainment.” The sight of the slim woman facing down an opponent twice her size was almost comical.

“That’s enough!” Imrahil protested. “Lothíriel, you will apologize to Lord Girion for spoiling his hunt.”

Crossing her arms across her chest, she sniffed in disdain. “Some hunter he is.” Éomer winced. Tact was not her strongest suit. She knew how to hit the mark, though. In the crowd, somebody stifled a laugh.

Girion looked as if he were about to suffer an apoplexy. Aragorn laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “I think that’s enough,” he said with quiet authority.

Apparently recognizing the voice of her liege, Lothíriel lowered her arms and her stance lost some its belligerence. Éomer thought it time to try and calm the waters.

“Girion, my friend,” he said. “It is a regrettable incident, but I’m sure we can still enjoy your hunt. I think my sister would have preferred the birds to go free, too.”

Hoping for her support, he searched the crowd for Éowyn, only now noticing her and Faramir’s absence. “Anyway,” he went on, “The Rohirrim prefer to hunt in the wild. It’s more of a challenge.”

Girion looked slightly pacified at these words, his colour back to normal again. But before he could answer, Lothíriel turned to Éomer, her voice low and dangerous.

“And as a hunter you like a challenge, don’t you?”

Éomer stared at her. Couldn’t she tell he was trying to help her?

She balled her hands into fists. “You like to play sports with innocent, helpless creatures. Well, beware, because some of the creatures being hunted bite back.”

Her rage was almost palpable, yet it seemed to Éomer that an undertone of hurt and desperation resonated through it. “Lothíriel, please…” He wanted to reach out and erase that unhappy look from her face.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped at him, as if she could read his mind. “You make me feel sick!”

Éomer felt his own temper rising. A quick glance showed him Imrahil’s face darkening with indignation while Elphir gripped the hilt of his sword. She had no right to make him look like a complete villain in front of the whole court of Gondor.

“I think that’s enough, my Lady Princess,” he said, letting some of his anger leach into his voice.

It did not impress her in the least. “You, my Lord King, have the manners of an orc,” she informed him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

Lothíriel dropped a faultless curtsy in Aragorn’s direction. “I’m leaving. King Elessar, please have the kindness to excuse me and pass my regrets to Queen Arwen. Amrothos, your arm!”

Her brother sprang to her side and with the two boys hurrying close behind, she swept through the crowd, which miraculously made way for her. After a quick word of excuse to Girion and their king, Imrahil and Elphir followed, but not without throwing another threatening scowl in his direction.

Éomer suddenly became aware of hundreds of pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of censure and condemnation in them. She couldn’t have chosen a better place to publicly humiliate him. What annoyed him even more was the fact that his heart still insisted on offering excuses for her.

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should commence the hunt?” he suggested.

Girion agreed thankfully and as if released from a spell the crowd started talking again. Speculating about what had passed between the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth, no doubt.

He went to fetch Firefoot, studiously ignoring the clumps of courtiers chatting to each other and falling silent at his approach. Some of them ostentatiously turned their backs on him, while others glared at him challengingly. Did Lothíriel know she had done more damage to his reputation in five minutes than Gríma Wormtongue had managed to do in all his years in Edoras? Well, let them talk. What weighed heavier were the unhappy looks from his riders. What did they think he had said and done to Lothíriel for her to react this way?

“King Éomer,” he was hailed at that moment by a female voice.

He stopped reluctantly and turned towards the speaker. “Lady Wilwarin.”

She reached out a hand, covered by a long white glove, and touched him on the arm. “What an unfortunate incident just now.”

Unfortunate incident? Surely complete disaster would have been a better description. Éomer suppressed the sharp reply that rose to his lips. “Yes, rather unfortunate,” he agreed.

Having had his fill of female company for the morning, he would have passed on, but she stopped him with a gentle gesture.

“Dear Lothíriel has always been so terribly headstrong,” Lady Wilwarin said. “I’m afraid her father rather spoiled her, but then that’s understandable, isn’t it. You have to excuse her. She’s so young still, hardly more than a child herself.”

Not a fact that Éomer liked to be reminded of. “Quite,” he replied sharply. Then he told himself not to take out his temper on an innocent bystander. She wasn’t to blame for the whole mess he had landed himself in, after all.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he told her. “King Elessar awaits me, I believe.”

“Of course. I just hope this hasn’t put you off Gondorian womanhood completely.” She accompanied that last statement with a suggestive look through her long lashes and smiled at him.

Éomer felt he had reached his limit. “No,” he replied. “It has put me off all womanhood.”

Her smile faltered and with a curt nod he continued towards the horses. He looked forward to some four-legged company. Firefoot could be difficult and temperamental, but Éomer knew how to deal with that. And even at his worst, the stallion’s actions were straightforward and understandable, not unpredictable and downright contradictory.

Now, if he got lucky they would encounter another warg. Or better still, a large band of orcs. Accompanied by a couple of mûmakil. And a nazgûl. Anything that he could take his temper out on with impunity sounded extremely attractive at that moment.

Preparations

You can find out how to restrain your temper.
You can learn to master your body’s desires.
But you cannot teach yourself to rule your heart.

(Cemendur: Know thyself)

***

Lothíriel buried her head underneath her cushion. She didn’t want to hear anything. Not the birds enthusiastically welcoming a new day outside her window, not the cheerful clatter of breakfast dishes echoing up from the kitchen, not the jaunty whistling of one of the guards on his rounds. Only her maid went about her tasks silently, her footsteps all but inaudible. Hareth had come through a fair amount of storms with Lothíriel by now.

A knock on the connecting door to the bathing room and a quick exchange of a few whispered words, then Hareth’s steps again, crossing the chamber.

“Would you like your bath now? It’s ready.”

Lothíriel shook her head. The bed sagged as her maid sat on the edge of it. She hesitantly touched Lothíriel’s arm. “My dear, do you want to talk about it?”

Lothíriel shook her head again.

She wanted to go back. Back to that morning, only four days ago, when she had woken up on a ship leisurely sailing up the Anduin, full of joy because she was coming back to the White City after her long absence. To think that she had been apprehensive about the wedding because she feared spilling wine all over the bride. Those worries paled into insignificance compared to what she had done the day before.

Hareth stroked her gently across the back. “You’ll have to get up eventually, Lothíriel. Your father wants a word with you before you leave.”

Of course he would. Lothíriel’s rage had sustained her for the whole ride back from Lord Girion’s, and fortunately her father had not pressed her for an explanation, probably wanting to wait for a more private opportunity. Once they had reached the town house she had sought out her room and refused to talk to her family for the rest of the day. Her father had let her have her way, but now he would have a few questions to ask, and rightfully so. And what could she answer?

With a sigh she let go of the pillow and sat up. Time would not stop and run backwards at her whim, but she would get through this day somehow. And the one after. And the one after that. Surely, it had to get easier at some stage.

“How much more time?” she asked, her voice hoarse. Not from crying, she told herself, but perfectly normal first thing in the morning.

“Still plenty of time to have a quick bath.” With a last pat on her leg, Hareth got back up again. “And then have something to eat, for you’ll need it with that long ride ahead of you.”

Lothíriel let herself be led into the adjoining bathing room where a wooden tub stood ready, filled with hot water. Once she got in, she simply leaned back and tried to empty her mind of all thought, while Hareth washed her hair.

“A lovely day,” her maid commented. “Sunny and warm, but with a slight breeze. Perfect for a wedding.”

Lothíriel nodded. Her friend’s wedding, she reminded herself, and she would endeavour not to spoil it. At least not more than she had done already, by practically accusing the bride’s brother of taking advantage of her in front of the whole court of Gondor. She had to resist the impulse to simply sink into the water and drown herself. It would make life so much easier.

Hareth poured some fragrant oil into the water and Lothíriel’s favourite scent of orange blossoms filled the room. But today it failed to have its usual cheering effect on her.

“There,” her maid said, as she rinsed her hair, “it smells lovely now.”

Lothíriel shrugged. “As you please.”

It didn’t matter, for Éomer would never run his hands through it, as she had dreamed of him doing. She had resolved to be icily polite to him from now on, but if he dared to touch her again... Lothíriel felt fresh rage boil up at the mere thought. She would hit him! And enjoy it. What infuriated her even more was the fact that a small part of her heart still wanted him to hold her, insisting that would dissolve all her hurts. For a moment during their quarrel she had wavered, had been on the brink of simply throwing herself into his arms. Then between one heartbeat and the next he had destroyed all her faith in him with his dishonourable proposal.

“Lothíriel? What’s the matter?”

She found that she had grabbed the sides of the tub so tightly, her fingers hurt. “Nothing.”

Hareth made no reply, but continued to rinse her hair in uneasy silence. Once she was finished, Lothíriel got out the bath and dried herself. Then her maid wrapped a towel tightly around her hair, repeating the process until it was no more than slightly damp.

“You can sit by the window to let it dry completely while you have your breakfast.”

Lothíriel nodded and followed Hareth back into the bedroom. She felt like a dressmaker’s doll when her maid got out her elaborate gown, sewn for this special occasion by the best tailor of Dol Amroth. It consisted of a thin silken undergarment, worn over a pair of leggings and completely covered by a riding skirt made from blue silk brocade. Sporting a short train, this overlapped at the front so it could be worn both on horseback and at the wedding ceremony. She touched the rich, stiff fabric. Laboriously embroidered with hundreds of small pearls and gold thread in a pattern of stylised flowers and birds, it probably made her look like a beautiful peacock. She had been so pleased when she had tried it on for the first time.

Hareth started to do up the laces at the back that moulded the bodice closely to her bust. “You’ll be the envy of all the other ladies.”

“I doubt it.”

No, she did not think anybody would want to be in her shoes today. At least she would not have to see their faces and could pretend to ignore them. No doubt the whole court was laughing at her gullibility. The poor blind princess who had let herself be taken in by a handsome warrior from the north.

The lacing finished, Hareth smoothed out the long sleeves. Tight-fitting on the upper arm, they widened out at the elbow and fell in soft, draped folds.

“You’ll have to watch out that you don’t catch these on anything,” her maid reminded her.

Lothíriel nodded. Having experienced the difficulties of ceremonial dress in the past, she knew she would have to move carefully. At least concentrating on her steps would keep her mind busy.

Hareth moved a chair closer to the window and told Lothíriel to sit there, where the morning sun would dry her hair. Then she left to fetch a tray of breakfast from the kitchen.

Lothíriel leant back, enjoying the warmth of the sun shining on her back and the sudden silence. This might well be her last chance at a bit of peace for the day.

It was of short duration. Far too soon she heard the returning steps of her maid, accompanied by somebody else’s. Then a knock on the door and her father’s deep voice greeting her.

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “You look beautiful, daughter.”

She could only manage a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Hareth busied herself moving a small table over and settling Lothíriel’s breakfast tray on it. “I will be back in a little while to do your hair. Make sure you eat enough to sustain you,” she reminded her before she left the room again.

The scraping of another chair being moved over for her father to sit on. Not a quick morning visit then. Her heart sinking, Lothíriel picked up a napkin and spread it on her lap. The day would be difficult enough without stains all over her. A quick exploration of the tray revealed the expected bowl of porridge, a mug of tea, some slices of bread, already buttered, and a plate of dried figs and sugared dates. She raised her eyebrows at that last item. The cooks were being good to her today.

Imrahil cleared his throat. “I spoke to Alphros last night and he told me freeing the birds was their idea.”

Lothíriel picked up one of the dates and nibbled at it. “Is Elphir very angry with him?”

Her father sighed. “You know Elphir, quick to anger, but also quick to laugh. I think Alphros is already forgiven.”

She had hoped as much. “And Minardil?”

“I haven’t told his father about it. He will probably blame you.” Imrahil touched her arm. “Daughter, why did you say it was you who told the boys to free the birds? Just to spare them punishment?”

Lothíriel nodded. She would not tell her father that in truth she had just been too enraged to care and Lord Girion had made a good target to vent her fury.

He sighed again. “I wish you had chosen to go about it differently. Girion is not a bad man, you know.”

“I know and I will apologize to him.” Not an easy decision to make, this, but she had truly said some unforgivable things. Freeing the birds was one thing, insulting him on top of it another.

“I’m glad to hear it. And what about Éomer?”

She tried to keep her voice absolutely level. “I will not apologize.”

Imrahil’s chair creaked as he leaned back and silence settled between them, heavy and oppressive. Trying to look unconcerned, Lothíriel picked up some more dates and took a sip of tea.

Imrahil changed the topic. “I’ve brought something for you, daughter,” he said.

Lothíriel had expected reproaches, but now she heard the soft scraping of a key turning in a well-oiled lock and the click of a box being opened. Imrahil got up and settled a necklace around Lothíriel’s neck. She reached up a hand and examined it, making out the regular round shape of pearls, each one separated from its neighbour by a small knot in the string. Resting cool and smooth on her skin, they felt familiar to her touch. She knew then what she had just been given.

“Mother’s?”

“Yes. I want you to have them.”

Her mother’s rare blue pearls, presented to her as a courting gift by her husband-to-be. As a child Lothíriel had seen her wearing them almost constantly and at times had even been allowed to touch them admiringly. Perfectly graded and of a luminous blue colour, their lustre had fascinated her.

“Thank you, father!” she exclaimed.

“Beruthiel would have been so proud to see you today.” He sat down again and touched her gently on the knee. “I know it’s been difficult for you, growing up without your mother. And then of course the accident…If only I’d taken more care!”

Lothíriel had expected reproaches, but this was infinitely worse: her father reproaching himself.

“Father, you’re not to blame,” she insisted.

Imrahil sighed, obviously disagreeing. “I know it has closed a lot of doors to you. As a child you used to set your heart on something and not give up until you got it, but now you’ll have to accept that it is not always possible.”

Lothíriel had never looked on it this way. She shook her head “But doors can be opened.”

“Not all doors,” her father said heavily.

Lothíriel did not like the way the conversation was heading, so she said nothing, but picked up the bowl with her slowly congealing porridge and started eating it, even though she didn’t feel very hungry.

Imrahil could be just as tenacious as his daughter, though. “Lothíriel, did Éomer tell you he could not marry you because of your blindness?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then what did he say?”

When Lothíriel remained stubbornly silent, he touched her on the leg. “Daughter, I have to know, for I intend to have words with him.”

She nearly choked on her porridge. “Father, no!”

“Lothíriel, you have to see I cannot let this pass. You couldn’t have chosen a more public place to throw those accusations in his face.”

Fully aware of the truth of his words, she lowered her head. Once again, her anger had gotten the better of her. Would she never learn? She could not possibly tell her father what offer Éomer had made to her, for that would mean facing the fact that for a moment she had been tempted to accept it. The memory fuelled her fury, and she welcomed it, for she knew that as long as she could hold on to that rage, the despair hovering just behind it would be kept at bay. But in truth, all she wanted to do was to get back in her bed, bury her head underneath the pillow and never have to show her face to the world again.

“Lothíriel, I have always believed Éomer to be an honourable man through and through. What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Suddenly she couldn’t stand it anymore. An honourable man! Pushing her bowl away with a violent motion, she got up and went to stand at the window, turning her back on her father. “He did nothing.”

Imrahil stepped up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Lothíriel, you shouted at him not to touch you! Did he try to kiss you the other night?”

“No.”

“I know he can be hot-headed and I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Did he force his attention on you in other ways?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

Lothíriel could hear a hint of iron in his voice. Usually an indulgent father, he could become unyielding when pushed too far. “It’s just something he said,” she explained reluctantly.

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken? What did he say?”

Lothíriel gripped the windowsill. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can’t we just let it rest?”

“You must know we can’t! Daughter, you told the King of Rohan, our most important ally and saviour of Minas Tirith, that he had the manners of an orc.”

She winced. “Perhaps I should have phrased it differently.”

Imrahil let out his breath in exasperation. “How?”

The tact of a mûmak? The sense of honour of a warg? She kept stubbornly silent.

“Dearest,” her father said in a gentle voice, “I told you Éomer resembled a flame attracting poor moths and it seems to me you have just burned your wings. You were so happy yesterday morning – did he disappoint your expectations? Is that why you’re so angry with him?”

How to explain to her father that his honourable friend had made a thoroughly dishonourable proposition and his daughter had been tempted to accept it? And Éomer had known it as well, had seen the answering flash of desire on her face. The man read her like a book. She dreaded the thought of another confrontation; it was far easier to just give a small nod.

He sighed. “Lothíriel, I wish you had come to me and told me your troubles. Surely you know that you’ll always have my love and support, no matter what happens.”

She felt tears springing to her eyes. “I know,” she whispered, “Please, can we just not mention it again?”

In his hesitation she could read that Imrahil had no intention of dropping the matter and still intended to talk to Éomer. Lothíriel desperately searched for something to convince him.

“Éowyn!” she said.

“Lady Éowyn? What has she got to do with it?”

“You wouldn’t want to spoil her wedding, would you?”

Still he hesitated and she plunged on. “Just think of what we owe her. It would be poor recompense to ruin her welcome in Gondor for her, wouldn’t it.”

“I suppose so,” her father agreed at last. “But Lothíriel, you realize that we’ll all be staying in Emyn Arnen overnight?”

She nodded unhappily. It had all been arranged with Faramir before she had come to Minas Tirith.

“No more scenes,” Imrahil warned her. “I want you to stay away from Éomer.”

“That’s easy to promise.” Not that he would want to come near her anyway, after the angry words she had hurled at him. And she should be glad about that, Lothíriel insisted to herself.

Her father took her by the shoulders and gently turned her round. “And Lothíriel, I think it best that after the wedding, you return to Dol Amroth.”

Too discouraged to protest, she just nodded mutely and allowed her father to enfold her in his arms. King Elessar and Queen Arwen would not want her at their court anyway, not after she had managed to insult one of Gondor’s chief lords and their most important ally all in the same day. Resting her head on Imrahil’s shoulder, she found a brief moment of peace. But most infuriatingly, a part of her heart still insisted that she would prefer Éomer to hold her.

Hareth knocked on the door soon after and her father left to get ready. Lothíriel settled back down on the chair to continue her interrupted breakfast. She could not face the rest of the porridge, but nibbled a slice of bread.

Her maid brushed out Lothíriel’s hair and then started plaiting it into two long braids, which she arranged around her head like a crown.

“Those are Lady Beruthiel’s pearls, aren’t they?” Hareth asked.

Lothíriel nodded and touched them lovingly. Had her father known that wearing them would help her make it through the day? She could almost imagine that a trace of her mother’s favourite lilac scent still clung to them. How she missed her at times like this. Perhaps her mother could have warned her to be more circumspect in her dealings with the King of Rohan. Although she doubted it would have made a difference. Lothíriel remembered his hands sliding down her back, powerful and gentle at the same time, his warm breath, the smell of leather, horse … and man. When he had told her to wish for the moon she had known that what she wanted was much closer – within touching distance.

Lothíriel mentally shook herself. To think that she had believed Éomer felt the same. It just went to show her lack of experience in these matters. And he hadn’t even kissed her! Not hungry anymore, Lothíriel let the last piece of bread drop back down to the tray.

Far too soon, Hareth finished with her hair and it was time to join the rest of her family downstairs. She had dreaded sharp words from Annarima for leading Alphros astray again, but her sister-in-law proved to be unusually reticent. In fact she didn’t say much at all and even complimented Lothíriel on her gown.

Her nephew was there as well, although he would not come to the wedding. Apparently he had already been forgiven yesterday’s mischief. He took the first opportunity to tug at her sleeves. “Aunt Lothíriel?”

“What is it?”

“You haven’t forgotten my warg tooth, have you?”

She had of course forgotten it and now did not relish the idea of having to ask Éomer for it. “I don’t think I can get it for you,” she said.

“But you promised!” he wailed.

Lothíriel had to bite back a sharp retort that she had only just saved his skin for him. Why did she have the feeling the day could only get worse from now on?

“I will try,” she sighed.

He gave her a hug. “You are the best aunt there is!” Back in charity with him again, she tousled his hair.

Soon after, it was time to leave and to ride down to the main gate of Minas Tirith, where the wedding party would assemble.

***

Muzgâsh watched the riders gathering outside the city walls. Already a crowd had formed, cheering and shouting good wishes. He and his men had made their way to the front of it, close to the Rohirrim. They were easy to spot, standing a little apart with their grey horses. His eyes narrowed as he saw the King of Rohan talking to his sister and the Prince of Ithilien. Another two who deserved to feel Muzgâsh‘s wrath, but unfortunately he could only deal with one enemy at a time.

Movement near the gate drew his eye to a party of new arrivals. The swan banner was unmistakable and he leaned forward with interest. Yesterday evening, rumour had run rife through the fair about a breach between Prince Imrahil and King Éomer. The nod the two men exchanged did indeed seem rather chilly and the two parties regarded each other warily, not mingling at all. Muzgâsh smiled with satisfaction – it could only be a good thing for Harad if her enemies were at each other’s throat.

Then Lady Éowyn urged her horse forward to greet Prince Imrahil and the atmosphere seemed to lighten. Only the King of Rohan hung back and suddenly Muzgâsh surprised a look of mixed anger and desire on his face. He followed the king’s gaze to see the Princess of Dol Amroth, richly dressed, her whole demeanour cold and reserved as she sat her horse with her back ramrod straight. Muzgâsh almost chortled at the sight. A chink in King Éomer’s armour indeed! What a fool to give a woman that kind of power over himself. But then the men of the West were witless in the amount of freedom they allowed their women. This one had clearly never been taught her proper place in life. But she would learn. Soon.

He nodded to his men. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s move on.”

Trying to stay inconspicuous, they slowly made their way to the back of the crowd and then along the foot of the wall to the Great Gates. With so many of the inhabitants of Minas Tirith about to watch the wedding, it proved easy to slip past the guards there without being noticed. A couple of his men had already been inside the city the day before anyway and now led them up the main road. Two levels up, they took a lesser-travelled side road and finally reached a small passageway between two houses.

Muzgâsh threw a quick glance back the way they had come. Nobody about. Also the houses would be half-empty with most of the residents gone to see the procession get underway. He nodded to his men and wordlessly they disappeared down the alley. It was overgrown with brambles and nettles, the walls on either side covered with thick ivy. One of his men gave another a leg up, and holding onto the thick hairy stems the man scrambled over the wall. Shortly after, he opened a small gate nearby to let them into the garden of the house.

The door creaked loudly when they shut it behind them and Muzgâsh listened intently for any sounds of alarm from inside, but all remained quiet.

“You are sure only one man lives here?” he asked one of his scouts.

The man nodded. “Yes, my Lord Prince. The family who owned this house died out and now there’s only a caretaker left. Moreover, he’s old and drunk most of the time.”

“He very occasionally makes a bit of coin by letting people use the rooms for secret trysts,” the other scout added. “That’s how we heard of it.”

The garden showed long years of neglect, the paths overgrown with grass and the flowerbeds covered in weeds. Rotting leaves everywhere muffled their steps, making their progress soundless. Very soon, they reached an archway leading into a small courtyard with a well in one corner. The house extended on three sides of this and his men tried the doors. The very first one proved unlocked and at a nod from Muzgâsh they entered to search the inside. Muzgâsh stayed in the courtyard and looked around. It would make a good killing ground, far enough from the neighbouring houses that their presence would not be noticed. At least not until it was too late.

The sound of cursing and dishes breaking coming from one of the windows made him spin round, then two of his scouts dragged a man out. Rheumy eyes looked up at Muzgâsh in confusion.

“What’s happening?” the man stammered.

“You are the caretaker of this house?”

His clothes ragged and smelling of sour wine, the man nodded.

Muzgâsh would not soil his sword with the likes of this sorry old drunk. He turned to one of his men. “Kill him.”

A moment later the caretaker crumbled to the ground, clutching at the dagger protruding from his chest. A last convulsion and he lay still. He wouldn’t be missed.

With a smile Muzgâsh watched the blood slowly pooling on the cobbles – first blood.

The Prince and Princess of Ithilien

It is only when we lose something that we truly start to appreciate its worth.

(Attributed to Isildur)

Éomer had seen snowstorms that radiated more warmth than the Princess of Dol Amroth. The fact that her brothers had taken up station on either side of her horse with expressions that could only be called belligerent did not help either. Not that Éomer had any intention of approaching her anyway. He’d had his fill of being made to look like a complete scoundrel. And his reputation in Gondor would probably not survive another beating like the one it had taken the day before.

Wearing a rich blue gown, the train of which draped over Winterbreath’s croup, and with her hair elaborately braided around her head, she looked every inch the princess. Yet it seemed to Éomer that, much like a dark forest pool covered by a thin layer of ice, under her cool and collected demeanour lurked a vulnerable and lost young woman. It made him ache to see her looking like that, but Lothíriel had made it more than clear she wanted nothing more to do with him. The best service he could render her would be to stay away from her.

As Éomer watched, Amrothos reached up to help Lothíriel down from her horse. She smoothed out her skirt before taking her brother’s arm and for just one moment he wondered if she would come over. However, the two threaded their way between the horses towards another group of riders waiting for the procession to assemble. From his vantage point on Firefoot’s tall back, Éomer easily spotted the familiar bulk of Lord Girion amongst them.

The Lord of Lossarnach stood talking to a friend, his booming laugh ringing out over the small group of retainers, showing him to be in his normal good frame of mind again. In fact, despite its disastrous start, yesterday’s hunt had turned out quite successful after all. While the birds were gone for good, they had unexpectedly scared up a big stag, which Girion himself had brought down, and the excellent lunch had mellowed him even further.

Ripples of silence spread through the crowd as Lothíriel and her brother approached, and eventually even Girion noticed and turned round to see what was happening. Éomer urged Firefoot forward to get a better view and saw an expression of what could only be called wariness chase across the lord’s face. Lothíriel dropped her brother’s arm and took the last steps on her own. Then she sank into a deep curtsey, her gown pooling in a shimmering heap around her.

“My lord, I owe you an apology for spoiling your hunt,” she said, her voice pitched so everybody would hear her.

Girion regarded her for a long moment and Éomer gripped his reins more tightly. Couldn’t the man see what it cost her to do that? If he dared to utter one unkind word to her, he would answer to the King of Rohan.

Then Girion reached out a hand and raised Lothíriel from her curtsy. “My lady, I gladly accept your apology.”

“You are very kind.”

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Not at all. I wish you hadn’t done what you did, but believe me, I don’t usually take out my temper on children.” He looked her over with appreciation. “Nor on pretty women.” She blushed and he laughed, certain of his ground once more. “I like a lady with spirit.”

With a frown Éomer noticed that the man was still holding Lothíriel’s fingers. She withdrew them gently. “Thank you.”

Amrothos stepped forward and she took her leave of Lord Girion. His glance lingered on her trim figure for a moment longer and Éomer could feel his temper rising. Surely the man was old enough to be her father?

Brother and sister made their way back to the Dol Amroth party and Amrothos helped Lothíriel mount Winterbreath again. Éomer suddenly became aware of the fact that everybody pointedly avoided looking at him. Belatedly he realized that by apologizing so publicly to Lord Girion, but not to him, Lothíriel had just delivered another blow to his reputation. Suppressing the curse rising to his lips, he turned back to his sister and Faramir. Fortunately Éowyn seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. She had chosen to wear traditional Rohirric dress today, although much more lavishly embroidered than her usual clothes, while her betrothed looked splendid in black and silver. She smiled at Faramir and Éomer was relieved to see that not even the worry about her brother’s affairs could spoil her joy and happiness on this special day.

The clear clarion call of a trumpet rang out, the signal to take their places. The bride and groom would ride at the front of the procession, with their witnesses following right behind. Showing Lothíriel her position next to Éomer, Amrothos gave him a silent glower promising retribution if he upset his sister again. Then he left to take his allocated place behind the banner bearers with the rest of the Dol Amroth party.

As they slowly started to move out, Éomer looked back to see Minas Tirith behind him, flags flying from every tower and turret. A brave sight. Knowing that Lothíriel liked to have the sights around her described to her, he turned to the woman beside him to remark on it, but thought better of it when he saw the tense way she sat her horse. Lothíriel did not look as if she would welcome any attempt at conversation from him. While all around them, people chatted merrily, a bubble of strained silence appeared to surround her. He sighed inwardly. How could things have gone so horribly wrong?

It seemed the whole population of Minas Tirith had turned out to see them off. Many people lined the road to Osgiliath, clapping and cheering, and the going was slow at first. Lothíriel had a smile fixed on her face, gracious and polite, yet she seemed ill at ease at the enthusiastic shouting and the flower petals raining down on her. Then it happened: a woman threw a bunch of flowers at them, hitting Winterbreath on the head by mistake and the mare started violently. But before she could rear, Éomer reached over and grabbed her bridle.

“Easy!” he exclaimed in Rohirric.

Lothíriel had flinched, but now she leaned forward to pat her horse reassuringly on the neck. “It’s all right,” she said, “I can manage.”

Éomer let go of Winterbreath’s bridle, but the mare seemed skittish still. Horse and rider both, he thought bitterly. They rode on in silence and Winterbreath gradually calmed down again. A sideways glance showed him Lothíriel chewing her lip. She was nervously twisting the string of pearls resting on her breast round one finger. With an effort, he tore his gaze away.

“Thank you,” she said at last and it hurt him to see how much effort those simple words cost her. All thoughts of annoyance fled from his mind at her unhappy face.

“Lothíriel, is there anything I can do?” he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could manage.

She shook her head, then hesitated. “Actually my nephew…”

What had Alphros done this time? “Yes?”

“He would like a tooth of the warg you killed to prove to his friend how big it was. I promised I’d ask you.”

A warg tooth! He had hoped for a different request, but at least he would be able to fulfil this one.

“I will send him the pelt once it has been cured. Surely that will be proof enough.”

“Thank you.”

Her serious face pulled at his heartstrings. He wanted to reach out, hug her, make all the pain go away. Yet he knew that would only make the situation worse.

“Lothíriel, I’m yours to command,” he said quietly. And this time it was no empty phrase.

She made no reply beyond inclining her head, yet it seemed to him that the atmosphere lightened slightly.

As they left Minas Tirith behind them, the crowd of people lining the way gradually lessened and they were able to pick up their pace, even trotting for short periods of time. Just after midday they reached Osgiliath, where they crossed the Anduin by one of the bridges. Éomer could not help looking downriver, to where the Mûmakil Stones lay glistening in the sun, innocent witnesses to his folly.

The main road continued east to the Cross-roads here, but they took a bridle path leading south along the river. To their left extended the hills of Emyn Arnen, their lower slopes cultivated with vineyards merging into woods further up. After a while the road started to climb, passing through thick forest, and finally they crossed a low ridge, giving a sweeping view to the south. A tributary of the Anduin flowed down here, swift and turbulent at first, but then slowing down and meandering in lazy curves across the wide, fertile land abutting the river. Where the foothills met the plain, the stream flowed in a wide circle around a flat-topped hill, almost turning it into an island. On it a large manor house had been built and gardens and orchards covered its slopes. A watchtower overlooked the narrow neck of land with the road leading up to the main gate. Emyn Arnen.

Built by the Steward Húrin, the house had suffered extensive damage during the Ring War, but Faramir had laboured hard to get it put right in time for the wedding. An easily defensible position, Éomer noted with approval, not that he had expected anything else of the Prince of Ithilien’s home. He knew that Faramir’s men patrolled the area intensively, guarding against a surprise attack from the Haradrim. He would leave his sister in safe hands.

As they rode down to cross the narrow causeway, they were greeted by the families of Faramir’s rangers who had chosen to join their lord in settling in Southern Ithilien. Some of the guests would be put up in a row of tents erected at the foot of the hill, but the main party rode on up to the house. In the courtyard, grooms milled about to lead the horses to the stables and Éomer dismounted.

He turned to Lothíriel. “May I help you down?”

She hesitated at first, but then nodded reluctantly, freeing her boots from the stirrups. When Éomer stepped up, she swung one leg over Winterbreath’s withers and sitting sideways rested her hands on his shoulders. He reached up and gently lifted her down, suddenly very much aware of her proximity. The memory of Lothíriel leaning against him, looking up with her eyes shining with faith darted through his mind. No more foolishness, he reminded himself sternly, letting go of her at once. He had shattered too much of that innocent trust already. Yet she had not quite got her footing, or perhaps was stiff from the long ride, and stumbled. At once he reached out and grabbed her by the arms to steady her. For one heartbeat she leant against him, her hands resting on his chest, just as they had the other night. Contented and relaxed.

“Lothíriel!” a female voice called.

She pushed herself away violently and spun round, just as an elderly woman ducked under Winterbreath’s neck.

“Here you are!” the woman exclaimed. She paused and surveyed Lothíriel closely. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Hareth.”

Éomer suddenly found himself subjected to a close examination by a pair of shrewd blue eyes. Involuntarily reminded of the time when he had been caught filching honey sweets by Aldburg’s housekeeper as a five-year old, he reflexively put on his most innocent expression.

Looking from one to the other, the woman snorted. “So this is your King of Rohan?”

“Yes. No.” Lothíriel blushed.

Pushing back a strand of grey hair, the woman nodded sagely. “Quite. Now are you coming inside the house to freshen up before the wedding?”

Lothíriel hesitated. “What about Winterbreath?”

“I will look after her,” Éomer volunteered.

“Good.” The old woman took Lothíriel by the hand and led her firmly away. Yet before she disappeared into the crowd, those blue eyes gave him a last thoughtful look. Éomer wondered if he’d just made an enemy…or found an ally?

Faramir’s steward had set out a light meal in the gardens and the guests congregated there, chatting and admiring the view. Éomer had to admit that the sight of Minas Tirith, situated across the Anduin at the foot of Mount Mindolluin, was magnificent. Although in his opinion nothing quite rivalled the view from the terrace of Meduseld across the green, grassy plains of the Riddermark.

After a while, his sister and Faramir joined him. Éowyn had changed into an elegant gown of pure white silk, her flaxen hair flowing loose past her shoulders.

She waved back the way they had come. “Faramir showed me the view from the top of the house. He claims on a clear day you can see the sea.”

The view? Her eyes shone with happiness as she smiled up at Faramir. Well, it was really none of his concern if his sister wanted to spend a private moment with just her husband-to-be. He had noticed they had crept off together several times over the last few days.

“And did you see it?” he asked.

With a visible effort, Éowyn tore her attention away from Faramir. “See what?”

Éomer rolled his eyes. “Never mind.” He took a bearing on the sun slowly setting in the sky. “I think it’s time.” And by the hungry looks you two exchange, in more than one sense, sister.

A large lawn extended to the western side of the house, where the ceremony would be held. Already the guests were gathering in a loose circle, and some of the rangers’ children held up arches made of willow branches decorated with flowers and ribbons for the bride and groom to pass under. Éomer extended his arm to his sister and with a smile she accepted it. With Faramir and Lothíriel following close behind and Aragorn and Arwen making up the rear they ducked under the willow branches and entered the wedding round.

He escorted Éowyn to the centre and then took up his own place at the eastern point of the circle. He was gaining a brother today, not losing a sister, he reminded himself. With a bow Faramir’s steward handed him a small loaf of bread. Facing him in the west and holding a torch stood Aragorn, while Arwen and Lothíriel had taken up their positions to the south and north respectively.

In remembrance of Númenor, long sunken under the waves, weddings in Gondor always took place at sunset. The rays of the westering sun seemed to set Éowyn’s dress on fire, turning it a deep orange, and even the ever-present wind dropped as if in expectation. Slowly the crowd hushed.

Faramir took Éowyn’s hands in his own and lifted his voice to speak his vows.

“Éowyn of Rohan, daughter of Éomund,” he began, his voice firm and clear. And as he promised to cherish and protect his White Lady and went on to pledge her his life and his love, his eyes drank in the sight of the woman standing before him.

Éowyn looked back at him, solemn yet joyful. “Faramir, son of Denethor, I receive you as my husband,” she replied, enunciating each word loudly and full of conviction. In her own turn she promised to be true to him and to be his joy and his strength.

When she had finished, Arwen stepped forward with her usual inhuman grace, carrying a small dish, which she presented to Faramir. On it lay salt crystals, a reminder of the sea which had carried the ships of the Numenoreans to these shores. Faramir took one and placed it on Éowyn’s lips –his wife now – and in her turn she did the same with him.

Éomer knew it was his turn next and he stepped up and handed the loaf of bread to his sister. She broke off a small piece to share with her husband, before giving it back to him. Now Amrothos, who stood just behind Lothíriel, whispered something to her and with a look of fierce concentration on her face she carefully walked towards the bridal couple, balancing an elaborately decorated goblet of wine in her hands. Everybody held their breath as she presented it to Éowyn, who quickly steadied the slightly wobbling cup, raising it first to Faramir’s lips and then her own.

Lastly Aragorn came out of the west and handed the torch to Faramir. A large stack of wood had been piled up at the bottom of the lawn, overlooking the view, and with their witnesses following behind, the newlyweds stepped up to it. As the sinking sun touched the horizon, they thrust the torch into the wood, which caught fire at once. When the flames leapt up with a roar, Faramir looked troubled for a moment, but then his newly wedded wife squeezed his arm and whispered something to him and he smiled down at her. The fire would be kept burning and on the last of the three days of feasting, they would collect some glowing coals from the bonfire to light their hearth fire with.

Then Faramir took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her. She wrapped her arms round his neck while the guests cheered and whistled. The Princess of Ithilien now, but still the White Lady of Rohan. Éomer reached for the horn hanging at his belt, raised it to his lips and taking a deep breath, blew with all his might. The sound rang out clear and powerful, answered after a moment by the horns of his riders from below. Echoing back from the hills behind them, the call rose higher and higher, brave and true.

As the last notes died out, absolute silence reigned. Then Aragorn turned to him.

“Surely that was heard as far as Minas Tirith, my friend,” he said and clapped his arm.

Éomer nodded and slowly people started talking again. Faramir and Éowyn led the way into the house, where musicians would shortly strike up for dancing, but he lingered behind. His eyes fell on the Princess of Dol Amroth, standing a little apart, her face turned towards the fire. A single tear glistened on her cheek.

“Did I startle you?” he asked. “I’m sorry.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “That was magnificent! The great horns of the North – I have heard them at last!”

She actually gave him a genuine smile and he took a step towards her. But it was wiped off her face as quickly as it had come, replaced by a wary expression. The same moment, her father appeared out of the crowd and took her elbow.

“Let’s go inside, dearest,” he said.

By now Éomer expected the distrustful look Imrahil shot at him. He sighed in resignation.

“All day you’ve been watching her like a hungry dragon.”

Éomer’s head snapped back to his sister and he coloured. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Princess of Dol Amroth.” Éowyn lifted her wineglass and took a small sip. The Great Hall of Emyn Arnen was ablaze with lights and filled with music and dancing couples. She indicated one of them: Lothíriel and Lord Girion.

“You even frowned at Aragorn exchanging some words with her. And I’m surprised poor Girion doesn’t drop on the spot with the dark looks you keep throwing his way. It’s a good thing he’s so well cushioned.”

Despite himself, Éomer had to laugh. She grinned at him, in high spirits. “Come on, brother. Cast off your gloom! Can’t you just apologize to her for whatever you’ve done?”

He looked down at his own glass. “It’s not that easy.”

Éowyn drew him back a bit, into the shadow of one of the stone pillars supporting the lofty roof. “Do you love her?” she asked abruptly.

“You’re the Princess of Ithilien now, you should learn to be more diplomatic,” he protested, trying to gain time.

“Do you?” she insisted, not to be diverted.

“Yes,” he sighed.

“And do you want to marry her?”

“Yes.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “So you’ve found the woman you were looking for – a gracious hostess for Meduseld, regal, dignified and always courteous and polite?”

Éomer stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, that’s what you said you wanted, isn’t it? I noticed Lothíriel has been very regal and dignified today.”

He groaned in exasperation. “Of course I don’t want her to be cold and formal with me! Really, Éowyn, today is supposed to be the happiest day of your life! How can you tease me so cruelly?”

She just lifted one eyebrow and he groaned again. His sister was right, though. When had he given up that vision of his ideal queen? Two nights ago? Or even earlier?

Éowyn swirled the wine round in her glass. “And what will your advisors say to your marrying a blind woman?”

“I don’t care,” he replied irritably. “They should be glad that I’m doing my duty. Elfhelm keeps harping on it.”

“I’d love to see their faces when you tell the council your plans.”

He shrugged. “They are free to retire and make room for younger men. I’m still the master of my own house.”

His sister grinned. “Well, whomever you marry, somebody will complain. A woman from the East Mark or the West Mark, a Gondorian… you can’t please them all, so you might as well please yourself.”

Across the hall, Lothíriel had taken a seat next to Cadda, talking animatedly to him, no doubt exchanging stories or songs. He spotted a blue ribbon wound round his bard’s harp and felt a stab of annoyance. Then she gave Cadda a guileless smile, full of enjoyment, and Éomer had to close his eyes, he was so surprised at the black rage rushing through him, the urge to strangle the other man.

“Éomer?” his sister sounded worried.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me. And moreover I think you had better do something about it.” She took him by the arm. “Come on, apologize for whatever you’ve done. Beg for forgiveness. Crawl!”

Why did he get the impression his sister was enjoying herself? But after a moment she turned more serious. “Éomer, just talk to her, tell her how you feel.”

“It’s not that easy,” he said again.

“Ask her to dance.”

Éomer watched as Imrahil crossed the hall towards his daughter and Cadda. He exchanged a few words with them, then Lothíriel nodded and got up. She held out her hand for the bard to kiss before taking her father’s arm and leaving the hall with him.

“Too late,” he said.

Éowyn had followed his gaze. “Lothíriel is retiring already?” she asked in dismay.

“Looks like it.” Not that it mattered, anyway. One or the other of her brothers had hovered near her all evening, no doubt ready to repel any attentions from his part.

Then he saw the open worry in his sister’s eyes and chided himself for spoiling her wedding day. He took her hand. “Éowyn, please don’t trouble yourself over my affairs. I’m sure it will all work out.” He smiled. “You should be dancing with your husband, not leaving him to all the Gondorian beauties.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Are you sure?”

He turned her towards the hall and gave her a gentle push by the shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure.”

With a last smile back at him she disappeared amongst her wedding guests. Soon after he saw her dancing with Faramir. Something in the way those two looked at each other told him she had already forgotten her brother’s troubles. Good.

Éomer slipped one hand into a pocket of his trousers and fingered the ribbon there. Smooth and soft, if a bit crumpled, and Lothíriel still owed him a forfeit for it. All through the day, the conviction that he was missing something had grown in him. Suddenly he decided that he would have it out with Lothíriel and tossed back the rest of his wine. As a great general had said, if you risked nothing, you might not taste defeat, but neither would you ever drink from the cup of victory. And he desperately wanted to drink from that particular cup.

Keeping to the side of the hall, he slowly made his way towards the exit. He had nearly reached the doors when he heard his name called.

“King Éomer!”

Turning round, he half expected to see Lady Wilwarin, as she had been throwing inviting glances at him all evening. However, to his surprise he found that her sister had hailed him.

“My lady, may I help you?” he asked.

Lady Annarima smiled rather nervously. “King Éomer, I just wanted to thank you for saving my son from that warg. I know we owe you his life.”

He bowed. “Please, I only did what every other man would have done. The boy has recovered well?”

She nodded and he noticed that she stepped into the shadow of the stone pillars as if she wanted to avoid being seen from the hall. “My Lord King,” she said in a low voice, “things might not be quite as they seem…”

With a frown Éomer took a step towards her. “What do you mean?”

She almost looked as if she had said more than she had intended to. “Just talk to Lothíriel!” she whispered and then whirled and disappeared into the crowd.

Éomer stared after her. Then he turned to go. He was determined to get some answers. Tonight.

Fireflies

You will recognise the true leader in the way he will take whatever circumstances are accorded to him and turn them to his advantage.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

Éomer hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly realizing he had no idea where to find Lothíriel’s room. A servant carrying a pile of clean linen passed him, giving him a curious glance, but he held back from asking her for directions, not wanting to fuel the gossip about him and the Princess of Dol Amroth even further. And what if Lothíriel had retired to bed already?

More servants went by on their errands and he was starting to feel rather conspicuous when behind him one of the side doors opened. A grey-haired woman entered. He recognized her as the maid who had looked after Lothíriel in the courtyard earlier on. She recognized him as well, for when he held out a hand she stopped and gave him a respectful curtsy.

What had Lothíriel called her again? “Hareth, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my Lord King.”

“Hareth, would you carry a message to your mistress to ask if I may have a word with her?”

She put her head to one side and regarded him shrewdly. “The princess has already retired.”

He put on his best smile. “I know, but I would still like to speak to her. It won’t take long.”

Under her steady gaze his smile faltered. She really had a gift to make him feel like a little boy.

“It’s important,” he added quietly.

Her eyes seemed to bore into him. “Lothíriel has had two difficult days. She deserves not to be upset any further.”

“I never intended to upset her,” he exclaimed, then hurriedly lowered his voice. “That’s why I need to speak to her… please.”

Hareth examined his face closely, then she seemed to come to some kind of decision. “The princess claimed she had a headache.” She gestured back the way she’d come. “Lothíriel wanted some fresh air and has gone for a walk.”

“In the garden?”

The maid nodded. “There’s a small secluded kitchen garden just round the corner.” She grinned suddenly. “Perhaps somebody should check on her?”

“I think so, too.” He squeezed her hands for a moment. “Thank you!”

***

The cold water felt good on her aching feet. Lothíriel settled down on the low rim of the fountain and hitched up her skirts a bit more. While she had changed into a more comfortable gown before coming out, she still did not want to get it wet. She took a deep breath, enjoying the cool night air caressing her face and the solitude at last after a long day of feeling everyone’s eyes fixed on her. Crickets filled the garden with their chirps and rustlings told of small creatures going about their business in the tall grass. Before leaving her, Hareth had remarked that this part of the garden still looked a bit neglected, but that suited Lothíriel fine. She just wanted to be left to her thoughts for a while.

She wriggled her toes and the water lapped gently against her calves. From beyond the walls, the faint sounds of celebration reached her ears: laughter and singing and every now and again a horn being blown. Music drifted through the air from the direction of the hall, a lively Rohirric dance tune, and she frowned. Earlier on, King Elessar had asked her for a turn on the dance floor and she could not forget his words. I know Éomer well, he had said, his voice kind and sure, and believe me, there exists no man more honourable than him. She had been at a loss what to answer and had just smiled noncommittally. Fortunately, the king had not pressed her any further and the dance had ended soon after. A good thing, because for a moment she had been tempted to spill all her troubles into King Elessar’s sympathetic ears.

The crunch of slow steps on the gravel path made her freeze. She knew with an almost frightening certainty that this was no guard making his rounds, it was him.

“Lothíriel?”

The soft voice sent shivers through her and she wanted to jump up and run to him. Lothíriel gripped the stone rim of the fountain more tightly.

“What do you want?” Her words sounded harsh even to her own ears.

“May I talk to you for a moment?”

“I can’t stop you, can I.”

“Lothíriel, you can stop me with a single word.”

She mulled this over. Éomer had always seemed so sure of himself, the King of Rohan, master of his fate, yet now she heard a strange vulnerability in his voice.

“For a moment then,” she conceded, inclining her head.

He did not approach her any closer, but kept a couple of steps away. “You know that I am no poet or diplomat. Please forgive me if I offend you, but the Rohirrim favour plain speaking. I have always felt that you preferred to do so, too.”

She swallowed. “I do.”

He started to pace. “Lothíriel, I know I asked of you what I had no right to ask. You are so young and inexperienced…”

Inexperienced? Did he mean to imply she might have acceded to his dishonourable proposal if she’d been more experienced? She opened her mouth to utter a sharp reply when King Elessar’s words flitted through her mind again. There exists no man more honourable than him. How could she be so terribly confused? It felt as if her mind and her heart were pulling her in two different directions, tearing her apart.

Lothíriel buried her head in her hands. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I touch you, my reason seems to flee. Can you honestly tell me you don’t feel the same?”

“There can be nothing between us!” To her shame, it was more a sob than a denial.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Her heart felt as if it was being cut into small pieces. She took a deep breath and went on stumblingly, “Because you’re–“

All of a sudden she felt a horrible crawling sensation in her hair. “What’s that!” She lifted a hand to wipe away whatever insect had landed on her head when another bumped into her shoulder. Then some more got tangled in her hair, writhing madly, and one nearly flew into her mouth. Where had they all come from?

“Lothíriel, let me…”

Panicking, she jumped up and waved her hands at her tiny attackers, not caring that her gown would get wet. “Go away!” Suddenly she could feel herself starting to slip on the slimy bottom of the fountain.

A splash and strong arms caught her. “Lothíriel, they’re only fireflies! Hold still and I will remove them.”

She grabbed at him. “Fireflies?”

“A whole swarm of them. In fact they look very pretty in your hair, like small glowing jewels.”

She shuddered. “It’s a horrible feeling. Please just get rid of them.”

Taking her chin in one hand, he tilted up her face. Deftly, his other hand picked out her small harassers. “My poor love, you need rescuing all the time, don’t you,” he said tenderly. The warmth in his voice sent a tremor right through her.

Finally the last firefly was set free and the crawling sensation ceased. He did not let go of her, though. Instead his fingers traced the line of her cheekbones, calloused hands sliding round to cup her cheeks. Warm and sure.

“You still owe me the forfeit for my ribbon,” he whispered.

She opened her mouth to deny his words when he planted a gentle kiss on her lips. Her mind shouted at her to push him away, to slap him. Her heart told her to melt into his arms. Paralysed by indecision, she let him have his way.

Éomer filled her senses. The taste of sweet wine on his breath. His musky male scent overlaid with that of horse and a hint of smoke from the bonfire. A strong hand cradling the back of her head, exerting gentle pressure. He deepened his kiss and she forgot everything except the simple pleasure singing through her body at his touch. Throwing her pride, her qualms, her doubts away, she slid her arms around his neck and clung to him like a drowning woman. Here she belonged. She had come home.

Deep within her, at the very bottom of her soul, something woke. It stirred and lifted its head, slowly stretching curled-up wings, and then with a mighty leap took off into the air. The dragon’s deafening roar filled her ears, its fire flooded her veins, running like a wildfire through her, burning away all rational thought. Hunger. Need. Desire. She pressed her body against Éomer and buried her hands in his hair, roughly pulling his head down, demanding more. For a heartbeat he froze, then his arms clamped around her with the strength of a battle-hardened warrior, one hand holding the nape of her neck like a vice. His kiss neither gentle nor restrained, but scalding hot and insistent. The dragon within her rejoiced, matching him passion for passion, and she let herself slip into a spinning vortex of colour, a vibrant swirling of red and gold.

It was Éomer who regained his senses first. Breathing raggedly, he broke off the kiss. Lothíriel’s bones had decided to liquefy and she would have collapsed into the water if he hadn’t still held her.

“Oh, Lothíriel!” Éomer whispered.

Her head was spinning dizzily as she leant against his chest, her heart hammering madly. Gradually it slowed down again and inside her, the dragon curled up contentedly, going back to sleep. Not quite so deeply anymore, though. Ready to wake up at any time.

Hesitantly Éomer stroked her hair. “I need you,” he breathed. “I can’t help it, I just want you so much.”

“I want you too,” she mumbled into his tunic. Shame filled her at the realization how desperately she ached to take whatever he’d choose to offer her.

He took her by the shoulders. “I know I should not have done as I did just now. But will you grant me the right? Lothíriel, will you share your life with me and marry me?”

“We can’t!” she whispered.

“Why not? I want no other woman by my side.”

She thought of the scandal that would ensue. The King of Rohan to promise marriage to a highborn lady of Gondor and then change his mind and marry someone else? And what would his own people think, the Rohirrim who valued honour above all else? They had paid a bloody price for their own vows.

She shook her head. “Impossible. Here in Gondor breaking an engagement promise is unthinkable.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders painfully. “An engagement? Then we will elope.”

Had he lost his mind? “You know we can’t. And what would my father say?”

“In that case I will call him out.” His voice had gone grim and deathly serious.

Remembering his legendary temper, she grabbed his arm. “Éomer! You can’t be serious. Call my father out?”

“Not your father! Him! Is it someone from Dol Amroth?”

Lothíriel’s head was spinning. “What are you talking about? Of course he’s from Dol Amroth. After all, he’s the Prince of Dol Amroth!”

“Not Imrahil! The man you’re supposed to marry.”

“What man?”

He took a deep breath. “Lothíriel, you just said you’re engaged to be married. If not to someone from Dol Amroth, who to?”

Lothíriel felt her jaw drop. “I am not engaged!” she exclaimed.

“Well, in that case, what’s the problem?” In the most distracting manner, his hands started to slide round her back, pulling her close again.

“Éomer… I’m talking about your … alliance.” Every word hurt when all she wanted to do was to get lost in the sensation of another kiss.

“My alliance?”

“The alliance between Rohan and Gondor you keep mentioning. The worthy queen for your people.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her words.

His hands stilled. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Yes of course!”

He sighed. “Lothíriel, I know I’m asking a lot. But I’m sure we can work something out.”

When she wanted to protest, he laid a finger on her lips. “No, listen. I’ll think of a way for you to cope when I’m away, perhaps have one of my Marshals as underking. And I’m sure once they get to know you, my people will love you.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Lothíriel.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted up her face. “Why do I get the impression I’m missing something? Just tell me outright why you think you can’t marry me.”

“Because you are engaged to marry Wilwarin,” she whispered, the words like shards of broken glass in her mouth.

“What! Who told you so?”

“She did.”

Silence except for the crickets chirping in the grass. Then he exhaled his breath sharply and said something in Rohirric. Lothíriel did not need a translation to recognise a curse.

“Is that what made you so unhappy?”

She nodded mutely.

“Well, Lady Wilwarin is mistaken. I admit I went for a walk with her around the Citadel gardens. But it was only the once and I swear to you that I never asked her to marry me.”

It took several seconds for Éomer’s words to sink in. “But she told me!” Lothíriel stammered. “She said you accompanied her home after the fireboat ceremony and asked her to become your wife.”

“In that case she lied,” he said, his voice flat and cold with anger. “We rode straight back to our camp. I don’t know who escorted her back to Minas Tirith, but it certainly wasn’t me.”

Wilwarin lied. She lied! The words tumbled over and over in her mind, too much to take in all at once. Lothíriel shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe it!” Her legs gave way and he grabbed her hurriedly.

“Lothíriel!”

“But why?” she asked stupidly, only to realize at once that of course Wilwarin had wanted to make sure she would marry Éomer herself. The sheer magnitude and boldness of the lie staggered her.

“I think I’m beginning to see,” he said grimly. “What a conniving little liar! I should have trusted in Éowyn’s instincts.”

Lothíriel made a small gesture of denial. “But you admitted it yourself!”

“I did no such thing!”

She tried to cast her mind back to what he’d said during that disastrous quarrel. “You said you deserved censure,” she reminded him, “that you didn’t know what had got into you.”

“I thought that you objected to my…actions at the fireboat ceremony. That perhaps I had overwhelmed you.”

“Oh!” She had never even considered this. “But I liked it,” she pointed out and then blushed.

His chest rumbled with laughter. “I’m glad to hear it. But you looked so unhappy the next day.” Éomer paused. “I see,” he breathed. “That was when Wilwarin told you I was going to marry her! Did you believe I was merely playing with your affections?” He fell silent and she got the impression that his mind was working furiously.

“Lady love, what did you think I proposed to you at Lord Girion’s?” he asked, lifting up her face.

She squirmed in his arms and felt heat flood her cheeks.

“Oh Lothíriel!” he said, “you didn’t! No wonder you got so angry with me.”

She felt ready to sink into the ground at the memory of the things she had called him. And what did her father think of him? And the rest of the court of Gondor?

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed.

He tightened his hold on her. “You’re sorry? Lothíriel, you have no reason to apologize! It’s all that vixen’s fault. It makes my blood boil to think how unhappy she made you. I wish I could turn her into warg bait!”

She did not for one moment doubt the seriousness of his threat, there was such a wealth of murderous rage in his voice. Yet she had other concerns. Wilwarin had lied! Éomer had no intention of marrying her! Suddenly feeling as light as a feather, Lothíriel closed her eyes. She hadn’t been mistaken in Éomer, he was the honourable and kind man she had thought him to be.

He was still muttering curses under his breath, instead of doing something useful like kissing her. Lothíriel reached up to pull his mouth down to cover hers. Surprised, he drew his breath in, but recovered quickly and cooperated in the most gratifying manner. This time their touch held less frenzied haste and more tender pleasure.

As far as Lothíriel was concerned, she would have been quite happy to spend the rest of her days standing with him in the fountain in the middle of Éowyn’s kitchen garden, but they had to come up for air eventually. With a deep, contented sigh she leant against him. Home at last. Though storms might rage around them, she knew that from now on she would always find peace and refuge in his arms. He rested his chin on her head and gently stroked her hair.

“Lothíriel?” he said after a long pause.

“Yes?”

“Is there any particular reason why we’re standing in the water?” His voice held a trace of laughter.

“Oh! It’s my feet,” she explained.

“Your feet?”

“Lord Girion trod on them while dancing, so I thought I’d bathe them in the cool water.”

“I see.” He was definitely laughing now. “Would you like me to call him to account?”

She felt mirth bubbling up inside her, too. “And what would you do if I said yes?”

“I would do as my lady tells me to, of course. Although I might use my wet boots as a pretext for the challenge.”

When she started laughing, he picked her up, soaked gown and all, and with effortless ease carried her across to a nearby bench. Gently, he set her down and then remained kneeling at her side.

“Lothíriel,” he said, taking hold of her hands. “You never answered my earlier question. Will you marry me?”

All her doubts had melted away. “Yes.”

He kissed the palm of her hand. “That’s good, for I love you madly.” He kissed her bare arm. “Dementedly.” The hollow of her throat. “Insanely.” Lothíriel had to smile, yet at the same time her heart was beating as fast as a galloping horse and she wondered if he could hear it. His warm breath caressed her face and his lips hovered just above hers. “Desperately,” he whispered hoarsely and claimed them.

Like a fireboat taken by the river in its firm embrace, Lothíriel let herself be swept away, losing all feeling of space of time. She protested incoherently when Éomer finally let go again.

“Dear heart,” he sighed, “I think we’d better stop while we still can.”

She blushed and nodded.

“I’ll get your shoes.”

His boots made a squelching sound as he walked and though she made an attempt to wring out her dress, the fabric clung to her legs, heavy and clammy. She hoped devoutly that nobody would see them on the way back to the house.

“Here they are.” Éomer knelt down and helped her slip on her light dancing shoes, his warm hands lingering for a moment on her calves. Just that brief contact sent a delightful thrill all through her.

Then he reached out a hand to pull her to her feet and arm in arm they walked back through the garden. Lothíriel felt a bit like a burglar, the way they carefully opened the back door to the house to check if the coast was clear.

“Nobody about,” Éomer whispered, “but we’ll have to hurry.”

They stole up the stairs and paused at the top. “Do you know which is your room?” he asked.

She nodded. “The fifth door to the right.”

“I had better leave you then. But I will speak to your father first thing in the morning, I promise.”

A far too brief caress across her cheek and he was gone. Her skirt dragged at her heavy and cold as she made her way back to her room, feeling bereft as if he’d taken all warmth and comfort with him. She counted the doors as she walked along the passageway. One. Two. Three. The fourth door opened under her fingers just as she passed. She froze.

“Lothíriel!” Her father’s voice. “What are you doing still up?”

She slowly turned towards him, uncomfortably aware of her dripping clothes and her dishevelled hair. Even more aware of the fact that the truth of what she’d been up to in the garden was probably written large all across her face. She had never been any good at hiding things from her father.

Fog bound

On becoming engaged, the lady will allow her betrothed a single chaste kiss to seal their union. Knowing the eyes of the world on her, she will pay suitable attention to behaving in a seemly and decorous manner. This is the proper way to gain and keep your lord’s esteem.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment)

The morning sun shafting through his window woke Éomer. With a big yawn he stretched leisurely, before rolling over to squint at the light. Maybe a couple of hours after sunrise, not more. He sank back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. Plenty of time yet, and no need to put the Prince of Dol Amroth in a bad mood by seeking him out before he’d even had his breakfast.

Involuntarily, Éomer wondered what it would be like to wake up next to Lothíriel, as he hoped to do in the not too distant future. Utterly delightful, he suspected. To have her smile at him with that particular mixture of innocence and trust, to smell the delicate perfume of her hair, to be able to touch her… He groaned. Better think about something else. That first kiss – he had got rather more than he had bargained for and had lost control for a moment, yet she had not minded, on the contrary, she had responded to his ardour. And it had been more than just the pent-up frustration of the last two days being released; something unpredictable and wild had raised its head for a moment.

He would have to be careful not to let Imrahil see any of the passion Lothíriel awoke in him, or the prince might well decide not to entrust his inexperienced young daughter to a rough northern warrior king. As if he’d ever hurt her! But yes, some details of his dealings with the Princess of Dol Amroth were better glossed over.

A knock on the door interrupted his musing, and stopped him from contemplating how exactly he would phrase his explanations to Imrahil of how Lothíriel had ended up quarrelling with him so badly.

“Shall I fetch your breakfast, Éomer King?” Oswyn enquired.

Éomer nodded absentmindedly and his squire left on his errand. He returned a short time later with a tray, which he set on a table by the window.

Éomer stretched and got up to have a look what the kitchen of the Prince of Ithilien had to offer. He did not expect Éowyn and Faramir to be up before noon and intended to have his talk with Imrahil over and done with before then. Also it remained to be decided what to do about a certain spiteful Gondorian lady, for he had no intention of letting Lady Wilwarin get away with hurting Lothíriel the way she had. That moment a small, tightly folded piece of parchment lying on the tray caught his eye.

“What is this?” he asked, picking it up.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Oswyn bent down to collect Éomer’s trousers, which had ended up on the floor the night before. “It was delivered for you a little while ago, but you had said not to wake you, so I thought I’d wait.”

“Who is it from?”

“I don’t know. An elderly woman, grey haired, gave it to me. She seemed a bit flustered.”

Éomer tore open the note. No signature, and the letters formed clumsily like the writing of a child – or of a blind woman.

Father caught me slipping back to my room last night. We are leaving for Minas Tirith.

Éomer cursed. “How long ago was this delivered?” he snapped at his squire.

Poor Oswyn jumped. “I’m not sure,” he stammered.

Éomer had stopped listening to him anyway. He grabbed his trousers from his surprised squire’s hands and struggled into them while on his way to the door. As a last thought he also threw on a shirt, just in case he met Imrahil. However, when he reached the fifth door to the right it stood open. A quick glance inside showed one of the maids removing the bed sheets and another one sweeping the floor. They looked up, their mouths hanging open in surprise, when he stood in the doorway cursing.

“Oswyn!” he bellowed.

“My Lord King?” his squire looked at him as if he doubted his king’s sanity.

Éomer brandished the piece of parchment at him. “How long ago?”

“At least an hour I think, perhaps longer.”

An hour! That meant they would be gone by now. What would Lothíriel think of him – that he had failed her? He dashed back to his own room, a confused Oswyn trailing behind.

“Saddle Firefoot!” he ordered while he hastily finished dressing, but then changed his mind. “No, I’ll do it myself. You go and get Éothain. Tell him to ready an escort of ten riders. At once!”

Oswyn took off at a run. A quick look out the window showed the day to be overcast for a change and slightly blustery, so Éomer picked up his cloak on the way out. At least he hadn’t yet forgotten the quickest way to ready a horse. In fact Firefoot was bridled and saddled while the stable boys still stood there staring in stupefaction. He started on Éothain’s horse, Ironhoof, just as his captain came running with ten of his men.

“What’s the matter?” Éothain exclaimed. “Has something happened back home?”

Éomer shook his head. “Imrahil has left for Minas Tirith,” he said curtly, “and I need to speak with him.”

Éothain heaved his saddle onto Ironhoof’s back. “With Imrahil?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll explain later.” Éomer cut him off. “Hurry up!”

In no time at all, the horses were ready and the gates swung open ponderously. Éomer had to reign in his impatience on the switchback trail leading down the hill, but once they reached level ground, he dug his heels into Firefoot’s sides. The stallion responded willingly and leapt forward, eager for a run after yesterday’s sedate pace. Despite his urgency, Éomer laughed in sheer delight at the feeling of moving as one with the powerful animal and having the wind streaming through his hair. They made good time across the plain and did not have to slow down until the road started to climb the foothills. Here ancient trees, their gnarled roots exposed to the air, lined the path and the morning chill lingered. Walking and trotting the horses in turn they at last made the top of the ridge. Éothain riding at his side pointed to a pile of horse droppings lying on the road, still steaming.

“They can’t be far ahead now.”

Éomer nodded and reached for his horn to blow it briefly. He did not want to surprise Imrahil’s knights and have them think they were faced with enemies. The road plunged downhill steeply, but they had to keep to a walk because morning mist clung to the mountainside, getting thicker as they descended towards the valley of the Anduin. He blew his horn again.

At last he could hear the muted sound of a horse’s neigh and rounding the next bend they came upon Imrahil’s party. The Swan Knights had formed a tight circle around the women and faced the Rohirrim hostilely, their swords drawn.

Éomer reined in his stallion at once and dismounted. Signalling his men to stay back, he approached Imrahil, who sat staring down at him with a frown.

“Prince Imrahil,” he said formally, “may I have a word with you?”

Imrahil slowly sheathed his sword and motioned his knights to do the same. “You have come in vain,” he said curtly. “We are riding back to Minas Tirith.”

“Redeeming a promise to a lady is never in vain,” Éomer replied. He had spotted Lothíriel behind her father. She smiled at him and his heart lifted. “Please, a word?”

Imrahil drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Oh, very well,” he said at last and dismounted. “Let’s go over there.” He indicated a small clearing by the side of the road where one of the big oak trees had fallen down and lay on the ground, overgrown with ferns and mosses.

“Wait for me, I’m coming as well,” his daughter called, sliding off Winterbreath’s back and holding out a hand imperiously.

Imrahil turned back towards her. “Lothíriel, this is between Éomer and me.”

She jutted her chin forward. “Not if it’s my fate you’re deciding.”

Lothíriel pushed her way between the horses, but then she stumbled on the uneven ground. Éomer and Imrahil nearly collided with each other, trying to help her, but she regained her balance herself.

“I’m fine,” she said, taking her father’s arm and patting it.

As Imrahil led the way a little apart, Éomer suddenly wondered if Lothíriel had stumbled on purpose. She had certainly achieved what she wanted, to be included in the discussion. He also noticed that today she had chosen to wear the Rohirric riding dress Éowyn had given to her. Just for convenience or a deliberate statement?

Imrahil stopped next to the fallen oak. Tendrils of fog wrapped around the massive tree trunk, giving it an eerie look, while the sound of the horses stamping and the men talking to each other in low voices was muffled.

Éomer turned to Lothíriel. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but I did not hear about your departure quickly enough.”

She waved his apology away. “Oh, I knew you’d come.” Her complete confidence left him stunned.

“I have told my father everything,” she informed him with a happy smile.

Imrahil threw his daughter a look made up of equal parts of fondness and exasperation, while Éomer felt a trickle of alarm run down his spine. Told him everything? He decided to take the initiative before the prince demanded an explanation of certain of his actions.

“In that case you know why I have come,” he said. “Imrahil, I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand.”

Lothíriel beamed at him as if he had just said something exceedingly clever. Her father looked a lot less pleased. “I had hoped it would not come to this,” he said slowly, “for I have to refuse.”

“But father!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “I told you our quarrel was one huge misunderstanding. I know I said some horrible things about Éomer, but he’s not like that!”

“That’s beside the point.”

Éomer took a deep breath, wrestling down his temper. “Would you explain the reason for your refusal?”

Imrahil frowned at him. “Éomer, I can understand my young daughter being carried away by her feelings, but I expected better of you. How long have you known each other? Four days?”

“But father–“

“Let me finish,” Imrahil interrupted her. “Four days of having Lothíriel deliriously happy and utterly downcast in turn. Éomer, can’t you see you’re asking too much?”

“I know it has only been a short time,” Éomer conceded, “and I feel deeply sorry for the unhappiness Lothíriel had to suffer. But surely your daughter has explained that it was all that Wilwarin woman’s fault with her interfering lies.”

Imrahil made a cutting gesture with his hand. “Yes, Lothíriel told me the whole confusing tale. But it still puzzles me why she should then choose to berate you in the way she did.”

Éomer cast a quick look at Lothíriel. Her betraying flush let him know that perhaps she had not told her father quite everything. “Rightly so,” he said smoothly, “ for she felt that I had abused her trust by certain things that I said.” No need to go into the details.

Imrahil did not seem completely convinced by this explanation and gave them both a sharp look. “Well, whatever happened, it did show that Lothíriel is quite simply too young to think of marriage yet. Why, by Numenorean reckoning she’s no more than a child.”

A child? Last night she had not responded like a child to his kisses, but he couldn’t very well tell her father so. Éomer hesitated what to say, but Lothíriel beat him to it anyway.

“I’m not a child!” she exclaimed, looking rebellious. “In another two months I will be twenty-one. Mother was the same age when she married you.”

This seemed to disconcert her father momentarily, but he caught himself quickly. “You can’t compare that. I had known Beruthiel since childhood.”

“Well, I’ve only known Éomer for four days, but that’s enough,” Lothíriel retorted. She reached out a hand for her father’s arm. “Please, I know with absolute certainty that he will make me happy.”

“Oh Lothíriel,” Imrahil sighed. “You never do anything by halves, do you. Have you even considered what it would mean to be Queen of Rohan?”

“I have considered it,” Éomer answered, “and whilst I know I’m asking a lot, I promise to do whatever I can to enable Lothíriel to manage. Would you like to discuss my ideas on this?”

But Imrahil did not take the bait. “Éomer,” he snapped. “You are doing her no favour by asking her to marry you. I did not give my daughter to a Haradrim prince, though Denethor wanted me to, and I will not give her to you either. She could not cope.”

Rage surged up inside Éomer at being likened to a Haradrim, but again Lothíriel pre-empted him. “How dare you compare Éomer to one of them!” she exclaimed. “The Rohirrim saved Minas Tirith from that scum.”

She looked so much like a little sparrow angrily defending her young that Éomer found his humour restored.

As for Imrahil, he was forced to apologize rather shamefacedly. “I know and I intended no offence. But Éomer, nevertheless you have to see that making Lothíriel your queen would only lead to deep unhappiness.”

Éomer shook his head. “I don’t agree with you. You seem to think that just because she’s blind, Lothíriel would not be able to manage. Well, she might be blind, but not to the things that truly matter.”

“She would be helpless! How could a woman who has difficulties navigating her own home hope to cope in a completely foreign country?”

Éomer almost snorted. “I have never seen a less helpless woman. Why, she can’t take a step without champions shooting out of the ground like mushrooms after the rain!”

Not amused, Imrahil scowled. “Rohan is quite simply too far away and you can’t always be there to look after her.”

Lothíriel stamped her feet. “Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here. Both of you!” Then she sneezed.

At once, Imrahil took her arm solicitously. “Dearest, are you cold?”

She rolled her eyes. “Father, I’m not an invalid!” But Éomer noticed that she shivered. If anything, the fog had thickened and she only wore a thin cloak over her dress. A quick glance back at the road showed him the men walking the horses, his riders and Imrahil’s Swan Knights mingling in friendship again. Amrothos kept looking their way with bemusement.

“It’s time to ride on,” Imrahil said and turned to Éomer. “I stand by my decision. Promise you will stay away from my daughter.”

Éomer hesitated and Imrahil’s face darkened. “You’re only making her unhappy.”

“I can promise not to make her unhappy.”

The prince gave him a hard look, but that was all he would get. Éomer nodded at him. “If I ever hurt Lothíriel you may call me to account.”

“I will.” The threat was unmistakable.

“Father, I’m perfectly well able to call Éomer to account myself,” Lothíriel threw in, annoyance in her voice.

Éomer gave her a rueful smile – she certainly was! But he felt that for the moment, Imrahil could not be persuaded to see his daughter’s strengths. A retreat and regrouping might serve better for the time being.

“I will be back in Minas Tirith in three days’ time,” he said to Imrahil, “and will seek you out again. It will give all of us some time for reflection.”

Not that he intended to change his mind, but perhaps he would be able to think of a way to convince the other man.

Slightly mollified, Imrahil nodded his agreement. “Let’s go,” he said to Lothíriel.

“Father, may I talk to Éomer alone for a moment?” She squeezed his arm. “Please?”

After a short hesitation, her father agreed, no more proof against the beseeching look in her eyes than Éomer. “Only briefly and stay within sight,” Imrahil cautioned her, before going back to join his men.

Éomer took the hands she held out to him, relishing the contact, though it was a poor substitute for a kiss.

Looking dejected, Lothíriel squeezed his fingers. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I, by calling you all those names in front of the whole court of Gondor. Father will never believe I’ll make a suitable queen now. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not your fault,” he exclaimed. “I wish I could wring that lying woman’s neck.”

She gave a weak smile. “And like a complete fool, I believed every word she said. I’ve racked my brain what to do, but I don’t think declaring publicly that you did not take advantage of me would do any good, would it?”

His mind refused to imagine the scene. “Please don’t!”

“If I said that you have beautiful manners? Not in the least like an orc’s?”

“That might be marginally better,” he grinned, “but it will probably still not convince your father that I’m fit to marry you.”

“I tried to explain the whole sorry muddle to him last night, but he was so annoyed with me, he wouldn’t listen.” She made a helpless gesture. “You see, I had promised to stay away from you and he thought I had sneaked out to meet you. The wet gown didn’t help either. What shall we do now?”

“I’ll think of a way,” Éomer said, trying to put some reassurance into the words.

Lothíriel wasn’t fooled and gave a sigh. “I don’t want to wait four years to marry you.”

“Four years!”

“I need my father’s consent if I’m under twenty-five,” she explained.

This was news to Éomer, very unwelcome news. “I’ll think of something,” he assured her again. “I just wish I could marry you straight away!” He stopped, uncertain of her reaction. Would she think him too pressing? But he need not have worried.

“If it was up to me, I would marry you here and now!” she declared.

He lifted her hands to his lips. “Lothíriel, I swear to you I will make you my queen.”

Beads of moisture like tiny pearls had collected in her black hair and her grey eyes seemed enormous as they sought his own. “I consider myself bound to you.”

A slight breeze sprang up and wafts of thick mist drifted across the clearing, obscuring the view of the road. Lothíriel shivered.

“You are cold,” he said and took off his cloak to wrap around her, fastening it at her shoulder. It covered her completely. “Keep this to remember me by.”

“I will!” She smiled her thanks and touched the circular brooch. “Is there something engraved on it?”

“Running horses for the Riddermark,” he replied. “It came to me from my father.”

“Oh! But I have nothing to give in exchange.”

He grinned. “I have something of yours already.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your ribbon.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “And I hope a piece of your heart as well?”

She nodded solemnly. “You have had it for a long time now.” Then she lowered her voice. “Éomer, may I feel your face?”

He remembered how she had explored her nephew’s face that evening when he had first met her. It seemed a lifetime ago. He nodded. “Of course.”

Standing on tiptoe, she tentatively reached out to stroke his hair, starting at the top of his head. “I hadn’t expected it to be so soft,” she said with a shy smile. “Is it flaxen coloured?”

“Slightly darker.” He had never really wasted much thought on his looks. “Tawny, I suppose.”

“Like a lion’s mane,” she pronounced. Her fingers moved on to his forehead and with a touch as light as a feather she began to trace the shape of his eyes. “Blue?”

“Yes.” Her red lips were really most distracting. Would he get to kiss her before she left? Her father…

The fingers brushed down his nose, ghosted across his cheeks and stroked his short beard.

“Soft, too,” she remarked with a smile, “and hiding a firm chin. Are you obstinate at times?”

Éomer laughed. “I can be. Especially when I want something.”

She blushed and let the tips of her fingers run further down to his shoulders, the delicate touch like a trail of fire across his skin. Lastly she lifted one hand to trace his lips and lingered there.

“Éomer,” she whispered, “is my father watching us?”

He cast a quick look back towards the road. Half obscured by trails of mist, Imrahil stood next to his horse, arms crossed across his chest, radiating impatience.

“Yes.”

She bit her lower lip. “Are you going to kiss me anyway?”

“Yes.”

Her face lit up. “Now?”

Éomer watched the fog rolling in. It would be easy really, compared to snatching a ribbon from a woman’s hair at full gallop.

“The mist will hide us. It’s all a matter of timing,” he said slowly. “Now!”

Soft lips, responding eagerly. Arms sliding round his neck. A slim body pressing against him. Over far too quickly. They broke apart, breathing heavily, just as a gust of wind lifted the fog again. A glance at the road showed Imrahil having taken a step forward, a suspicious expression on his face.

Éomer sighed. “Lothíriel, I think your father is getting impatient and wants to leave. But I promise to come and see you in Minas Tirith as soon as I am back.”

She nodded, her unhappiness plain to see, and took his arm, clinging to it as if she never wanted to let go again. Slowly they walked back to the road and he lifted her onto Winterbreath’s back, savouring the brief touch.

As she gathered up the reins, he patted the horse’s neck. “Carry your mistress home safely,” he murmured and the mare’s ears pricked forward.

With a nod, Imrahil gave the signal to depart and took the lead. The Swan Knights took up their positions either side of the women again, guarding them. Éomer told himself that he would soon see Lothíriel in Minas Tirith and that at least he could trust her father to keep her safe. Yet when the horses disappeared into the thick mist, her red dress at once swallowed up by grey fog, a shiver of unease ran down his spine. The trees either side of the road seemed to reach out threateningly with their long branches and he had to fight the irrational urge to ride after her at once.

“Let’s go back,” he said to Éothain who had led up Firefoot. The words tasted like ashes in his mouth.

The sound of horses clattering into the courtyard made Lady Wilwarin look up. She had taken a seat near one of the windows of the hall, ostensibly to have better light for her embroidery, an occupation at which she excelled. Looking out, she caught a glimpse of grey horses being led away to the stables and sure enough a moment later a page came pelting in, stopping in front of the head table.

“King Éomer is back,” he announced.

With indecorous haste, Lady Éowyn jumped up from her midday meal and ran to meet her brother, who had just entered the hall.

“Where have you been?” she exclaimed.

“To have a word with Imrahil,” he replied curtly. “I’ll explain later,”

Wilwarin noticed that he looked grim and wondered if Lothíriel had managed to yet again humiliate him publicly. If so, he might well be receptive to some sympathetic female company. Glad that she had chosen a low cut dress to wear, Wilwarin put on her most seductive smile and sidled towards the front of the crowd. With the ignominious retreat of the Princess of Dol Amroth from the battlefield, the way to becoming Queen of Rohan was clear at last.

“King Éomer,” she pitched her voice low. “Surely you must be hungry after your ride. Won’t you join us for a bite to eat?”

He turned round slowly and involuntarily she took a step back. His eyes seemed to bore into her, ice cold yet burning at the same time.

“Lady Wilwarin,” he said. “What a happy coincidence to meet you here, for I need your help.”

“My help?” she stammered.

“Yes indeed. Please, refresh my memory. Did I escort you home after the fireboat ceremony in Osgiliath?”

All around them, people had fallen silent, even though he hardly spoke above a whisper. Wilwarin felt the cold hand of panic closing on her heart.

Worry and confusion mingling on her face, Lady Éowyn tugged at his arm. “Éomer? What’s the matter?”

Effortlessly, he shook her off and took a step towards Wilwarin. “Did I?”

Feeling like a hapless goat being cornered by a lion, she shook her head. “No.”

“And did I ever propose marriage to you?”

Unable to utter a word, she shook her head again.

“I didn’t quite catch that, I’m afraid,” he said, still in that deceptively gentle voice.

“No,” she managed to say.

He nodded. “Very good. Then perhaps you would care to explain why you told Princess Lothíriel that I had done so?”

The silence in the hall was absolute. Wilwarin looked around, hoping for support, but found only confusion and condemnation.

Her heart plummeting, she moistened her lips. “A regretful misunderstanding! I assure you, I never said anything to dear Lothíriel to imply that you had asked for my hand. After all, the Princess and I are the best of friends…”

Her voice faltered at his icy look and watching his hand clenching on the pommel of his sword, she realized on what a tight rein he held his temper. Feeling like a woman who thought she petted a dog, only to find she had touched a wild warg, she took a step backwards. Whatever had possessed her to think she could handle this man? He frightened her out of her wits – Lothíriel was welcome to him!

“You are a bad liar,” King Éomer enunciated very clearly, “although you have had plenty of practice. Let me inform you that I have asked Princess Lothíriel to become my wife. For she has the qualities I seek in my queen: courage, truthfulness and a heart…none of which you possess.”

With that he brushed past her and left the hall. The door shut behind him with an ominous bang. Wilwarin tried to smile, “Just a misunderstanding…”

Her smile froze when she spotted Lady Éowyn’s face. The Slayer of the Witch King looked as if she wished for a sword. “A horse!” Éowyn shouted suddenly and everybody jumped. She turned to one of the pages. “Ready a horse and an escort of two rangers. I want this woman out of my home at once or I will do something I might regret.”

“But I’m not dressed for riding!” Wilwarin exclaimed.

Lady Éowyn slewed round. “I don’t care,” she hissed. “I will continue my meal now and if I find you still within the bounds of my home when I’m finished I will…” her hands clenching at her side, she obviously thought of and discarded several possibilities, “…throw you in the midden. Personally.”

Wilwarin gulped and dropped a clumsy curtsy. “Of course. I will return to Minas Tirith at once.”

“Not to Minas Tirith,” a soft voice interrupted her. “You will return to your home. I do not want your like at my court.”

“Queen Arwen,” Wilwarin stammered, “Please!”

The Elf’s cool grey eyes seemed to see into her very soul and the condemnation she read in them was worse than Éowyn’s rage. “Your home,” she repeated. Before she turned her back on Wilwarin she gave her a cool nod. “You will stay there until you prove yourself fit to return.”

Taking their cue from the queen, the people around her returned to their meal, ignoring her studiously. The thought of having to return to the backward Lamedon valley she hailed from froze Wilwarin to the spot. And what would her brother say about her disgrace? Would he expect her to help with the running of their small holding? She could almost smell the stink of pig already.

The scraping of a chair made her look at the head table. Éowyn was tucking into the meal, half finished, and threw a black look her way. “Midden,” she mouthed.

Panic rising inside her, Wilwarin hurried out the door.

A/N: I’m afraid the next chapter might be a little longer in coming than usual. I pulled a muscle on my back last weekend, and have to limit my computer time at the moment, so as not to make it worse. However, I hope that lots of bed rest will help.

Opening Moves

At the start of the game it is imperative to gain control of the centre of the board and to secure all the vital pieces. Striking quickly and decisively, the opponent can be weakened to such an extent that he will never recover.

(Ulfang: Shah – A King’s Game.)

The sun rising behind the jagged peaks of the Ephel Dúath bathed the upper levels of Minas Tirith in its first tentative rays, but the fields of the Pelennor still lay in the shadow, quiescent. Muzgâsh watched the smoke from a few cooking fires rise in lazy spirals in the still morning air. From his vantage point on the wall of the Third Level, he had a clear view of the green fields stretching out to the north until they met the encircling Rammas Echor.

The King of Rohan was back. Last night, Muzgâsh’s men had brought the news that after three days of celebrating his sister’s nuptials, King Éomer had at last returned from Emyn Arnen.

Muzgâsh smiled. “You have returned to your doom,” he whispered.

He had spent the time well, getting everything in readiness. The gods had favoured him and had sent Imrahil home early, bringing his daughter with him. After three days of covertly observing every step the princess took outside the town house, he had put the finishing touches to his plan. These soft Gondorians granted their womenfolk so much freedom, it would be easy. Now it only remained for him to give the word.

Without turning round he lifted his voice. “The boat?”

Soundlessly the commander of his men, Shagnar, stepped forward from where he had stood guard at the top of the steps leading up to the wall walk. “I went myself to see the captain last night. He awaits us.”

Muzgâsh nodded with satisfaction. “Very good.”

He had originally intended to escape on horseback along the South Road as far as Pelargir and then to take the Harad Road, but now an addition to his plans had forced him to look for different means of transportation. Fortunately they had found a fast ship with a captain willing to be bribed not to ask too many questions. The man thought he was taking them as far as the Mouth of the Anduin, but it would be easy to persuade him to continue to Umbar. If a bag of silver didn’t do the trick, a knife at his throat would.

“My Lord Prince, do you want me to send off the man to the Houses of Healing now?” Shagnar asked. The guttural accent to his Westron betrayed his origins from one of the eastern tribes of the Haradrim. Savages, but highly valued by the rulers of Harad for their ferocity in battle.

“Yes,” Muzgâsh replied. “And have two men watch the Great Gates so we know if the King of Rohan enters the city.”

Shagnar bowed deeply and went to do as bid. Muzgâsh had little doubt that King Éomer would want to visit Prince Imrahil that morning. Rumours that the King of Rohan meant to marry the Princess of Dol Amroth, and that her father was less than pleased about this, had been widely discussed in the taverns of Minas Tirith over the last few days. By keeping a watch on the city gates, they would know where to find King Éomer once the first part of their plan had been accomplished. Muzgâsh rubbed his hands in anticipation. Hunting on the plains of Harad had taught him that to catch a lion you needed the right bait and he had just the thing in mind. After all he was only taking back what belonged to him anyway.

By now, the sun had risen far enough above the mountains to reach the fields of the Pelennor. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to a green mound near the road to the river. Covered with lush grass, it marked the final resting ground of King Théoden’s steed – and the place where Muzgâsh’s father fell. Dead, but not forgotten. Unable to help, Muzgâsh had been mustering their reserve forces in Osgiliath and had not even heard of his father’s death until his brother Torog had ordered their retreat. The coward!

He looked back at the mound and his hand closed on the pommel of his sword. They had honoured a horse with a burial, whilst the King of Harad lay in an unmarked grave somewhere, his body trampled into the ground by the charge of the Rohirrim instead of being sent to the gods with the proper rites. And while Théoden, the slayer of Muzgâsh’s father, had died himself on the battlefield, his nephew yet lived and thrived.

“Not much longer,” Muzgâsh murmured. “Enjoy your last sunrise, King Éomer.”

He would not live to see the sunset. Tonight, the King of Rohan would be lying on the ground, cold and dead, while Muzgâsh sailed down the Anduin.

Tasting the spoils of victory.

“The King of Rohan is back.”

Lothíriel had to hide a smile. She plucked another note on her harp. The tune had a cheery rhythm, easy to master, like a pair of dancing feet. My love has claimed a ribbon from me…

“You knew already?” Hareth asked.

“Amrothos told me last night,” Lothíriel explained. And anyway, Éomer had promised to return to Minas Tirith as soon as possible. So tied to each other forever we’ll be…

“I see,” her maid said slowly. “So that is why you insisted on having your Rohirric clothes washed.”

Her fingers flying across the strings, Lothíriel nodded. To a far off land he had to go…

“I think your father is already getting tired of seeing you wearing them.”

As an answer, Lothíriel just grinned, for she had ordered more of the same tight-fitting, sleeveless tunics. Though she wore trousers today, the prettily embroidered tunics went equally well with a skirt, so Prince Imrahil would soon see his daughter wear nothing else. To face a dark and mighty foe…

Her maid took up brushing Lothíriel’s hair. “Will you be going to the Houses of Healing again today, to visit that rider?”

“Perhaps this afternoon.” I wait for the day of his return…

“Why, what’s happening this morning?”

With a flourish, Lothíriel finished the song. “You never know who might come calling.” When his reward at last he’ll earn.

She leaned back in the chair, to allow Hareth better access to her hair. Only her family would ever see it hanging loose down her back like this, thick and long. And her husband. While Hareth’s clever fingers started to braid it at the temples and pin it up into a bun at the back of her head, Lothíriel speculated what it would feel like to have Éomer undo it. Nice, she decided, it would feel nice. Lothíriel sighed. It might be a long time until she would find out, for her father showed no sign of relenting yet. At least he hadn’t carried through his plan of sending her back to Dol Amroth. But surely Éomer had thought of something by now. When Hareth had finished with her hair, Lothíriel got up from her chair and gave a quick twirl.

“Do I look pretty?”

Her maid laughed. “Ravishing.”

Pleased, Lothíriel picked up her cloak – Éomer’s cloak really –and fastened it with his brooch. Another item of clothing she had taken to wearing almost constantly in her battle of attrition with her father.

“I’ll go and sit in the garden for a bit.”

That moment there came a knock on the door. “My lady, there is someone to see you.”

Lothíriel’s heart gave a funny little leap. “I’m coming!” She opened the door eagerly. “Who is it?”

“One of the healers from the Houses of Healing.”

“Oh!” Disappointment flooded her. She recognized the voice of one of the maids. “What does he want?”

“I do not know, my lady, but he said it’s urgent. He’s waiting downstairs.”

After picking up her cane and with Hareth in tow, she descended the stairs. In the hallway the healer greeted her.

“My Lady Princess! The Warden sent me to beg you to come at once.”

A southern accent, Lothíriel identified automatically, but not somebody she had met before. “Why, what’s the matter?” she asked.

“The young rider from Rohan…”

“You mean Guthlaf?”

What could be wrong with him? Feeling sorry for him for being so far away from home, she had formed a tentative friendship with the young rider and had visited him several times over the last few days. Yet he seemed to have recovered well.

“Yes, him,” the healer answered. “He came down with a sudden fever last night and the Warden fears for his life. Please come at once, he keeps asking for you.”

“Of course I’ll come!” Lothíriel exclaimed.

The stairs creaked as somebody descended and she recognized her father’s steps. “Daughter,” he asked, “is something wrong?”

“I’ve got to go and see Guthlaf,” Lothíriel explained. “Healer–“ She stopped, realizing she did not know the man’s name.

“Baran,” he supplied. Like many people meeting the Prince of Dol Amroth for the first time, he sounded slightly nervous.

“Healer Baran has come to fetch me,” Lothíriel went on. “Apparently Guthlaf has taken a sudden turn for the worse. He probably wants to see a friendly face.”

Her father hesitated only briefly. “In that case you have to go, of course. Let me call a guard to escort you.”

Lothíriel was just about to agree to this when the healer interrupted. “The Warden has sent a couple of men with me to guard the princess. It really is imperative that we leave at once.”

“That’s very thoughtful of him,” Imrahil said, sounding slightly surprised. “Very well then.” He gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. “In that case I’ll see you later, daughter.”

Holding on to Hareth’s arm, Lothíriel hurried after the healer, the two guards falling into step behind them. In the shadow of the houses, the early morning air still carried a distinct chill, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, grateful for the warmth it provided.

The Houses of Healing were situated on the same level as the Dol Amroth townhouse, and Lothíriel knew the way well, so she was rather surprised when Baran suddenly turned to the left and led them down a side alley.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “I think you’ve taken a wrong turning.”

“It’s a shortcut,” he replied, sounding strangely nervous.

“A shortcut?” Lothíriel tried to remember where this particular road would lead them. Behind them, she could hear the rumble of a cart turning down the same alley.

“Hurry up!” Baran said.

“Are you sure?” Lothíriel asked, slowing her steps.

One of the guards grabbed her arm, none too gently. “Move along!”

“What do you think you’re doing!” she protested, digging her heels in. How dare he!

Beside her, Hareth gave a muffled cry. “Let go of me! Lothíriel, something’s wrong. Run!”

The guard tightened his hold on her arm and when she tried to pull away, cursed at her. Acting instinctively, she brought her cane down on his head. With a loud crack it broke and the man let go of her for an instant. Slipping her arm out of his grip, she turned to run back the way they had come, hoping desperately that she would not stumble on something. This couldn’t be happening to her!

“Help!” she shouted. Was nobody about?

“Stop her!”

Then somebody grappled her. Rough hands, the smell of mouldy fabric as a man threw a heavy blanket over her. The cart! she remembered. Were they in league? Lothíriel kicked out hard and was rewarded by a curse. But the man wouldn’t let go and wrapped the fabric tighter around her, muffling her cries for help and cutting off her breath. Her attempts to claw herself free were met by another man gripping her arms and forcing them with brutal strength behind her back. She gasped with pain. Help! This could not be happening in Minas Tirith in plain daylight! She tried to drive her elbow into the man’s ribs.

“Get me some ropes to bind this she-wolf,” he called and Lothíriel recognized Baran’s voice.

Kicking out with renewed fury, she threw herself to the side, not caring that he almost dislocated her shoulder. One of her shoes went flying. Desperately, she struggled for breath, but they pulled the thick cloth tighter across her face. Air! She needed air!

“Hold still,” Baran snarled.

Weakening, she kicked out again. That moment something hit her over the head, hard. Pain and dizziness. Lothíriel felt her consciousness slipping. Éomer! I need you!

Oblivion claimed her.

He was back. Éomer nodded to the men guarding the Great Gates, who returned his greeting with a respectful bow. Firefoot’s hoof beats echoed hollowly against the thick walls either side as they entered Minas Tirith. He cast a quick look back. Oswyn rode behind him with Galador following on a lead rope. Whilst the pony still looked slightly scruffy, the excellent care of his squire and a week of sufficient feeding had worked a miraculous change in him. His ears pricked forward with interest and his steps were springy, no longer tired and lethargic. Éomer looked forward to showing him to Lothíriel. She would be pleased.

On his back, the pony carried the warg pelt that Éomer had promised to give to Alphros. Whilst he did not need a pretext to visit the Dol Amroth town house, it would do no harm to arrive bearing a gift. And if it reminded Imrahil that he owed him his daughter and grandson’s lives, so much the better. Never give up a tactical advantage! He wondered if Lothíriel had made any inroads yet into her father’s refusal to let them marry. Éomer suspected that she could be a formidable force when she had made up her mind.

Slowly they wound their way through the heavy morning traffic, following the main road on its circuitous way up. On the Fifth Level, Éomer cast a quick look up. Above them, the swan-prowed ship flew in the wind. Perhaps she sat in the garden that very minute, waiting for him. Would they be able to steal a moment by themselves? The last three days had shown him what a disconcerting amount of his heart and his thoughts Lothíriel had taken possession of. Her absence gnawed at him almost like a bodily ache. Éomer sighed.

Next to him, Elfhelm cleared his throat. “We will be stopping at the Houses of Healing first?”

No doubt the Marshal had guessed the road his thoughts had taken. “Yes,” Éomer replied. “I promised to visit Guthlaf as soon as I got back.” Duty before pleasure.

Elfhelm gave a dour nod. The Marshal of the East-Mark had been an unhappy man ever since Éomer had announced his plans to marry the Princess of Dol Amroth. Whilst he had been shocked at Lady Wilwarin’s machinations, the prospect of a blind queen for his country disturbed him even more.

“Elfhelm, my friend,” Éomer said quietly. “Just give her a chance.”

No need to specify whom he meant. His Marshal shifted uneasily in the saddle. “Éomer King, I’m only thinking of the good of the Riddermark. This has all been so sudden.”

They passed under the gate leading to the Sixth Level and turned left towards the Houses of Healing. “I know,” Éomer replied. “But I’m sure of my choice.”

“She’s very young.”

“The years will remedy that,” Éomer said dryly. And he was looking forward to spending them with her. Waking up next to her in the mornings and having her awaiting him when he returned from patrolling. Elfhelm’s voice disturbed the pleasant vision of Lothíriel enthusiastically greeting him in the stable courtyard in Edoras.

“She’s also rather temperamental…”

Clearly his Marshal referred to the painful scene at Lord Girion’s. Éomer shrugged. “I’ve been known to lose my temper. You witnessed it on the Fields of the Pelennor, didn’t you.”

“You were justified!” Elfhelm exclaimed. “Why, you thought that Éowyn lay dead.”

“Lothíriel was justified, too.”

Clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, his Marshal looked down and patted his horse’s neck awkwardly.

“All I’m saying is that the princess is a pretty young woman,” Elfhelm said slowly, “and you are a man in your prime. Are you sure, you’re not letting your…heart…overrule your reason?”

Obviously, his Marshal was thinking of a different part of his anatomy, but hesitated to say so. Éomer felt irritation welling up. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said curtly.

They continued in uneasy silence and ahead of them, Éomer spotted the big wooden doors that marked the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel would just have to prove her worth to her doubters, he thought with resignation. Hopefully she would soon get the chance to do so.

Somebody was rhythmically pounding her head with a hammer. Lothíriel groaned and rolled over onto her back. Nausea swept through her and she coughed weakly.

“Hareth?” she whispered, her throat raw.

Silence met her. Where was she? The springy mattress beneath her did not have the feeling of her own bed, and the sheets, though smooth, did not smell like her own. Slowly memories came floating back into her mind. Going to the Houses of Healing, the guard trying to grab her, a desperate fight. Lothíriel sat up with a gasp, only to have the world spinning around her. Her hands did not seem to want to obey her command to support her. Her hands…she lifted them to her face only to realize they were tied together at the wrists.

No! Panic swept through her and she struggled against her bonds, tugging and twisting until the ropes cut cruelly into her wrists. But no matter how hard she tried, they would not yield. Useless! Dizzy and exhausted Lothíriel sank back onto the bed. This couldn’t be happening to her. Curling up into a tight ball, she told herself that it was all a bad dream. If she just went back to sleep she would wake up safe and sound in her own bed.

But the pain from her hands, the dull throbbing of her head and the chill slowly pervading her bones told a different story. She forced her ragged breathing to slow and tried to tamp down the mindless fear threatening to engulf her. Later – she would panic later, when she had plenty of leisure. And a shoulder to cry on. Preferably Éomer’s.

Thinking of Éomer gave her something to hold on to. He would find her. After all, hadn’t he rescued her from that warg? And in the meanwhile she would do her best to find out where she was being kept and who her captors were. Questions tumbled wildly through her mind. Who had abducted her and why? Were they after a ransom from the wealthy Prince of Dol Amroth? What were they going to do to her? How much time had passed? Did her father even miss her yet?

The minutes passed slowly and her breathing quietened as she tried to get her bearings. Musty air, damp and chilly with an earthy smell, like in a cellar. A few muffled sounds, coming from a great distance away: faint steps and a man crying out in pain somewhere, the words inaudible. She sat up again and explored the edge of the mattress as well as she could with her hands bound in front of her. A wooden headboard and behind that a wall, rough and cold, met her questing fingers. Then she slipped off the bed and leant against the wall for a moment, fighting dizziness. Now was not the moment to give in to weakness! She seemed to have lost her shoes at some stage and a smooth stone floor met the soles of her bare feet.

Step by careful step, Lothíriel traced the outline of her room. A few paces brought her to a corner and while following the adjoining wall, her legs collided with something, sending it flying. A quick inspection revealed a light wooden chair, then a low table. Carefully, she swept her hands across the tabletop, only to be rewarded with touching something cold and solid. A further examination showed her find to be a cup filled with some kind of liquid. Eagerly Lothíriel pulled it towards her and then knelt by the table, afraid to spill the contents if she tried to raise the cup to her lips. Water! She took deep, greedy gulps, but then stopped suddenly. How long would it have to last her? A second, very unwelcome thought entered her mind. What if it contained some kind of potion?

Though her maltreated throat cried out for more, she let go of the goblet and continued her exploration. Surely there had to be a door somewhere? Very soon she reached another corner and then found what she was looking for in the wall opposite the bed. Lothíriel traced the doorframe and grasped the handle, hesitating for a moment before trying it, afraid to dash her hopes.

Locked. Even though she had expected it, Lothíriel felt a wave of despair sweep through her and leant against the door, a sob rising in her throat. She wanted to go home. She wanted to feel the sun shining on her face. She wanted Éomer to hold her.

“Help me!” she whispered.

Her knees buckled and she sank down onto the cold stone floor, burying her head in her shaking hands. How could this be happening to her? Where were her father and brothers when she needed them – where was Éomer?

“I need you!” she shouted and then stopped, frightened of attracting the wrong attention.

Why me? Pressing her eyelids tightly together to keep tears from leaking out, Lothíriel gave herself a mental shake. Giving in to dejection would not serve anything. Slowly, she got up and continued her survey of her cell, but it yielded nothing more, and far too soon she reached the bed again. She did not like the fact that it seemed to be the most important piece of furniture in the room, the sheets covering it smooth and cool. At least sitting on it would keep her bare feet off the chilly floor. Then her hands encountered a pile of soft material. Lifting it to her face confirmed her guess. The smell of horse, leather, sunshine – his smell. As quickly as she could manage with her wrists tied, she wrapped Éomer’s cloak around herself, feeling almost as if he were putting his arms around her. Some warmth returned and she stopped shivering. He would not fail her. Perhaps this very moment search parties were already combing the houses of Minas Tirith for her abductors.

Suddenly her ears made out the faint sound of footsteps. Not sure if she wanted them to approach or pass by, Lothíriel listened with trepidation as they got louder. A key turned in the lock. Getting up to face the door, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. The daughter of a long line of warriors, she determined to meet whatever fate had in store for her with courage and fortitude.

With a tortured groan the door creaked open.

The Black Serpent

As the king rules his country, so the husband rules his house.
With firmness, wisdom and strength of purpose.
And as the nobles bow to the king, so the wife submits to her husband.
With obedience, humility and good cheer.

(Saying from Harad)

***

Muzgâsh stirred the coals in the brazier and blew gently. For a moment they flared up red-hot, blinking at him balefully like a dragon’s eye. Whistling cheerfully under his breath, he drew a dagger from his belt and half buried it in the glowing coals.

That moment the sound of the door opening made him turn around. Two of his guards entered, each one holding on to an arm of the slight woman walking between them. Dwarfed by her escorts, she jutted her chin forward defiantly when they came to a halt in front of him.

Muzgâsh took his time looking her over, for so far he had only ever seen her briefly and from a distance. Pretty enough with the fair skin and dark hair so typical of Gondor. Large grey eyes dominated her face and the tight-fitting clothes hinted at quite delectable curves. The main thing, of course, was the noble blood she would pass on to her sons, but if Muzgâsh could get some pleasure out of doing his dynastic duty, so much the better. He let his glance linger on her chest, which rose and fell rapidly, although otherwise she seemed calm. Yes, she would do.

Even though he hadn’t said anything yet, the princess seemed to feel his scrutiny. Muzgâsh could see her straining her senses, a vertical frown appearing between her eyes. Careful not to make a sound, he stepped forward and touched her gently on the cheek. She flinched violently and the two guards laughed.

Muzgâsh smiled. “Princess Lothíriel. Welcome.”

“You are the leader of these men?” she demanded to know imperiously.

He chose to be amused. “Yes.”

She lifted her head. “In that case I advise you to let me go at once. I’m warning you, when my father finds you, he will have you all executed.”

Muzgâsh nearly laughed out loud at her belligerence. “That would be regrettable. Fortunately for us, your father won’t find us.”

“Oh yes he will. You are very much mistaken if you think there is any corner of Gondor obscure enough to hide you after what you’ve done.”

When he started laughing she balled her hands into fists. “Just you wait, for you will find out that the Prince of Dol Amroth’s arm has a long reach.”

“Long enough to reach the City of Serpents?”

He thoroughly enjoyed the look of stupefaction on her face. “Haradrim?” she stammered.

“Yes indeed. I am called Muzgâsh.” He could not resist adding the traditional Gondorian greeting. “Yours to command.” The breath caught her in her throat, causing his men to chuckle.

But the princess soon recovered from her surprise. She frowned. “Well, I don’t know what you have in mind, but let me tell you–“

“Enough!” he cut her off. “I do not have the time to bandy words with you at the moment. Later,” he added suavely, “I will gladly attend to you at leisure.”

His guards laughed again and the princess pressed her lips together. He did not miss the way she clenched her hands, though. Anger or fear? Then he frowned when he noticed how deeply her bonds had cut into her wrists.

Lifting her hands to have a closer look, he barked at his men. “What is this?”

Baran, the man on her left gave an uncomfortable shrug. “She was kicking and trying to get us with those claws of hers, so we bound her tightly.”

The other man nodded. He still bore the mark of her cane on his face, a red welt across one eye. “A right wildcat, this one!”

Muzgâsh had heard all about the near escape of their quarry, but found it difficult to believe, looking at the diminutive woman in front of him. He unsheathed one of his knives and cut the leather thongs binding her wrists.

“I did not give orders to keep her bound. If your stupidity leaves her with ugly scars I will have you whipped!”

The princess rubbed her wrists and flexed her fingers, not saying anything, even though the renewed circulation of blood had to hurt. She did not look quite as cowed as he would have liked. He had thought that keeping her isolated in a dark cell for a while would soften her up, but perhaps with her being blind anyway it had not had quite the desired effect. Not that it mattered; she would still do exactly as he wanted.

“Sit her down,” he ordered.

The princess did not resist as his men led her over to a table made ready earlier on and sat her down none too gently in a chair. Her clever hands brushed across the surface of the table, pausing momentarily on the quills and inkpot resting there. Then she folded them in her lap, her expression wary.

Muzgâsh picked up a parchment and laid it on the table. “You will write a letter for me.”

“What kind of letter?”

No woman in Harad would have dared to question a direct command from him, but then they were taught proper submissiveness from birth. Obviously, this one had never in her entire life had a hand raised to her in chastisement for her forward tongue and immodest behaviour.

“Here is what you will write,” he said. “Dear Éomer–“

“Éomer!” she exclaimed and jumped up. “You want me to write to Éomer?”

One of his men put a heavy hand on her shoulder and she sat back down on the chair. “What do you want with the King of Rohan?” she asked.

“That is none of your concern,” Muzgâsh replied coldly. “You are simply the bait I will use to trap that particular lion.”

Watching her mull over his words, he was reminded of the first time his father the king had taken him hunting on the steppes of Harad. Their servants had caught and tethered a gazelle to attract the lions’ attention. At first he had felt sorry for the small, graceful creature, but his father had soon put an end to such silly ideas. And anyway, the lion would not get this particular gazelle. He would.

The princess folded her arms across her chest. “Write the letter yourself.”

He had actually considered this, but had decided that the King of Rohan might well know her handwriting. This reaction, however, he had anticipated.

“Get the other one,” he ordered.

In life, like in a game of Shah, it always paid to be one step ahead of your opponent, which was why his men were already waiting outside the door with their second captive. The woman protested loudly when they frogmarched her in and Muzgâsh saw Princess Lothíriel half rise from her chair, but then sink back again, frowning worriedly. He smiled in anticipation and crossed the room to the brazier. The dagger resting there was glowing with heat and he had to use a padded gauntlet to pick it up. Gripping it tightly, he carried it back to the princess, who listened to his steps approaching with open apprehension on her face.

“You have a choice,” he told her. “Accede to my orders quickly and painlessly or fight them and I will exact the price for your disobedience.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I will not lead Éomer into a trap. I prefer to pay the price.”

Brave words, yet he could hear a tremble of fear in her voice. “But you will not pay the price,” he said, relishing the words. “Your companion will.”

The colour drained from Princess Lothíriel’s face. “No!” she whispered. “You can’t! Your quarrel is with me, not with my maid.”

Muzgâsh grabbed her chin in his left hand and leaning over her, brought the dagger in so close to her cheek that she surely felt the heat radiating from it. “I can do anything I want to,” he told her. “And whilst I do not intend to mar your looks, I don’t care in the least what happens to your maid.”

He paused a moment to let his words sink in. “Your choice, Princess. Quickly and painlessly…or slowly and painfully.” When she still hesitated, he held the dagger so close to her eyes that her long eyelashes threatened to be singed. “Very painfully.”

Still refusing to give in, she pressed her lips together and gripped the edge of the table. Muzgâsh let go of her abruptly and turned to his men. “Very well. Tie the woman down,” he ordered.

Her grey hair dishevelled, the maid gave him a look half frightened, half defiant as they dragged her forward and started to tie her to another chair.

“Don’t worry, Lothíriel,” she gasped, but her voice trembled.

“Should we gag her?” Baran asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Muzgâsh replied, watching the princess’s face. “Nobody will hear her screams down here.”

“No! Stop!” Princess Lothíriel exclaimed. “I’ll write the letter.”

Weak. Like all of them. Once again, Muzgâsh felt grateful to his father who had taught him at a young age that to care for somebody translated directly into weakness. During his childhood, any servant he had shown a liking for had been ruthlessly replaced until Muzgâsh had learnt to rely only on himself. And once he had passed into the boys’ compound for his training as a warrior at the age of six, he had not even seen his own mother more than once a year.

He picked up a quill and handed it to her. “Write.”

Her face lowered, she felt the edges of the parchment, dipped the quill in the inkpot and laboriously started to write. Each letter had to be formed slowly and painstakingly, one hand marking the position where she left off whenever she needed more ink. Dear Éomer…

Looking over her shoulder, Muzgâsh told her what to write. “I have run away from home to be with you.”

Her hand clenched on the quill, but she obediently continued to write the letter. He leaned in closer, sniffing the flowery perfume in her hair appreciatively. “Hurry up!”

“It’s difficult when you’re blind,” she snapped back. Muzgâsh frowned. Instead of being properly frightened she sounded angry.

He let one hand rest on the nape of her neck, exerting gentle but inexorable pressure. “Do I have to get the knife out again, Princess?” When she did not answer at once, he tightened his grip until his fingers dug into the sides of her neck. Such delicate skin. And such fragile bones.

Putting his other hand under her chin, he forced her to raise her face up to him. “Do I?”

“No,” she whispered, her eyes wide and dilated. He could see the pulse at the base of her neck beating frantically.

“One more word of defiance, Princess, and your maid will feel my wrath. Is that clear?”

He eased his grip slightly and she nodded jerkily. “Yes.”

Released from his hold, she bent over the parchment again. When Muzgâsh let one finger trail suggestively across her shoulder, he could feel her shivering under his touch. Soon…

She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and picked up the quill again. “And now?”

“Write: a friend has given me shelter,” Muzgâsh told her.

The other woman watched worriedly as the letter progressed, her laborious breathing the only sound in the room, apart from the crackle of the fire and the faint scratching of the quill on parchment.

Muzgâsh nodded in satisfaction. “Follow the bearer of this note. Tell no one where you are going and come alone.”

Her writing seemed to slow down even further and he surprised a look of fierce concentration on her face. Suddenly she stopped. “Should I tell him to make sure that nobody sees him go?”

Muzgâsh blinked at this unexpected offer of cooperation. But he had seen it many times before. After the defiance and then the fear came the wish to please, to curry favour with the master. It had just been rather easier than he had anticipated to break this one’s spirit. But she was a woman and a Gondorian – which meant soft and weak.

“Yes, you do that,” he agreed.

The quill flew over the parchment now and he nodded in satisfaction at what she wrote. “Good. Now sign it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A flourish and she finished the letter. He frowned down at the signature. “What does Lothig mean?”

She blew on the parchment to dry the ink. “It’s what Éomer always calls me, his Little Flower.” Keeping her face lowered, she handed him the letter.

Muzgâsh reread it quickly and then folded it up. When he turned back to the princess, she had got up and stood waiting submissively, clutching the sides of her green cloak. On her shoulder a gold brooch pinned the heavy fabric together and he frowned when he noticed the running horse depicted on it.

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” he said and unpinned the brooch.

“No!” she exclaimed, reaching out a hand. Then she lowered it slowly. “As you say, my lord.”

He weighed the skilfully decorated piece in his hand. “The King of Rohan gave this to you?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He handed the brooch and letter to one of his men. “Show him the brooch to prove the princess sent you. And now get this on its way as arranged.” Baran bowed and left.

“Take them back to their cells,” he ordered the guards.

As his men led the two women out, he let his glance linger on the princess. Her hair had come undone and hung in a heavy braid down her back. For a moment Muzgâsh was tempted to follow her and test that newfound obedience, but then he dismissed the thought. He had to get ready for combat now, not let himself be distracted by a woman. Anyway, such things were more enjoyable after a killing.

“Get me my armour,” he ordered one of his servants.

***

With a rattle the key turned in the lock, shutting her in. Her back against the door, Lothíriel sank to the floor and listened to the guards’ steps receding slowly until she could not hear them anymore. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Safe. If you could call it such, being shut up in a cell. But at least she was unhurt and alone. For a moment there at the end, she had been absolutely convinced that the man would follow her and… She stopped herself from finishing the thought. It had not happened. It would not happen.

She drew up her knees and rested her head on them, wrapping the cloak tightly around herself. Now if only Éomer got her message. Surely he would recognise the warning she had tried to include. Please, please let him remember, she thought, and not walk blindly into this deadly trap.

But what else could she have done? Lothíriel knew that she would not have had the strength to listen to poor Hareth being mistreated in her place. During the war, rumours of what the Haradrim did to their women captives had even reached the sheltered ears of the Princess of Dol Amroth and the consensus amongst her ladies had been that death was preferable to being captured.

She got up and followed the wall to the small table, which she had found during her earlier exploration of the room. The cup of water still stood there and she took a small sip, rolling it round in her mouth before swallowing. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had skimped on breakfast. With a sigh, she started a second investigation of her cell, but it yielded nothing new except for a small chamber pot underneath the bed. She weighed this in her hand, wondering if it would make a suitable weapon.

“Without a doubt,” she murmured to herself, “they will tremble in their boots when they see you attacking with this.”

Nevertheless, she put it within easy reach next to the bed when she sat down again. Now all she could do was to wait and to hope. A tiny spark of anger arose in her heart at her own helplessness. They thought to use her to trap the man she loved! How was it possible that a band of Haradrim had sneaked into Minas Tirith? She had no doubt that this Muzgâsh meant ill and wanted to kill Éomer. Reflexively, Lothíriel rubbed the back of her neck where it seemed to her she could still feel the man’s iron grip. A warrior’s grip.

“Éomer will kill you!” she said loudly. “And I will dance on your grave.”

She hugged herself. Now if only she could fan that spark of anger into a brighter flame. Something useful like real rage, which would keep the fear at bay.

***

Éomer smiled down at Guthlaf. “You look well.”

They had found the young rider sitting in a sheltered corner of the garden in the Houses of Healing, enjoying the morning sun, and had been greeted enthusiastically by him.

Guthlaf gestured to a basket of assorted breads sitting on a nearby table. “They’re taking good care of me.”

Bandages covered the stump of his right arm and he sat supported by cushions, but although lines of pain still showed in his face, he had regained some of his normal colour.

Wincing slightly, Guthlaf straightened his shoulders. “Soon I’ll be fit enough to return home.”

Éomer raised his eyebrows at this and pulled up a chair to sit down. “Take it slowly,” he cautioned the young man.

Leaning against a wall, Elfhelm nodded. “Such a severe wound takes a long time to heal and it’s no easy journey back to Edoras.”

Guthlaf hung his head. “I know. But I’d been hoping to be able to return home with you. Will you be leaving soon?”

“Not just yet. I’ve arranged to stay in Minas Tirith a little while longer.” Éomer ignored his Marshal’s frown. “I have certain…affairs that I need to sort out.”

“Oh, so it’s true you want to marry the Princess of Dol Amroth?”

Éomer stared at the rider. Had rumours reached this far already? “Yes, it’s true,” he answered. “But who told you so?”

“Lothíriel did.” He grinned. “She’s been plaguing me with questions about the Mark.”

“She’s been to see you?”

Guthlaf nodded and picked up a piece of bread. “Every day since she got back from Emyn Arnen.” His mouth full, he nodded at another low table nearby. “We’ve made a bargain. I teach her Rohirric and in return she teaches me to play Shah.”

Éomer and Elfhelm examined the artfully carved pieces standing on the chequered board that Guthlaf had pointed out. A mûmak guarded each of the corners, next to them sat the knights on perfectly formed horses, then the wizards with their staffs and finally in the middle the king and queen. Even the pawns had all been carved individually with a loving hand.

“It’s Lothíriel’s own set,” Guthlaf explained.

“Is she any good?” Éomer asked, curious. He had never learned to play this particular game, because had never really had the necessary leisure. Yet now that they were no longer constantly at war, it would be a pleasant way to pass some of the long winter evenings with one’s lady. Well, one of the pleasant ways…

Guthlaf sighed. “Too good for me anyway, although she claims she’s not particularly skilled.” He reached over to pick up one of the pieces. “Lothíriel keeps telling me I should pay more attention to the pawns, but the rules are so difficult.” Some of his good cheer seemed to leave him as he turned the piece round in his fingers. “I suppose that’s what I will be from now on. Just a pawn.”

“You can be whatever you choose to be,” Éomer said firmly, only to be interrupted by a healer coming up with a tray of teacups. She dropped a wobbly curtsy and Elfhelm hurriedly relieved her of her burden before it could fall to the floor.

“The Warden sends his compliments, my Lord King,” she said a little breathlessly. “He hopes to join you later, but has some urgent business to attend to just now.”

“Thank you,” Éomer nodded. “Nothing serious, I trust?”

“One of the healers was called out very early this morning and hasn’t returned yet,” she explained. “The Warden is trying to find out where he went.”

She dropped another curtsy before leaving. Elfhelm handed his king one of the cups, giving it a doubtful look. “They call this tea?” he murmured.

Éomer had to agree with his assessment. The pale golden liquid looked nothing like the strong black brew, laced liberally with honey, that they drank in the Riddermark. On top of that it emitted a strangely fragrant scent. He wondered suddenly if Lothíriel would expect the household at Meduseld to serve this kind of drink. And what other luxuries of her homeland would she miss in the rougher climate of the north?

Guthlaf grinned as he picked up his own cup. “Lothíriel claims the Warden uses a single leaf of tea for a whole month, it’s so weak.”

They shared a laugh when Elfhelm suddenly straightened up. Éomer followed his Marshal’s glance to see one of the riders they had left waiting outside approaching them.

“Is something the matter, Ceorl?” he asked, getting up.

The man gave a brief bow and a nod of acknowledgement to Guthlaf. “Éomer King, there is a man outside asking to have a word with you. He says it’s urgent. Also he gave us this.” He held out a hand.

Éomer picked up the round brooch, the weight familiar in his hands.

“That belonged to your father, Éomund, didn’t it?” Elfhelm exclaimed.

Éomer nodded, thinking hard. “I gave it to Lothíriel the last time I saw her.”

“She’s been wearing it every day,” Guthlaf confirmed. “Why would she give it up?”

Éomer traced the running horse, then frowned. “I don’t know. But I want to have a word with this man.”

He slipped the brooch into his pocket and turned to go. “I will be back for a longer visit soon,” he promised Guthlaf.

*

*

A/N: Lothiriel means flower garlanded maiden, Lothig means little flower.

A/N: The good news (for me) is that I will be going away on holiday this weekend. The even better news (for you) is that my beta LadyBluejay has kindly agreed to publish the next chapter for me while I’m away - at the end of next week, so you won’t be kept hanging too long!

However, this means that I probably won’t be able to reply to any reviews until I get back in two weeks’ time. But let me assure you that I appreciate you leaving them very much and will get back to you. Many thanks to all of you for your continued support!

Of Eels

The fire burns it all.
Red wine and succulent meats, for a king does not want for anything.
A fine stallion to ride, for a king does not walk.
Slaves to attend him, for a king does not serve himself.
Concubines to please him, for a king does not sleep alone.
The fire burns it all.

(Turgon: A brief history of Harad and her customs)

***

The man had shifty eyes. With one glance Éomer took in the well-worn clothes of a nondescript brown colour, the way one hand hung at his side as if used to gripping a sword, his carefully balanced stance on the balls of his feet.

The man bowed obsequiously. “Please my Lord King, I need to speak to you on your own.”

By Éomer’s side, Elfhelm bristled. “You can’t just march up here and demand to see the King of Rohan. It might be a trap.”

The man held out both hands in front of him, palms upward. “I bear no weapons. I am merely a messenger.”

An odd messenger this. Also he had a peculiar accent that Éomer could not quite place. “Princess Lothíriel sent you?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord. She gave me the token I handed to your man as proof.”

“What is your name?”

“Baran, my lord.”

Éomer came to a decision. “Very well, Baran. Let’s go a little apart and you can give me your message.”

“Éomer King!” Elfhelm protested. Éothain standing by the horses looked unhappy, too.

Éomer shook his head at his Marshal. “I think this is important. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

Elfhelm hesitated, obviously not caring to argue this point with his king, and before he could muster any other arguments Éomer nodded at the messenger. “Lead the way.”

Under the Rohirrim’s uneasy looks, Baran led Éomer further down the road, towards the gate leading to the fifth level. With noon approaching, the taverns on either side were busy and the road packed with people coming and going. The man stopped at a blocked-up side entrance to one of the houses and pulled something from a pocket of his coat. Motioning Éomer closer, he handed over a piece of parchment.

“The princess wrote it herself,” he whispered.

Warily, Éomer unfolded the letter. Instinctively he made sure the wall covered his back and kept a little away, just in case Baran tried to jump him. Something about the man made the hackles on the back of his neck rise.

Dear Éomer. Unmistakably Lothíriel’s handwriting, the letters formed even more shakily than the last time. I have run away from home to be with you. He stared down at the letter. What! She had done what? And why? Her father would be furious! He shook his head in disbelief and continued reading. A friend has given me shelter. Éomer looked over at Baran. Did she mean him or someone else? Follow the bearer of this note. Tell no one where you are going and come alone, silent and unnoticed like an eel slithering through the grass. Lothig.

Éomer took a deep breath, trying to order his confused thoughts. Whatever had possessed Lothíriel to take such an imprudent course of action? Had her father threatened to take her back to Dol Amroth? Looking up, he noticed Baran watching him attentively.

“You know the contents of this message?” Éomer asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Baran nodded. He gave an ingratiating smile. “The Princess took me into her confidence. She’s waiting for you most impatiently.”

He would have to talk to her at once. Looking back down at the letter, the signature caught his attention. Why did she call herself Little Flower? Slowly, he reread the message. Then his eyes lingered on the last sentence and he felt as if a bolt of lightning had just hit him. Eels! What had he told her that night at the banquet in the Merethrond when the cooks had substituted jellied eels for another dish – Just mention eels and Rohan will ride to the rescue.

Was Lothíriel in trouble? Involuntarily his fingers clenched, crumpling the letter. When he looked up, Baran had taken several steps back. “My Lord King?” the man asked, nervously moistening his lips.

Alarm swept through Éomer and his eyes narrowed. “Where is Lothíriel? What have you done to her? I’m warning you–”

The man took one look at his face and then suddenly turned and bolted.

“Stop!” Éomer shouted and started after him.

From behind, he heard alarmed shouts from his riders, but he ignored them. Quick as a rat running for cover, the man slipped between two carts. Éomer followed, but then hesitated. Where had he gone? There! He caught a glimpse of a brown tunic as Baran threaded his way through the crowd, pushing a woman over in his haste to get away. Curses followed him as he ducked between some tables standing outside a tavern. Éomer took off after him.

“Stop that man!” he yelled, but the patrons sitting over their drinks just looked at him in confusion.

Baran threw a hasty look over his shoulder and snatched a tankard of ale from a passing serving maid. What the…! Éomer only just managed to duck as the man hurled the heavy tankard at him. He tried to grab Baran, but the man shoved the screeching woman his way. Then he hooked the side of one of the tables and upended it, spilling ale all over Éomer.

“Hey! What are you doing!” one of the customers exclaimed angrily.

Éomer cursed and tried to duck around the shards and liquid on the floor. Why wouldn’t the stupid woman let go of his arm and stop wailing! He shook her off roughly, but then one of the patrons grappled him from behind. He did not have the time for this!

“Let go,” he snarled and punched the man in the gut. With a surprised look on his face, the fellow sank to the floor.

Éomer jumped across a bench lying on the floor, as just ahead of him, Baran sent another table flying. If only he could get hold of the scoundrel! Another patron tried to grab him, but he shoved him away. Where were his riders? That moment he saw that Baran had reached the road and started running towards the gate leading down to the lower levels.

“Out of my way!” he roared and drew his sword. The men nearest him backed away hastily. Then he had to duck as somebody threw a chair at him. Only a few more steps to the road.

“To the king!” Éothain shouted, throwing himself into the fray. Seeing the Rohirrim charging them, most of the patrons melted away.

Éomer pointed down the road. “Catch that messenger!” He sheathed his sword and started running, his men hard at his heels.

When they reached the main thoroughfare of Minas Tirith the road was thick with people. Where had the man gone? A couple of errand riders went by, throwing them surprised looks. Éomer hesitated for an instant, then plunged down the road towards the fifth level. Why did everybody have to wear brown today! And what if Baran had taken one of the little side roads or ducked into a tavern?

After some minutes of fruitless searching, Elfhelm took his elbow. “I think we’ve lost him.”

Very much afraid that his Marshal was right, Éomer slowed down, then stopped. It was no use, the man had escaped. He swallowed a curse.

“What do we do now?” Éothain asked.

“Get the horses,” Éomer ordered, turning on his heel. The iron hand of fear squeezed his heart. Let it all have been a misunderstanding, he prayed.

***

The door to the Dol Amroth town house opened at Éomer’s third knock.

“My Lord King?” the servant asked, out of breath.

“Is Princess Lothíriel here?”

“I’m not sure,” the servant stammered.

Éomer pushed past him, motioning for his men to wait in the courtyard. “I need to see her at once!”

“She might be in the garden…”

With a soft click, the door to the library opened. “Who is that shouting?” Imrahil’s eyes widened as he took in Éomer’s soiled clothes. “What have you done to yourself?”

It took only a couple of steps to cross the hallway. “Where is Lothíriel?” He had to stop himself from grabbing the other man and shaking him.

Imrahil’s brows lowered. “Éomer, you stink of ale! If you think to further your suit this way, let me tell you–“

“Where is she!”

“Lothíriel went to the Houses of Healing early this morning.” Éomer looked up to see Amrothos standing at the top of the stairs. “She hasn’t come back yet. Has something happened?”

His hopes dashed, Éomer closed his eyes for a moment. “No!” He slammed his fist against the doorjamb.

“Éomer?” Imrahil was looking at him as if he doubted his sanity.

“I’ve just come from the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel isn’t there.”

“But she has to be. The Warden sent a healer to fetch her to see that injured rider of yours,” Imrahil said. “Apparently he took a turn for the worse last night.”

By this time Elfhelm and Éothain had joined them, too. The Marshal frowned. “But Guthlaf is fine. We visited him just now, he’s recovering nicely.”

Things were all starting to fall into place. “The healer, what did he look like?” Éomer interrupted.

Imrahil shrugged uncertainly. “Quite ordinary. You know the healers; they all look the same with their satchels and grey cowls…” His voice petered out.

Éomer and Elfhelm exchanged a look. “The Warden’s missing healer!”

Éomer nodded slowly, seeing the outline of a scheme emerging. A monstrous scheme. “They abducted the man to be able to pose as coming from the Houses of Healing. Then they came here to get Lothíriel.”

“But they had a couple of guards along as well!”

Guards? Lothíriel wouldn’t have stood a chance. “Their own guards,” Éomer said grimly, “to help with the abduction.”

Imrahil’s face went white. “Abduction? Are you sure?”

Amrothos hastily descended the stairs and took his father’s arm. “Surely you’re mistaken! There has to be another explanation, maybe Lothíriel got delayed on the way or she met a friend.” He gave Éomer a distrustful look. “How come you know all this, anyway?”

Éomer took out Lothíriel’s letter and handed it over. “This was delivered to me outside the Houses of Healing. The man wanted me to go with him. When I got suspicious he bolted.”

Imrahil and Amrothos bent over the crumpled parchment, which smelled of ale. “But here she writes she has run away!” Imrahil exclaimed.

“A lie.” He remembered the shaky handwriting and of its own volition his hand went to his sword. What had those villains done to Lothíriel to get her to write the letter?

“The signature!” Amrothos breathed suddenly. “Lothig. You know how she hates that nickname. We always used to tease her with it as children.”

His father nodded, his eyes narrowing. “That’s true.”

“Another warning,” Éomer agreed. If only he had been quicker on the uptake!

“Another one?” Amrothos asked.

Éomer shook his head. “I’ll explain later. Now we have to decide what to do.”

“Do you think they are after ransom?” Imrahil asked. “If they dare to hurt her…” He took a deep breath as if to calm himself.

“Does this sound like a ransom note?” Éomer asked, pointing at the parchment. “No, I think they’ve got something else in mind. I don’t know what, but I do know that we have to do something at once and take the initiative away from them.”

He stared down at the note. Lothíriel had sent him a plea for help, had expected him to act on it, and fool that he was, he had let the man get away. She needed him and he had failed her. He looked up to meet Imrahil’s worried eyes and saw the same fear reflected in them. The blood in his veins turned to ice. What price would she have to pay for her warning?

***

Muzgâsh danced the dance of death. A double-handed stroke to the right, executed with glacial slowness but lethal precision, merging seamlessly into a slow pivot that would allow him to deliver a slashing blow across the belly of an opponent. His muscles strained as he held the position for a moment, perfectly balanced on one foot, his scimitar extended before him. Breathe in, breathe out. Unhurriedly, he shifted to the right, blocking an imaginary downward stroke by his opponent, then took a step back, inviting a counter attack. Breathe in, breathe out. Assuming the opponent foolishly accepted the invitation, this left you in the perfect position to deal a killing blow across his neck. As Muzgâsh brought his scimitar down in a slow movement, he could almost hear the sickening crunch of mail, sinew and bone breaking under it. Breathe in, breathe out.

He straightened up. It took years to master the dance, to teach the body to execute the moves flawlessly, whether slowly or lightning fast. But then a Prince of Harad was trained in it almost from the moment he drew his first breath. Had he lived, his sword master would have been proud of his pupil. However, death had claimed him on the Fields of the Pelennor on the same day as his king. With a sigh, Muzgâsh sheathed his sword, reluctant to return to the present. He always found a strange peace in the honing of the concentration until all else melted away. But what was taking his messenger so long?

“Any sign of King Éomer yet?” he asked Shagnar, standing guard on one side of the courtyard.

“None, my lord,” his captain answered.

Muzgâsh frowned. It shouldn’t have taken his man long to find the King of Rohan and surely King Éomer would want to come at once. Was something amiss? He cast a critical look over his preparations. The courtyard of the house had been cleared of debris and the cobbles washed. A trail of light grey ash marked the Circle of Death, the ritual killing ground. And not just any ash, but brought with them from his father’s funeral pyre. Not that they’d had much to burn, except for an elaborate coffin, empty, and the requisite slaves and concubines for the afterlife.

That moment a shout went up from one of the guards by the gate. “It’s Baran. But he’s on his own.”

The gate to the road opened with a bang and Baran stumbled in. Alone. Taking deep, gasping breaths, he crossed the courtyard and fell to one knee just outside the circle of ash. “My Lord Prince, forgive me.”

Muzgâsh went still. “King Éomer?”

“I delivered the letter, just as instructed. But I swear to you, the moment he read it, he knew!”

“How could that be?”

The man lifted a hand in supplication. “I don’t know. It was as if the message was written there plain for him to read. He tried to detain me, but I managed to escape – only just.”

So now the King of Rohan had received a warning. Muzgâsh’s hand tightened on the grip of his sword.

“Please my lord,” Baran pleaded, babbling in his fear. “It has to be that woman. She must have slipped in a warning somehow. I tell you, he knew straightaway!”

The princess. Of course, that sudden offer of cooperation, the strange signature! Rage flooded through him. Did she think to try and best him this way? Well, he would teach her the price for interfering with his plans. But first he would have to deal with this quivering heap of misery at his feet. His hand went to the slim dagger at his belt, made from a curved piece of obsidian, as sharp as one of the fabled Elven blades. The visible symbol of his power as a Prince of the Blood over life and death.

Baran froze. “Not the Serpent Tooth! Please, my lord! I have served you faithfully all these years.”

Muzgâsh considered him through narrowed eyes. Truth to tell, he had too few men as it was, and with his plans foiled for the moment, might well need every single one of them.

Slowly he lowered his hand and the man breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Muzgâsh motioned for him to get up. “Don’t ever fail me again, or…” He did not need to finish his threat. “Now get you gone!”

Still trembling, Baran bowed and disappeared quickly in the direction of the stables, where he and the other guards had established their quarters.

Shagnar stepped forward, awaiting orders. “What do we do now, my Prince?”

Considering the question, Muzgâsh locked eyes with his captain. “This is a minor setback, nothing more.”

“Of course.”

So the King of Rohan would be on his guard now. It did not matter, for in the end he would still do exactly what Muzgâsh wanted him to. A true master of Shah found opportunity even in misfortune. After all, he still held the most important piece in the game. Even if it was only a hapless pawn.

“We will do absolutely nothing for the time being,” he said slowly. When his captain gave him a surprised look, he added. “Let them sweat and worry, imagining the worst. Then when we strike, their own fears will make them weak and easy to mould to our will. Just send out a couple of scouts to find out where the King of Rohan is at the moment and to keep an eye on him.”

“And the woman?”

Muzgâsh stripped off his leather gauntlets and handed them to his captain. “I will deal with her myself.” He nodded a dismissal.

Careful not to smudge any of the ash, he stepped outside the Circle and strode over to the house. From the entrance, a short corridor led to the kitchen, and crossing it brought him to the trap door leading down to the cellar. His men had cleaned out some of its storerooms, where the owners of the house used to keep their supplies, and fitted them with new doors and beds for their guests.

The two men guarding the cellar vaults looked up from their game of dice and jumped up hastily when Muzgâsh descended the steep stairs. No outside sounds penetrated the thick walls and the air lay heavy and clammy.

“All is quiet, my lord.”

Muzgâsh nodded in acknowledgement and turned to a small table standing by the door to the first cell. A brass candlestick stood upon it, which he lit from one of the torches set in brackets along the narrow corridor leading to further rooms.

“Open the door.”

The men jumped to do as they were bid, then stood to attention by the door, which gaped open like a black maw. Savouring the moment, he took a step into the room. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by his candle and he spotted her in the shadows against the wall. The princess stood by the end of the bed, her head held high, the cloak clutched tightly around her as if it provided some sort of protection. A step closer revealed her grey eyes shading into black, large and unfocused in the flickering light. Young and vulnerable.

Smiling in anticipation he flicked a nod at the guards. “I don’t need you anymore. Make sure I am not interrupted.”

His men obeyed with alacrity. “Of course, my lord.” They closed the door behind them.

As their hurried steps faded away, he saw Princess Lothíriel’s fingers clench at her side. Muzgâsh let the silence grow until it stretched between them menacing and almost alive. If she had expected him to rage and rail at her at this little setback, he would disappoint her. He had more control over his temper than that and would not give a woman the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.

“And so we meet again, my Lady Princess,” he said.

*

*

A/N: Lothiriel means flower garlanded maiden, Lothig means little flower.

A/N: This chapter was published for my by LadyBluejay, so I’m afraid I’m still not able to answer any reviews. Thanks for leaving them, though!

A/N: Warning - some violence of a sexual nature in this chapter. But don’t worry!

A Fight in the Dark

You ask what is courage? I say: true courage is to face your worst fears and to go on regardless, not giving up even when confronted with hopeless odds.

(Mardil Voronwe: The Prince)

Lothíriel could hear the man’s steps crossing the room to the small table standing against one wall. He hadn’t even bothered to lock the door behind him. A faint scrape reached her ears, as if he had placed something on the table. A lamp perhaps, to light the room? Lothíriel tried to still the trembling in her fingers, to keep her head high and her back straight. She would not let him see her fear, for he thrived on it, of that she was certain.

“Your little scheme worked,” he said, the tightly reined in anger in his tone chilling her. A voice the colour of freshly spilled blood, brightest scarlet.

Nevertheless she could not suppress a brief flare of hope. “Is that so,” she replied, trying to keep her expression tightly guarded.

“Yes, it looks like the King of Rohan is delayed somewhat. But don’t flatter yourself, all you have done is bought him a little time.”

Lothíriel clutched the bedstead behind her in relief. So Éomer had recognised her warning and avoided the trap. Surely he was already searching for her and would find her soon, putting an end to this nightmare.

The man gave a humourless laugh. “You will discover before long that you’re nothing but a powerless pawn in the game I’m playing.”

“If properly placed, even a pawn can take the king,” she retorted.

Now he laughed in earnest. “Not when playing against a master like me. Yours, my Lady Princess, is not a case of taking, but rather of being taken.”

Lothíriel shivered, fear running through her, but she tried desperately not to show it. “Your plan will fail.”

“King Éomer will still do exactly as he is told.” The man sounded amused. “I don’t think he’ll be able to resist my bait, will he.”

“He will not walk into your trap now,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with confidence.

“We will see. But there is no rush. Let the King of Rohan worry for a few more hours, he will be all the more eager to fall into my trap.” He lowered his voice. “Which means that we have to find a pleasurable way to while away the time until he does come…”

She swallowed, but did not break down and beg for mercy, as he had no doubt expected her to do. As if that would make any difference. Instead she lifted her head defiantly. “Éomer will find you soon enough and end your miserable life.”

“You show a touching confidence in his ability to find you. Misplaced, but touching.”

A tiny flicker of rage stirred in her heart. “Don’t you dare mock him!”

With a few strides he crossed the room to stand before her. “Princess, I can do whatever I want to,” he whispered into her ear.

It took all her self-control not to cringe back from him, and he gave a low chuckle. “I can also take whatever I want to.” Not touching her. Not yet.

She tried to hold on to her anger. “Some things cannot be taken, they can only be given.”

His hot breath brushed against her cheek. “Ah, but I am only taking back what should have been mine anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forgive me for not properly introducing myself earlier on,” he said in a mocking tone. “My full name is Prince Muzgâsh, son of Uldor, late King of Harad.”

What business did a prince of Harad have in Gondor? Yet for some reason the name had a familiar ring. Where had she heard it before? “King Uldor?” she asked. “Who died in the battle of the Pelennor Fields?”

“Slain by Théoden of Rohan,” he confirmed.

Comprehension dawned. “So that is why you want to kill Éomer!”

“Yes indeed. From him I seek revenge, from you I just seek reparation.”

Not understanding him, she furrowed her brows in confusion. “Reparation? What for?”

“For the loss of a wife.” He picked up her right hand and lifted it to his lips. “A princess of Gondor, promised to us by Steward Denethor, but never delivered.”

That prince of Harad! She tried to snatch her hand away, but he held it in an iron grip, turning it over and planting a kiss on the wrist, where her pulse was beating wildly. “I’ve come to get you, my little pearl. Aren’t you pleased?”

“If you think I will marry you, you are out of your mind!” she exclaimed, finally managing to free her hand and taking a step back.

“In Harad, the only requirement for a marriage is for the bridegroom to say his vows in front of three male witnesses. Your consent is not needed.” By the sound of his voice, the man was enjoying himself!

“We are not in Harad,” she snapped back. “In this country both her father’s blessing and the bride’s agreement are necessary.”

“As for the first, it can be asked for after the deed. The second…” He let one finger trail across her cheek as if he had every right to do so. “Possession is more important than the law.”

Lothíriel most definitely did not like the way he lingered on the word possession. She could tell he was playing with her, savouring the feeling of having her at his mercy. A spark of anger arose within her. “If you force me into marriage that just means that I will be a widow soon.”

He exhaled his breath sharply. “I can see why my father wanted me to get hold of you at a young age. However, before long you will learn the properly submissive way for one of my wives to address to me.”

Wives? How many did he have? But that moment he grabbed one of her arms and twisted it behind her back. “I have had enough of your insolent tongue,” he said into her ear when she gasped with pain. “Come over here so I can have a proper look at you.”

She tried to claw at his face with her free hand, but he caught it quite effortlessly, forcing it behind her back as well. Her cloak slipped off her shoulders and she could not help giving a little moan of dismay. A quick twist, and he held both of her wrists in the unyielding clasp of one hand, leaving the other one free. Had he done this kind of thing before? Pushing her before him, he crossed the room to where the small table stood against the wall.

Muzgâsh laughed when she fought against his grip, a sound that sent an icy wave of fear down her spine. The exhilaration she heard in it made her still her struggles. She realized abruptly that he wanted her to try and resist him, so he could bring his superior physical strength into play. Well, she wouldn’t do him that favour.

“My pretty little princess,” he whispered into her ear, standing behind her and starting to undo her braid with his free hand. “Such exquisite white skin, such lovely soft hair…”

Distraction! She needed to distract him somehow. “Won’t your people mind that I’m blind?” Her voice sounded hoarse and strained, and she could almost sense his smile.

“It is not for lesser men to concern themselves with the affairs of their betters. Anyway, they will not know, for you will never leave the palace.” Her hair fell loose past her shoulders now and he sniffed appreciatively at its perfume. “I can choose whoever pleases me to be my wife. And make no mistake, by the time we reach the City of Serpents you will be most eager to please me.”

“Never!”

“It’s a long journey on the boat down the Anduin and along the coast. You will learn, or else–” His hand slipped round her throat to squeeze gently. “Maybe I should take your maid with us, to keep you obedient.”

Sudden rage kindled in her soul, burning the fog of fear away and warming her with its fire. She turned round in his grasp. “What kind of man are you that you pick on a defenceless old woman? I despise you!”

“How dare you!” he hissed. “I will be king one day. Any woman in Harad would be more than pleased to become the first amongst my wives, my queen.”

“You’re nothing but a lowly prince at the moment,” Lothíriel snapped.

His hand clamped on her shoulder. “Once I have exacted the proper blood price for my father and with a Gondorian princess for a bride, it will be clear that the gods favour me. Then I will be able to gather enough support to deal with my older brother and challenge him for the crown.”

“In that case come back and ask again when you’re king!”

He actually laughed, but the sound held no amusement. “Do you know, I begin to have an inkling of what the King of Rohan sees in you. It will be amusing to tame you.” His voice went low and dangerous. “Soon I will be King of Harad and then one day the Black Serpent on Scarlet will fly on the White Tower as it should have done a long time ago.” She pressed her lips together in denial and he pulled her closer against him, crushing her against his chest. The hard and cold feel of it through her thin clothes told her he was wearing chain mail. “One day our son will rule both Harad and Gondor!”

“My son will sweep the Haradrim off the battlefield and trample them into the ground,” she threw back in his face.

He went still, but his hand tightened on her shoulder until she could not suppress a whimper of pain. “Woman, I will make you regret those words.” The cold deliberation in his tone frightened Lothíriel more than hot anger would have done.

Suddenly, Muzgâsh gave her a shove, making her stumble a few steps backwards until her back hit the wall. Quick as a snake he followed her and when Lothíriel held out her hands in front of her to ward him off, he grabbed her wrists in one of his powerful hands and pinioned them above her head. Panicking, she tried to kick him, but he just slammed his full weight into her, pinning her against the wall. Then he slipped his other hand round the back of her head and twisted it in her hair, forcing her to raise her face to him. With a breathless laugh he started to kiss her.

Feeling utterly helpless, Lothíriel closed her eyes and tried to cast her mind far away from the present. Why couldn’t she just faint? She attempted to call up her memory place, to walk through it completely disassociated from what was happening to her body. The menu from the last banquet, what had it been? Fluff pastries filled with asparagus accompanied by sweet white wine from Lebennin. His breath tasted of spices and the feeling of his wet lips pressing with bruising force against hers nearly made her gag. Stewed rabbit on a bed of spring greens with a side dish of broiled potatoes. Muzgâsh’s free hand wandered downwards and started to tug at the laces of her tunic. Stripes of duck in a fig sauce, then suckling pig stuffed with fresh herbs. The first pair of laces torn, he slipped his hand inside her blouse and laughed when she recoiled.

“How fitting that you should wear Rohirric dress,” he breathed. “Now I can take my revenge on Rohan and Gondor both.” He bore down on her mouth once more.

It wasn’t working. She couldn’t just withdraw her mind from what was happening to her. Again, she tried to pull out of his grasp, but his strength defeated her. Éomer, she thought in despair. Help me! Her hip hit the edge of the table and there came a slight metallic clink. A desperate plan formed in her mind.

She forced herself to relax, to open her mouth to his questing tongue, even though it sickened her. Muzgâsh chuckled in his throat when she started to respond to him, but his iron grip did not slacken. Instead he started to pull up her tunic, causing a fresh wave of panic to rush through her. Lothíriel suppressed it and arched her back against him, giving an entirely false moan of pleasure. At last his mouth moved down to the hollow of her throat and he relaxed his grip on her wrists. Careful, so as not to startle him, she lowered one arm and buried her hand in his hair, stroking it.

“You like to be mastered by a real man, don’t you,” he whispered, breathing hard and so excited she could smell his sweat.

Like it? She loathed it! But he was so full of his own self-importance that he probably believed it to be true. Lothíriel did not trust her voice, so she just pressed her body against him and offered up her lips to him, all the while shifting very slightly, so the table was behind him. When he began to kiss her again roughly, she slid her right hand round his back, caressing him. Her fingers brushed against the pommel of a sword hanging at his side and she hesitated briefly. But he held her so close, she would not be able to draw it. Instead she leaned into him and let her hand sweep the surface of the table behind him. Cold metal met her searching fingers. Success! A candlestick by the feel of it and a heavy one at that. Excruciatingly slowly she pulled it towards her and then gripped it tightly. He was still busy mauling her.

With a quick heave she brought up the candlestick to hit Muzgâsh on the back of his head. But at the last moment he twisted with his uncanny warrior’s instinct, the blow glancing off the side of his head instead of knocking him out.

“You witch!” he exclaimed when she struggled to hit him again.

Suddenly the smell of scorched hair filled the room. Muzgâsh yelped in pain and dealt her a blow across the face that sent her staggering backwards, the candlestick flying from her grasp as she slipped and fell to the floor. Stunned, she just lay there for a moment, her ears ringing with pain, the stone cold against her cheek. Dimly, she could hear him jumping around and cursing, then a hissing sound like water being poured on a fire.

“Where are you?” he roared.

With a loud clatter the chair toppled over and he yelped again. It sounded as if he had stumbled and fallen, too. Lothíriel suddenly realized that he couldn’t see anything. The candle must have gone out when it dropped from her hand! Galvanized into action, she threw back her hair and scrambled to her knees. If she could reach the door before him, she might be able to slip out and lock it behind her! A round shape met her fingers and she recognized the chamber pot. That moment Muzgâsh’s hand closed on one of her ankles, yanking her towards him. Without a second’s thought she twisted round and brought down the chamber pot on his fingers. With a most satisfactory cry of pain he let go of her and she quickly crawled away.

All of a sudden, a loud pounding sounded on the door. Lothíriel froze.

“Prince Muzgâsh!” came a muffled shout.

“What is it?” he sounded thoroughly enraged by now.

The door opened with a slow creak. “My lord, please forgive me for disturbing you, but–“ The man stopped abruptly. “What are you doing in the dark? Your hair!”

“Never mind my hair!” Muzgâsh snarled. “Shagnar, you had better have a very good reason for interrupting me.”

“They have started to search the houses,” the man stammered.

“What?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do, my lord,” Shagnar said, the words tumbling over each other, “but our scouts just brought word that the Great Gates have been closed to all traffic and the Swan Knights and Tower Guard have started to search the lower levels. On top of that rumour has it that King Éomer has sent for reinforcements from the Rohirric camp.”

Silence, except for Muzgâsh’s heavy breathing. “I’m busy! I do not have the time to deal with this complication.”

“My lord, they will be here soon! We have to do something.” the man exclaimed.

Lothíriel kept completely still when she heard Muzgâsh get up and cross the room towards her. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her up. Limp and exhausted from the brief fight, she did not resist.

“I will be back, never doubt it,” he hissed. “And in the meantime you can think on how I will punish you.”

He let go of her and she swayed on her feet. Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, the key turning in the lock.

“Don’t go away,” she heard him call mockingly, followed by laughter.

Alone again. The chamber pot fell from her nerveless fingers and she started shaking.

Helpless. Éomer hated being helpless more than anything else. He stared out the window at Imrahil’s courtyard. Alphros and his friend stood around Galador, petting the pony, but Éomer did not see them. Instead he saw Éowyn lying broken on the battlefield of the Pelennor. Théoden old and feeble on the throne in Meduseld while Théodred rode away to his doom, little hope in his eyes. And his mother Théodwyn, ill and feverish, turning her face to the wall, the will to live gone with his father’s death.

Éomer gripped the windowsill. He would not lose Lothíriel as well. They would find her and rescue her. And then he would marry her, no matter what Imrahil said, even if he had to abduct her himself.

A hand descended on his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. He recognized Aragorn’s solid presence. The King of Gondor had come to offer his help the moment he had heard about Lothíriel’s abduction.

“Any news yet?” Éomer asked without turning round.

“Elphir just sent word that the guards have finished searching the first level and have started on the second. Amrothos is with them as well.”

Éomer nodded in acknowledgement. Only one level out of seven! For a moment he hated the city of stone that had swallowed Lothíriel without a trace. If only they were in Edoras where he knew every corner and every possible hiding place. He had wanted to lead the search himself, but Éothain and Elfhelm had persuaded him to stay behind at the townhouse in safety. So now he was safe while Lothíriel…

“Don’t torture yourself with imagining what could happen to her,” Aragorn said softly. “I promise you, we will find your lady.”

Éomer balled his hands into fists. “Easily said,” he snapped. “What would you do if it were Arwen being held captive?”

A brief silence ensued. “My friend, in that case it would be you telling me to stay calm.”

Éomer sighed and let go of some of some of the accumulated tension. “If only I could do something!”

“I know.”

The two men stared out the window. In the courtyard Alphros and his friend Minardil had started to groom the pony. The two boys had been playing in the stables when Éomer had shown up and looked like a pair of street urchins, dusty and covered in bits of straw.

Aragorn gave his shoulder another squeeze. “Once Éothain arrives back with your men from the camp we can step up the search. And don’t forget, Lothíriel is quite resourceful. Just look at the way she slipped you a warning.”

Éomer nodded with little conviction. What could a blind woman hope to accomplish when faced with what surely had to be a whole band of abductors? But he turned his back on the window. They would learn soon enough if there was any news. His glance fell on Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth sat in a chair, staring into space. For the first time that Éomer could remember he looked old, seeming to have aged years since this morning. In his lap he held the broken cane and single shoe that his men had found in a side street off the road leading to the Houses of Healing.

Feeling unaccountably sorry for the other man, Éomer crossed the room and knelt by the chair. “Don’t worry, Imrahil, we will find your daughter.” He put all the conviction he could muster into the words.

Imrahil lifted dull eyes. “It’s all my fault. I should never have let her go with those men.”

Éomer hesitated, for he had blamed Imrahil himself for not sending a guard with Lothíriel. “What is done is done,” he finally said.

Imrahil slowly turned the shoe round in his hands. “I was eager to see her go, because I wanted to talk to you on your own when you arrived. So eager that I did not stop to think. I have failed her.”

Éomer’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “I failed her, too,” he said roughly, “for I acted too slowly on the warning she sent me.”

Their eyes met, in perfect accord for the first time since that evening down at the Anduin.

That moment they could hear running steps and the door to the library burst open. One of the men guarding the gates of the house stood there, a piece of parchment in his hand.

“My lord,” he said, crossing the room and bowing to Imrahil, who had jumped up. “We’ve had a message delivered.”

Imrahil snatched up the parchment, while Éomer and Aragorn crowded round. The message was short and to the point. We will kill the princess unless you call off the search and reopen the Great Gates. Once you have done so, we will send further instructions.

“Who delivered this?” asked Aragorn.

The man shrugged. “A street boy. He said a man gave him a coin to carry the message to us.”

Éomer stared down at the parchment. The very brevity of the message made the threat all the more real. He got the feeling that they faced an opponent who would not stop at anything. And such a man had Lothíriel in his power? The thought made him sick.

“Call off the search at once,” he said.

Pawn’s Move

Only a player who understands the importance of pawns will become a true master at Shah. Being the most insignificant of the pieces, they are easily overlooked, yet if used properly can threaten the king himself.

(Ulfang: Shah – A King’s Game)

Muzgâsh’s men knew better than to stare openly at him, but he could feel their curious glances when they thought his attention elsewhere. He sat down at the table in the kitchen and motioned for the servant doubling as cook to serve him a late midday meal. That wildcat with her cursed candlestick! His head still smarted and his hair… He would have to cut it short before they reached the City of Serpents or he would make himself the laughingstock of the entire court.

It was a sign of course. He should not have let his physical urges overrule his mind like he had. The rules of the blood-quest insisted on renouncing all bodily pleasures until the revenge was accomplished. And with good reason, for such pleasures provided nothing but a distraction from the goal of avenging his father. But she had trembled so deliciously at his touch, her blindness only adding to her allure, that even now a part of him wanted nothing else but to go back and savour the sweet taste of her fear. And this time he would not let himself be fooled by any false submissiveness, this time she would yield to him completely, holding nothing back. He lost himself in the picture of the princess begging him for forgiveness and how he would punish her for her offences.

“My lord?”

He started at his captain’s voice. Distracted by that woman again! “What is it?”

“Your plan worked. One of our scouts has just come back. He says the hunt has been called off and the gates are open again.”

Muzgâsh nodded and motioned for Shagnar to join him at his table. He took a spoonful of the rich meat stew that his servants had prepared for him. Not the tasteless stuff they ate here in Gondor, but well spiced and tangy.

“Are they searching the traffic leaving the city?” he asked.

Shagnar shook his head. “Not at the moment. What is your plan now, my lord?”

Muzgâsh took a sip of red wine. “They are warned anyway, so I have decided on a direct approach. I want you to carry a message to them, demanding that King Éomer come with you for parley.”

His captain frowned. “What if he refuses?” Muzgâsh wondered if the thought had crossed his mind that the Gondorians might torture him to find out Princess Lothíriel’s whereabouts. But he had taken that into account with his plan.

“He won’t.” Muzgâsh smiled. “For I will write that in that case the princess will die.”

“But my lord, I thought you wanted to take her with us?”

Muzgâsh sighed. While he did not question his captain’s loyalty or ferocity, he sometimes had his doubts about the quality of his mind. “King Éomer does not know that,” he pointed out patiently. When Shagnar still looked doubtful, he added. “Trust me, the King of Rohan won’t be able to resist the opportunity to try and rescue her.”

“And then?”

“You lead him here, making sure nobody follows you. Then once he’s here, I will challenge him.” A simple and foolproof plan. Muzgâsh took another mouthful of stew. “We will have to leave the city as speedily as possible after I slay him, before his friends realize what has happened.”

“I don’t like running away like a common thief,” Shagnar objected.

Muzgâsh nodded his agreement. “True. But we will be back soon enough. With an army at our back.”

“And what about the princess? Will we have the time to take her with us?”

Frowning down at his stew, Muzgâsh pondered the question. They would have to move quickly after King Éomer’s death. Besides, right now she was nothing but a distraction, a temptation to slake his thirst for revenge on her instead of saving it for the King of Rohan.

“We will send her down to the boat ahead of us,” he decided. “And we might as well take her maid with us, too. Have we still got that old cart we used to bring them here?”

Shagnar nodded. “It’s in the garden.”

“Good. Put them in there and cover them with sackcloth. There is so much traffic through the gates, nobody will notice.”

“But what if they somehow manage to attract the guards’ attention?”

Muzgâsh drummed his fingers on the table. With the Princess of Dol Amroth that was a distinct possibility. “You’re right, we will have to give them some kind of sleeping potion.”

He took another swig of wine, for the hot food had made him thirsty. Then he smiled.

“Have we still got that healer’s satchel?”

Her water was gone, all that remained of it a damp spot on the floor. Lothíriel sighed as she righted the table and chair with hands that still shook with reaction from the aftermath of her confrontation with Muzgâsh. As if she didn’t have more serious concerns! But her dry throat scratched uncomfortably and she ached to wash the taste of him from her mouth. It seemed to her she could still sense the aftertaste of spices on her tongue, could feel his hands groping her, his smell compounded of sweat and leather clinging to her. Shuddering at the memory, she wiped her sleeve across her lips, wincing when she accidentally touched her cheek. Although the skin wasn’t broken, she would soon sport a spectacular bruise from his blow. Unfortunately she did not think that would put him off – on the contrary, it would probably be more likely to excite him.

Lothíriel sat down on the bed again and lined up the chamber pot and candlestick next to her. What an impressive array of weapons, she thought despairingly. Wrapping her cloak around her, she hugged herself, trying to still the trembling threatening to overwhelm her again. She could not banish the thought that surely after having dealt with the latest crisis, Muzgâsh would be back and fooling him for a second time somehow did not seem to be an option.

“They are looking for you,” she told herself loudly. “That man said as much. Éomer will find you soon.”

But soon enough? a treacherous part of her mind asked. She rubbed her aching wrists. More bruises. Clearly the man had plenty of experience when it came to subduing unwilling bed partners and no scruples about using his superior strength against them. In fact the piece of scum had enjoyed her struggles. Well, except for in the end. She smiled savagely at the thought that right now, Muzgâsh’s head was aching, too. Then her smile faded when she considered what price he might exact for her brief triumph.

Had it really been only this morning that she had woken up so full of joy at the prospect of meeting Éomer again? Filled with warmth and laughter, the memory seemed impossibly distant from her present circumstances. And what if Muzgâsh carried through his threat of abducting her to Harad? In that case I will kill him, she vowed to herself, no matter what it takes. For it would mean that Éomer… She could not finish the thought.

That moment, the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears. She got up hastily, hefting the candlestick in one hand. A Princess of Dol Amroth went down fighting she told herself. The door opened and somebody entered.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered her.

Not Muzgâsh. Briefly, her knees went weak with relief. Lothíriel did not recognize the man’s voice, but there seemed to be a strange note in his tone. Wariness?

He crossed the room and set something on the table, then immediately retraced his steps. Suddenly the rich smell of food and spices filled the air and her stomach growled in response. The door slammed behind the man, the key turning in the lock, but by then she was already halfway to the table. Tentatively running her fingers over the surface, she discovered a bowl of some kind of savoury stew and a big goblet of sweet smelling wine.

All of a sudden she hesitated. Dare she eat anything provided by her captors? What if the food had been tampered with? But the water she had drunk earlier on had been fine, she reminded herself, and she needed to keep up her strength. She gripped the edge of the bowl carefully and picked up the spoon. Hesitantly she took a small mouthful. The creamy sauce tasted delicious, rich and spicy, just as she liked it. She identified pieces of meat and vegetables and swallowed eagerly, dipping her spoon in the bowl for another helping.

And a drink at last! With shaking hands, she raised the goblet to her lips and took a big gulp. A sweet and strong wine, not watered at all – she would have to be careful not to drink too much of it. But how thirsty she felt! And the spicy food only made it worse. Then she frowned. The wine left a sickly sweet taste in her mouth, only very faint, yet fleetingly it brought back an unpleasant memory. Where had she tasted its like before? Running her tongue across dry lips, she could feel an oily residue. Suddenly the memory came back, vivid and filled with suffering. The Houses of Healing! Those terrible days after her accident when she had thought her head would burst from pain. The healers had given her a potion to dull the ache and make her sleep.

Lothíriel put the goblet back down. Why would they mix poppy syrup into her drink? She did not think the one mouthful she had drunk would affect her, yet there had to be enough in the wine to send her to sleep. Did Muzgâsh intend to take advantage of her while she was unconscious? The thought sent a cold shiver of dread down her spine, yet after a moment she shook her head. It made no sense. Her brief experience of the man told her that he would much rather have his victim conscious of whatever degradation she was suffering. No doubt he considered that the best part of it.

Which meant that they had something else planned, for which they needed her asleep and quiet. Lothíriel caught her breath. Could this be an opportunity to make a move of her own at last in this deadly game? After a moment’s thought she went to get the chamber pot and started ladling stew into it, followed by the contents of the goblet. She did not have the strength to outfight Muzgâsh, but perhaps she could outwit him.

Another message. Éomer stared down at the parchment, then up at the messenger. The man had demanded to see the King of Rohan and insisted they meet in the courtyard. Unarmed and obviously not happy about that fact, he had the look of a battle-hardened warrior, a long healed scar tracing a white line across his cheek.

“I will have to think about this first,” Éomer said.

The man nodded grudgingly. “Not too long, or…” He did not have to specify the threat any further, for the letter stated it quite clearly for him. The princess dies on the fourth noon bell, unless the King of Rohan follows my messenger.

Éomer retreated to the other side of the courtyard, where Imrahil and his sons stood watching anxiously. Without a word he handed the message over. While Aragorn and Elfhelm clustered round to read it, he let his glance wander aimlessly over the stables, his mind already busy making plans. In one window he caught a glimpse of two small, pale faces. Alphros and his friend had been told to stay out of the way, but their curiosity had obviously gotten the better of them.

“It’s a trap,” Aragorn stated, “but then you know that.”

Éomer nodded. Imrahil raised an expressionless face. “What do you intend to do?”

“I will go with the messenger of course.”

Hope flared briefly in Imrahil’s eyes, but by his side Elfhelm uttered an incoherent protest. “My Lord King,” he exclaimed, “please reconsider. Surely there has to be another way.”

“What way?”

His Marshal gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. But you are the last descendant of the House of Eorl. The Riddermark cannot afford to lose you.”

“And I cannot afford to lose Lothíriel,” Éomer pointed out harshly.

“They might not carry through their threat. After all, the princess is a valuable hostage.”

“That is not a risk I can take.” Éomer lifted his hand to cut off any further remonstrations from his Marshal. “Enough! It might be our only chance to rescue her.” And his opportunity to act at last, to do something to save her – and to call the men who had abducted her to account. Yes!

“Have you got a plan?” Aragorn asked.

“Not yet,” Éomer admitted. He drummed his fingers on the scabbard of his sword. Just walking into the trap blindly would not help Lothíriel either. “I’m pretty sure they are keeping her prisoner somewhere here in Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn nodded. “I agree. Otherwise they would not have reacted to us searching the city like they did.”

Éomer found himself looking over at the messenger and considering him. There were ways to make men talk against their will, to break even hard-bitten warriors. He abhorred such methods, but for Lothíriel’s sake? From the Citadel, the bell rang the half hour. They were running out of time!

“We have to find a way for you to follow me,” he said, thinking furiously. “Then when I give the signal, you attack.”

Elfhelm looked unhappy at this suggestion. Éomer had to agree it was risky, but it might at least give Lothíriel a chance of being rescued even if he failed.

“But how can we follow you without being noticed?” Amrothos asked.

Éomer looked at the stables again. The two white faces were still pressed against the window, the smudges of dirt on their cheeks making the boys look like street urchins.

“I have got an idea,” he said.

Lothíriel tried to let go of all her tension and concentrate on her breathing. She lay stretched out flat on her belly on the bed, her head turned to the side, eyes closed. The familiar sound of the key turning in the lock reached her ears, then footsteps. Heavy boots, she identified them automatically, three sets. Relax, she told herself. Of course right then a tickle threatened to develop in her nose.

One pair of boots approached the bed and stopped beside her. Somehow she knew without a doubt that Muzgâsh stood staring down at her. Feeling vulnerable and exposed, it took all her self-control to stop herself from clenching her hands on the sheets and to continue breathing regularly. The silence grew and she very nearly flinched when he started to pull away the cloak covering her.

“Did she drink all the wine?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” one of his men answered from somewhere by the table. Baran.

With a soft whisper, the cloak fell to the floor. She could feel him bend over her and sniff her breath. “Excellent,” he murmured.

His fingers traced across her cheekbones, to the nape of her neck and then started to comb through her loose hair. Despite her best efforts, her breathing grew shallow and it was all she could do to keep from recoiling. Fortunately he seemed too occupied with running a possessive hand all over her body to notice. A horrible thought crept into her mind. What if she had been wrong with her assessment of his character and he did intend to violate her while she lay asleep? Would she be able to strike at him with the candlestick she had hidden under her pillow as a last resort?

But he straightened up again. “If any of you touch her, you’re dead meat,” he said coldly. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Take her maid with you as well. You will hide them in the cart that we used before and smuggle them down to the boat. There you will wait for the rest of us.”

Lothíriel’s heart sped up. A way out of this horrible, dank prison! And would she and Hareth be able to escape on the way?

“Yes, my lord,” Baran said. “What do we do if you don’t show up?”

Muzgâsh hesitated. “If I’m not there by midnight, you sail and carry the news to my brother, the king.”

“And the princess?” The suppressed eagerness in Baran’s voice sent a shudder of revulsion down Lothíriel’s back.

“Slit her throat,” Muzgâsh answered coldly. “For in that case I will be dead.”

Then he bent down again. “But don’t worry, little one,” he whispered softly in her ear, and for one panicky instant she was convinced he had seen through her deception. “I will come for you. But first I have to kill the King of Rohan.” He gave a horrible low chuckle. “Wish me luck!”

His steps receded towards the door. “Hurry up,” he told his men before leaving.

Lothíriel breathed a little easier with him gone and strained her ears to try and make out what the other two were doing. Despite their master’s orders they seemed in no particular hurry to get her on her way.

One of them approached the bed and slid a hand along one of her legs. “It would be a shame to let a lovely thing like this go to waste,” he said.

Lothíriel nearly betrayed herself by slapping his hand away. How dare he!

“Olog!” Baran said warningly. “Remember what the master said about touching her.”

“I know. But what if he doesn’t show up tonight? We don’t have to slit her throat straightaway, do we?”

No, I will slit yours first, Lothíriel thought savagely. Once more she had to concentrate on keeping her breathing even.

“He will show up,” Baran said, conviction in his voice. “Have you ever seen Prince Muzgâsh fight in earnest? He’s absolutely deadly with a blade.”

The words made her stomach clench with fear. Éomer! she wailed inside. But there was nothing she could do right now. First she had to escape, to have a chance to warn him. That moment one of the men put his hand on her shoulder, providing enough warning that she could will herself to stay limp when he rolled her onto her back.

“Let’s carry her upstairs then,” Olog suggested.

“Wait,” Baran said. “I want to bind her first.”

Before Lothíriel could give herself away by flinching, the other man laughed.

“Why bind her? Look at her, she’s fast asleep. Besides, she’s such a small thing and blind to boot, she’ll be easy to subdue once she comes round.”

Yes, Lothíriel thought at the men. That’s right, I’m blind, weak and completely harmless.

“This one is a right wildcat,” Baran answered. “I want her bound and gagged.”

“Well, if you insist.”

The man gripped her ankles and Lothíriel was on the brink of kicking him and trying to sprint to the door, when Baran interrupted. “Not leather thongs! They bite into the skin and the master wants no marks on her. I think there is some silk rope upstairs, let’s go and look for it.”

Olog grumbled at this, but let go of her legs and followed the other man out the door. Lothíriel held her breath, straining her senses, as they closed it behind them. No grating sound of the key being turned in the lock, just the faint echo of steps receding. In a flash she got off the bed. The door opened at her push with a screech that sounded agonisingly loud in her ears, but all remained quiet and there came no shout of alarm. Her questing fingers found the key still in the lock and she hastily pocketed it. Nobody would lock her in again!

A few careful steps brought her to the bottom of a flight of stairs, the floor rough and cold under her bare feet. As she explored the wooden steps leading up, the need to breathe fresh air, to feel open space around her nearly overwhelmed her. Yet she hesitated. What if the guards came back at that moment? She might not have much time! Would it be a better idea to find a place to hide? Clearly she was in some kind of cellar, for the air smelled moist and earthy. Trailing her hand along the cold stone she followed the wall of the passage and found another door next to the one leading to her own room. The key was stuck in the lock and she had some difficulty to turn it. As she opened the door, heavy breathing reached her straining ears and the lingering smell of spices hung in the still air.

“Hareth?” she whispered.

No answer. Overcoming her reluctance to enter another cell when she’d only just escaped one, Lothíriel cautiously crossed the room to where she thought her maid might be. Her outstretched hands touched a bed much like her own, then a warm body. She followed the curve of an arm to the shoulder and a quick brush across the face confirmed what she had suspected from the beginning. Hareth. Fast asleep.

“Please wake up!” she exclaimed and shook her roughly by the shoulders. A snore was her only answer. Tears sprang to Lothíriel’s eyes. She needed somebody who could see, who could help her evade the men who would surely soon notice her absence and start searching for her.

A loud bang sounded from the hallway and she froze. Were they back already? Stumbling in her haste, she made her way to the door and pulled it together, leaving only a tiny crack, where she could listen.

“Hurry up,” she heard Baran say. “We’re running late! Remember, we have to get her away before the King of Rohan arrives. He will be here any moment.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Éomer! How she wanted him. The steps descending the stairs stopped suddenly.

“Olog, didn’t you close the door?” Baran asked.

“I think I did,” the other man said hesitantly.

Their heavy boots clattered down the steps in a rush and then she could hear a breathless silence in the next-door room. The curses following it brought a smile to Lothíriel’s face despite her desperate plight.

“Muzgâsh will kill us,” Olog wailed.

“We have to find her at once,” Baran said. “Why, she’s blind and helpless, she has to be around here somewhere.

Lothíriel bit her lip. Too true! Where could she hide? Under the bed?

As if hearing her thoughts, Baran asked the other man. “Have you had a look underneath the bed? Maybe she just fell off in her sleep and rolled under there. ”

A thump sounded from next door. “It’s so dark I can’t see properly,” Olog complained, “but there is something there. Get a torch!”

Lothíriel took a step back when she heard Baran come out into the hallway, then go back in. Her hand crept to the pocket of her trousers. The key to her room! She still had it. And they were both in there, she could hear them rummaging around.

On tiptoe she crept out into the passageway, her heart beating so loudly that they could surely hear it. Her outstretched fingers reached the doorway of her former prison, then traced the actual door. As luck would have it, it opened outward, shielding her body from the view of the men inside.

“It’s only a chamber pot,” she could hear one of them exclaim in disgust.

They would come out the room soon! With shaking hands she fitted the key in the lock, then gave the door a shove to close it. Again it screeched, but the warning came too late for Baran and Olog, for she had already turned the key. Curses sounded, then the wood shuddered as the two men threw themselves against it.

“Now you get a taste of what it feels like,” she murmured to herself and had to suppress a hysterical giggle.

But what now? Éomer! She had to warn him. Taking a deep breath, Lothíriel tackled the steep stairs leading up to the rest of the house. Willing herself to take them steadily and not rush – a fall would be disastrous – she ascended slowly. Behind her, she could still hear the two men shouting and hammering their fists against the wood and she suddenly worried if the noise might attract some of Muzgâsh’s other men. But all remained quiet and after a few more steps she could feel the outline of an opening above her head. Straining her senses to the utmost, she slowly crawled across the edge of what felt like a trapdoor and then, after a fumbling search for the catch, closed it behind her, shutting off the noise from below. No sound of alarm.

In fact no sound of anything. The room felt empty, although faint smells of food still remained. The kitchen? At the thought her stomach rumbled loudly. She straightened up and took a cautious step forward, then another. Something hit her shin painfully. A chair, she guessed and then her outstretched hands met the smooth surface of a table. Following the edge brought her to a wall with a small window let into it. At the thought that somebody outside might spot her, Lothíriel dropped to the floor with a gasp, but again nothing happened. The house was so quiet around her, it seemed completely abandoned.

Suddenly faint voices reached her and after a moment of disorientation she identified them as coming from outside. One of the voices caused her heart to speed up in mingled hope and fear. Could it be? Lothíriel straightened up and with shaking fingers eased the window open a little way.

Trap

Plan your campaigns well, for a single change of circumstances can turn the hunter into the hunted, the trapper into the trapped.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

Éomer’s guide cast a nervous look back as they turned into a side-alley off the third level and Éomer followed his glance. Just the usual late afternoon traffic on the road: servants returning from their errands, a man setting up his stall to sell food, two labourers driving a cart of refuse. And a boy leading a scruffy looking pony. Nothing out of the ordinary.

His guide appeared to think so too, for he relaxed visibly. The man had scanned the streets tensely all the way from the Dol Amroth townhouse, but now he seemed satisfied they weren’t being followed. They stopped at the entrance to a dilapidated looking house and Éomer’s hand strayed to the grip of his sword when he felt unfriendly eyes on him. But nothing untoward happened. The door swung open and his guide motioned to follow him inside.

Éomer risked a last look back. Minardil had hunkered down and was examining Galador’s hooves. Their eyes met briefly and the boy gave a quick grin. No doubt he thought it an excellent game to be included in the adults’ plans. Fleetingly Éomer wondered if Alphros had been very disappointed not to be allowed along, but indeed they could not have risked giving Lothíriel’s captors another such hostage.

He straightened his shoulders and entered the short passage leading into the house, all the while trying to calculate how long it would take Minardil to get reinforcements. Three levels up riding the pony, then back down again through the traffic – it would take some time.

A courtyard opened before him and his eyes were drawn straightaway to the man standing at the other end, waiting for him. He had an air of command about him and Éomer’s breath quickened in excitement. Would he finally get to deal with the man responsible for Lothíriel’s abduction? He had a lot to answer for.

Slowly he crossed the open space, his shoulder blades itching all the while. A sideways glance confirmed two men crouching on the roof of the building to his right, bows at the ready, and he was glad he had donned his chain mail, brought from the camp by Éothain. It felt infinitely better to at least have some kind of protection against arrows. Several more men had taken up position along the side of the courtyard, their swords sheathed as yet. Not good odds. Five on the left, three on the right, Éomer noted quickly, plus his former guide, who now stood behind their leader, having been handed a sword. And possibly more of them hidden in the house? A beautiful trap, but then he had known as much.

On the ground a circle of some grey material had been traced. Ash? He studied his opponent as he approached it and the man took a step forward, moving with a fluid grace that tugged at something in Éomer’s memory. Piercing black eyes in a dark skinned face met his own. The man had a strange hairstyle, with a short patch that looked almost singed along one temple. As tall as Éomer and heavily muscled, he wore a scarlet tabard over his hauberk. Éomer felt his eyes widen when he recognized the Black Serpent device. Haradrim?

As if reading his thoughts, the man gave a smile. “King Éomer. We meet at last.”

Éomer stopped just outside the circle of ash. Time. He needed time, he reminded himself, even though he itched to draw his sword and wipe that smirk off the Southron’s face.

“Where is Princess Lothíriel?” he asked curtly. Never show weakness.

“In a safe place.”

Éomer did not allow his fingers to clench and give his anger away. Instead he gave the man a cold look. “If you want to hold parley with me, I insist on seeing her first and making sure she’s unhurt.”

The man gave a little wave of one hand. “Oh, she’s not damaged too badly. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to see her just now.”

A couple of the guards sniggered and for a moment murderous rage clouded Éomer’s view with a red haze. He wrestled it down. Lothíriel needed him to think clearly, to find out where she was kept prisoner and rescue her, not to lose his temper. Even if it meant not being able to choke the life out of the man on the spot. But if the Southrons had dared to touch Lothíriel… Éomer took a deep breath. The man was watching him expectantly, as if waiting for an explosion of wrath, his black eyes glittering with anticipation.

Éomer inclined his head. “I have an offer for you from the King of Gondor. Hand back the princess and he will spare your lives and give you an escort to the borders of his realm.”

“A generous offer,” the Southron replied with a smile. “But I think we’d rather take the princess with us. Her stay with us so far has proven to be most entertaining.”

Despite his best efforts at self-control, Éomer’s hand went to his sword. What had they done to Lothíriel? Damaged? Entertaining? The need to kill swept through him, yet he dared not give in to it and the rat knew it. Éomer had met his like before, the type who taunted and tortured their opponents rather than kill them cleanly. He had to remind himself that surely Lothíriel would be a valuable hostage to these men.

“What is it you want then?” he asked, deciding to cut to the bone of the matter.

The man took a step forward, his eyes burning with sudden fire. “I want revenge, King of Rohan!”

Éomer gave him an icy stare. “In my country a true man settles his grievances directly and doesn’t take out his ire on a defenceless woman.”

“That’s what I intend to do. I suggest we fight it out here and now – to the death.” The Southron motioned to the circle of ash.

Éomer hesitated, wanting very much to accept the man’s offer. “What is your name?”

“Muzgâsh, son of Uldor. A Prince of the Blood from Harad.”

What was a Haradrim Prince doing in Minas Tirith? Not that it mattered; the man would never see his home again.

“Very well,“ Éomer said. That moment a sudden movement over at the house caught his attention. One of the ground floor windows banged open and somebody leaned out.

“Éomer, it’s a trap! He wants to kill you!”

Lothíriel! His body responded before his mind had a chance to make a conscious decision. With no memory of drawing his sword, he pivoted to the right, cutting across one guard’s belly and pushing the man at his comrades who were only now starting to move. An arrow whizzed by as he sprinted in the direction of the house.

“I want the woman alive,” he heard Muzgâsh shout behind him, just as he yanked the door open.

A dark passageway met his eyes, completely deserted. He slammed the door shut and dropped the heavy bar across it, hoping it would hold his pursuers for a moment, then started to run down the hallway in the direction where he thought Lothíriel to be. Careful, he reminded himself, it might be part of their trap. Although he doubted it from the surprise on Muzgâsh’s face.

“Éomer! Help!” the cry issued from one of the rooms ahead of him and his heart missed a beat. Bursting through the door, he saw Lothíriel standing at the window, her arm caught in the grip of one of the Southrons, who had reached through and now tried to pull her out through the narrow opening. She had a plant pot in one hand and was attempting to bash the loudly cursing guard with it. But it took no more than a couple of steps to cross the kitchen and seeing Éomer’s naked blade aimed at him the man jumped backward from the window with a yell. Freed, Lothíriel whirled round, swinging the pot at Éomer and hitting him full in the chest.

“Lothíriel!” he exclaimed. “It’s me!”

She dropped the pot, narrowly missing his feet. “Éomer?” Then she threw himself at him, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

Éomer allowed himself a single moment to revel in the feeling of holding her close. “You’re safe now,” he said gently, “I promise.” She gave a choked-off sob and he swore to himself that he would never let anything bad happen to her again. Not while he lived.

Pounding echoed down the hallway from the main door, reminding him they were far from safe yet. He took Lothíriel by the shoulder. “We have to get out of here.”

She wiped one sleeve across her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “What do you want me to do?”

That moment a creak sounded from behind them, causing him to spin round. A trapdoor in the floor was slowly being lifted from below and a hand gripped one side of the opening. It could only be more enemies.

“Quiet,” he whispered to Lothíriel.

Not wanting to let go of her again, he took her by the hand and led her across the room, trying to tread as silently as possible. Then before the man below could open it completely, he kicked the trapdoor shut again. A loud exclamation of pain, followed by a crash rewarded him. Hopefully he had broken his neck.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, pulling her towards the door. “Follow me!”

She stumbled on the shards of the broken pot and he cursed when he noticed she was barefoot. Nothing to be done about that for the moment, though. The hallway reverberated with the sound of pounding, but the door still held. Where to now? A narrow stair led up to the upper floor, and after a brief hesitation, Éomer started to climb it, drawing Lothíriel with him. She followed gamely.

Upstairs another hallway met them, stretching the length of the house with doors either side, some of which stood open to let the evening sun shine in. With their steps muffled by an old carpet and dust motes dancing in the light, it seemed strangely peaceful. Éomer paused at the entrance to one of the rooms, then plunged inside, still holding Lothíriel’s hand. He needed to sound the alarm and call for support!

The room stood empty except for an old table and a couple of dilapidated chairs. Crossing the room quickly, Eomer wrestled open the window. Inoring the loud shriek of protest from the neglected hinges, he reached for the horn hanging at his belt and gave a short blast, as arranged. To me!

Nothing happened. Éomer leaned out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the entrance to the courtyard, but could not spot any movement there. Lothíriel stood next to him, clutching one of his sleeves and when he saw the silent trust on her face he cursed inwardly. Where were they? What was taking them so long?

“Don’t worry,” he said, “your father and brothers will be here soon.”

She nodded bravely. “But what do we do in the meantime?”

“We have to buy time.”

Suddenly running steps sounded in the passage and he cast a frantic glance around. To the right a door stood slightly ajar, leading into a connecting room, but before he could pull Lothíriel in there, a shout sounded from behind them.

“Here they are!”

He whirled round, pushing Lothíriel behind him. “Stay put there!”

Two men stood in the doorway, their swords drawn. Probably the archers from the roof. Éomer gave a grim smile. “Only two of you?”

They faltered visibly. But then they fanned out into the room, moving with practised ease. Not practised enough. A lightning stab to the right made one of them stumble back and Éomer took the opportunity to pivot round and put all his killing fury into a two-handed stroke at his other opponent. The man brought up his own sword to counter it, but much too weakly. Guthwinë bit deep into the man’s collarbone and then severed his windpipe. He sank to the floor with a choked off gurgle. Éomer had already yanked out his blade and turned round in the same motion, meeting the slash aimed at his back by the other man. He laughed in exultation when he saw the dismayed expression on the Southron’s face at his comrade’s death.

“Don’t you like the odds anymore?” he chortled.

A series of powerful blows drove the man back against the wall, his defences crumbling under the sheer force of Éomer’s strokes. Then in an unexpected move he slipped his sword under the Southron’s guard, opening a long gash along one arm. There! When the man cried out in pain and reflexively lowered the arm, Éomer took advantage of his longer reach to slash him across the face. Clutching his head, the man crumbled to the floor, but before Éomer could deal him a killing blow across the neck more steps sounded in the passage outside.

He whirled round and pushed Lothíriel through the door into the neighbouring room. “In there!”

She stumbled and he steadied her quickly before slamming the door shut behind them and bolting it. Where to now? He could see no other exit. That moment somebody threw himself against the door behind them, making it shake alarmingly. They were trapped.

Lothíriel gripped his arm, her eyes wide with terror. “Éomer, are you all right? What do we do now?”

He gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and considered their options. The only furniture in the room was a four-poster bed, its drapes old and faded. How long would he be able to hold the door against the men on the other side? Long enough to allow his men to reach them? And where were they?

He pulled her towards the window. “We need help!”

Éomer shoved open the window and again sounded his horn. To me! Still no answer. A quick look down showed them to be near the gates. Studying the scene, the beginning of a plan formed in his mind. After a quick wipe on his trousers he sheathed Guthwinë.

“Wait here!” he ordered Lothíriel and then ran to the bed to pull off the covers. Dust filled the air, making him cough, as he dragged them towards the window and threw them outside. They landed in an untidy heap below their position.

“We have to jump.”

The colour drained from her face. “Jump? But–”

“It’s not high,” he lied ruthlessly and climbed onto the windowsill. “Trust me.”

After the briefest of hesitations, she took his hand and let him help her up. Éomer guided her hand to where she could grip the iron frame of the window in order to clamber over. Groping for support, she slowly lowered herself until she hung over the drop. It tore his heart to see her close her eyes, trembling. But what else could he do?

“Now!” Éomer ordered.

Lothíriel let go. He held his breath as she landed on the bed covers below him with a suppressed cry of pain. In fact he did not release it until she got up again, swaying slightly. That moment the door to the room burst open, but he had already jumped. The impact with the ground drove the air from his lungs, the weight of the chain mail bearing down cruelly on his shoulders, and he fell to his hands and knees.

“There they are!” Somebody exclaimed above him and he staggered to his feet. They had to get out of here! His legs protested at the abuse, but he forced them to move, pulling Lothíriel with him towards the gate. She leaned into him for support, but uttered no word of complaint as she limped alongside him.

Ahead of them five Southrons materialized out of the shadows of the gate and spread out in a half-circle. Éomer stopped abruptly.

Caught off balance, Lothíriel grabbed his arm. “What is it?”

“More of them.”

Slowly he unsheathed Guthwinë. Five against one in an open space and with the need to protect Lothíriel as well. Not good odds.

“Who wants to die first?” he called.

Not fooled by his bold words, the men smiled. One of them had a red welt across his face and looked particularly eager.

“You will, King of Rohan!” he shouted back.

Éomer pulled the horn from his belt and blew it as loud as he could manage. The sound echoed back from the buildings around them, brave and true, and for a moment the Southrons faltered and drew back. But when no answer came, they laughed and stepped forward again. It was time for him to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Éomer turned to the woman beside him. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“You didn’t,” she protested. “You came for me.”

Fleetingly, he let one finger trace across her cheek. So soft. So dear.

Lothíriel grabbed his hand. “Éomer,” she whispered, “have you got a dagger I could use?“

He hesitated and she clutched at him. “I want to fight, too.”

“You will get hurt!”

“Please…” she faltered. “I don’t want them to take me alive.”

Éomer swallowed a curse at the unfairness of it all. “Very well.”

His hand went to his belt, but that moment he saw movement out of the corner of one eye. The Southrons had chosen to launch the attack. Éomer slewed round to meet them.

Suddenly horns sounded from outside. The great horns of the North! Éomer’s attackers stumbled to a halt at the sound and looked at each other in apprehension. Then the gates behind the guards burst open with a deafening bang and men boiled through. At the front ran Aragorn with Andúril glittering unsheathed in the setting sun. The sword rose and then descended in a deadly arch, catching the first of the Southrons in the act of turning towards these new enemies. The next one fell to Imrahil, and the remainder to the Swan Knights and Éomer’s own men following close behind.

Aragorn stopped next to Éomer and clapped him in a quick embrace. “My friend, are you all right?”

Éomer nodded. “You came at the right moment. Again.”

Next to him, Lothíriel’s father and brothers clustered round her, hugging her. She looked rather overwhelmed and bewildered by their sudden rescue. Éomer could not blame her; a minute ago they had not expected to see another sunrise.

“Éomer?” She reached out blindly for him. When he took her hand, she moved into his arms and buried her face against his chest. “Are we safe now?”

“We are,” he reassured her, stroking her hair and feeling light-headed himself. “Aragorn and your father have arrived with reinforcements.” She started to tremble and he held her closer.

His own guard of riders surrounded them now and Elfhelm came up to ask for orders. “What do we do now? Are there more of them?”

Éomer gave a tired wave at the house. “In there.” He hesitated what to do. But their leader still remained to be dealt with. “I’ll show you,“ he said, gently releasing the shaking woman from his arms.

“Let us deal with them,” his Marshal protested at the same time that Lothíriel clutched at him convulsively.

She lifted a face drained of all colour to him. “Do you have to go?”

“Listen to the princess,” Elfhelm seconded his unexpected ally.

When Éomer still hesitated, Aragorn waved him back. “You have done enough. Look after your lady and leave the rest to us. We can manage.”

Next to him, Imrahil nodded. Éomer could feel some of the battle fury drain out of him, leaving him tired and sore. “There are at least ten left, possibly more,” he said.

Aragorn nodded and called for his guards to follow him. Amrothos and Elphir collected their Swan Knights and ran after them while Elfhelm directed some of the Rohirrim to secure the garden behind the house and man the gates. Lothíriel hid her face against his chest again when the ugly sounds of fighting erupted from the house. There would be no quarter given by either side.

Imrahil hesitantly reached out a hand and touched Lothíriel on the arm. “Daughter, are you hurt?”

Not looking up, she took a shaky breath. “I’m fine. Éomer saved me.”

Imrahil brushed across her loose hair and bit his lip. “Lothíriel,” he asked in his gentlest tone, “did they try to…touch…you?”

Involuntarily, Éomer’s arms tightened around her. If they had dared…fresh fury rose within him at the thought.

But Lothíriel shook her head. “Their leader wanted to,” she said haltingly, “but he got interrupted when you started to search the city.”

Éomer closed his eyes in relief. Perhaps his efforts had not been completely in vain. “I will look after you from now on,” he promised. And he would have the rest of his life to do so.

He locked eyes with Imrahil for a moment. The other man opened his mouth as if to utter a protest, but after a look at Lothíriel clinging to Éomer closed it again and gave a grudging nod. It seemed they were still allies for the time being.

Éomer slipped one hand under Lothíriel’s chin and lifted up her face. Then he brushed back her hair along one temple to confirm something he had noticed earlier on, but had been too busy to deal with. As he had thought a nasty bruise met his eyes and he drew in his breath in a hiss. “He hit you!”

Lothíriel lifted a hand to the slowly purpling skin and winced. “Well, I hit him first,” she said. At their surprised silence she added almost apologetically. “It was the only way I could think of to stop him, so I hit him with a candle stick.” She swallowed. “He got rather annoyed.”

“Oh Lothíriel,” Éomer breathed. “I’m so sorry you were put through all this pain and terror.” He could not help noticing that several of the laces of her tunic were torn and looked to be tied back together inexpertly. The urge to slowly strangle the Southron prince until his face turned purple and his eyes popped swept through him again. At the same time he had to squash the thought how distracting a sight those gaping laces provided.

Lothíriel squeezed his hand. “You came for me, just as I knew you would. That is all that matters.”

His brave little love. Éomer stroked her hair. Tumbling down her back in a cascade of midnight silk, it provided another distraction.

That moment Amrothos came out the house and ran over to them. “Aragorn sent me. He asks you to join him in the cellar, for there is a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” his father asked.

“The leader of the Southrons demands to speak to Éomer. He has taken Hareth for a hostage.”

Lothíriel gasped with dismay. “Oh no! She will be completely helpless. They gave her poppy juice to send her to sleep.”

“I’m coming,” Éomer decided at once.

“Me too,” Lothíriel said.

At his sister’s words, Amrothos silently shook his head. Éomer could guess what sounds and smells would meet them inside the house. Gently he disengaged Lothíriel’s hands. “Let me deal with this.”

“But he wants to kill you! His father was the King of Harad that your uncle Théoden killed on the Pelennor fields and now he wants revenge.”

Éomer stared at her, several things becoming clear to him. So that was why the man had wanted to face him in single combat. One more reason to make her stay in the courtyard, out of harm’s way. He briefly squeezed her hands. “I want you to remain here with your father. Please.”

After a moment she unclenched her fingers from his own with a visible effort and took a step back. “Be careful,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry.” He beckoned to Elfhelm. “Guard the princess with your life.” The Marshal nodded and Imrahil slipped an arm around her shoulder.

Inside the house the expected evidence of carnage met him. It looked like the Southrons had chosen to make a last stand in the room where he had found Lothíriel. Over by the window one of the healers they had brought with them was bandaging the arm of a Guard of the Citadel. Several bodies lay sprawled ungraciously on the floor, but to his relief they were all those of enemies. The air smelled of freshly spilled blood and guts, but the smells of death had long ago ceased to bother him. He had always considered that a doubtful accomplishment.

Amrothos led him to the trapdoor in the floor that he had noticed earlier on. A steep stair led down into a cellar, where a long corridor stretched away into darkness.

“We found several cells down here,” the prince explained. “One was empty, but the Southron got into the one where Hareth was held. We also found the missing healer.” His voice sounded grim.

“Is he alive?”

“Barely. Apparently the Southrons used him for their amusement.”

Éomer needed no further explanations. So this was where they had kept Lothíriel prisoner? But how had she managed to escape? Fleetingly he caught a glimpse of a door hanging broken on one hinge, guarding the entrance to a sparsely furnished cell, but then the men clustering at the entrance to another room claimed his attention.

Aragorn turned to him. “He’s the last one left alive, but has taken a hostage. The man refuses to negotiate with anybody else.”

A quick look inside the cell revealed the man who had named himself Muzgâsh. He held a wicked looking black blade to Hareth’s throat. Her head lolled to one side, her grey hair partly undone and she was fast asleep.

Furious black eyes met his own. “One cut and the woman is dead, King of Rohan.”

Éomer let his glance wander around the bare cell, the only furniture a small table and a bed. The air brushed chilly against his face. They had kept Lothíriel down here, helpless and frightened? And the man had tried to assault her?

He gave the Southron a savage smile. “I have a suggestion for you, Prince of Harad.”

The Circle of Death

Death Dealer, Life Preserver.
Foe Defeater, Battle Friend.

(Inscription on Guthwinë)

The chain mail lay cold and hard under Lothíriel’s fingers, so unlike the warm body beneath it. She let her hands trail over the small, interconnected rings, searching for weaknesses and hoping desperately not to find any. It was Oswyn’s job to keep the mail oiled and in good repair and surely Éomer would have checked on his squire’s work, too. But how little protection against a sharp blade!

So the Harad Prince had got what he wanted after all, single combat with his enemy. She bit her lip. Oh, King Elessar and Elfhelm had tried to dissuade Éomer, but to no avail. Lothíriel could have told them to spare their breath, for she had heard the steel in his voice when he had ordered his men to clear the courtyard. Anyway, he had given his word. The promise of the King of Rohan to fight to the death exchanged against the life of a humble maid. She could not help trembling, pride and fear filling her in equal measure.

A warm hand enfolded her own, stilling her search. “Don’t worry, dear heart.” Éomer lowered his voice. “I’m sorry you have to witness the fight, but it’s something I have to do.”

“I know,” she breathed, “but I’m so terribly afraid of losing you when I have only just found you!”

“Have confidence.” He pulled her tight against him. “I want to finish this here and now so the man will never again be able to threaten you.”

Lothíriel slipped her arms around Éomer’s neck and pressed herself against him, not caring that they stood in the courtyard in plain sight of everybody. Propriety had ceased to matter long ago. “I wish I could kill him myself!”

He was surprised into a laugh. “My fierce little love,” he whispered, tracing the line of her eyebrows, then slipping his hands round to gently cup her cheeks. “Will you grant me a kiss?”

In answer she stood on tiptoe and lifted up her face to him. Warm lips met her own and she let herself drown in the sensation of his strong body holding her safe, the mingled scent of leather, horse and sweat filling her senses. Loved and cherished. Lacing her fingers in his hair, she forgot the present for a moment and gave a deep sigh of contentment. Éomer. How she needed him. He let his fingers slip down her back, lazily tracing the line of her spine and sudden heat rose within her, bringing a blush to her cheeks and shortening her breath.

“She kisses well, doesn’t she!” somebody called.

Éomer’s head whipped round, muscles turning hard as stone beneath her hands. “You!”

“Shall we have her as the prize for the winner?” Muzgâsh jeered.

Éomer’s hold on her tightened, the tension running through him palpable. “I will make you regret those words!”

“Éomer!” she pleaded. “He is only trying to bait you.” How well Muzgâsh had taken his opponent’s measure! It frightened her.

“Your temper is legendary by now,” Elfhelm agreed next to her. “Don’t let him manage to provoke you.” Lothíriel jumped a little, for she had not realized the Marshal stood so close.

“Well, he’s succeeding,” Éomer growled.

“Nothing like a willing woman in your arms, is there!”

Her own temper rose at the taunting note in Muzgâsh’s voice. How she ached to take a sword to him herself. “If you are as lousy at fighting as you are at kissing,” she called loudly, “you won’t last a minute against Éomer.” Some of the men laughed.

There came the hiss of indrawn breath. “Just you wait. Ere the night has fallen his blood will drench these cobbles.”

“You will be the one killed tonight, for Éomer is ten times the man you are.” She raised her voice. “In every respect!” Then she reached up to pull Éomer’s head down to her and gave him the best kiss she knew how to manage. She could feel him suppress a chuckle, but he wasn’t slow in responding and soon the wild beating of her heart drowned out any answer the Southron might have made.

When they broke off the kiss she leaned her head against his chest. What more could she say? Be careful? The man is dangerous? All she wanted that moment was to be far away from this place of death, getting on with their shared life in peace.

“Just kill him,” she whispered at last.

“I intend to.” His voice sounded grim but collected again. He sighed. “Lothíriel, it is time.”

Letting go of him and taking a step back was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. “Where is your helmet?”

“I have it, my lady,” Elfhelm said next to her.

She held out her hands and the Marshal handed it over. The white horsetail helmet that she had heard so much about. Heavy and cold. She lifted it up and with Éomer’s gentle guidance fitted it over his head. “May this keep you safe and make you prevail against your enemies,” she spoke the traditional words.

He picked up her right hand and brushed a fleeting kiss across it. “I will, dear heart.” Then he withdrew his fingers and she had to reach out blindly to clutch at something to stop herself from snatching after them. Somebody offered an arm to her and she took it gratefully.

“Elfhelm,” he addressed his Marshal standing on her other side. Already his voice sounded different, remote and full of purpose. Cold.

“Éomer King?”

“I’m charging you with looking after the princess. Keep her safe under all circumstances. If anything happens to me…” Without volition, Lothíriel’s fingers dug into the arm proffered to her and it took a conscious effort to relax them.

Elfhelm seemed to understand Éomer’s meaning without any further words. “He won’t leave this place alive.”

“Good.”

She heard him step away and it was all she could do to keep herself from running after him.

“Please, my lady, don’t worry,” a deep voice said and somebody patted her hand reassuringly. “He is one of the greatest warriors of Middle Earth.”

King Elessar. Lothíriel hastily loosened her grip. She had not realized it was the King of Gondor’s arm she had mangled. “I know.”

“Moreover he fights better when enraged. And believe me, he is very angry, although he controls it well.”

Lothíriel could only manage a mute nod. A familiar feeling filled her. How often had her father and brothers ridden out to war, leaving her behind. All that remained for her to do now was to hope.

That Éomer was good at killing.

The torches held by his men flickered in the evening breeze, but the sky still reflected enough light from the dying sun that it did not matter. Above them, delicate streamers of cloud turned orange and pink and swallows chased insects across the deepening gloom. The scent of lilac and roses drifted over from the garden behind the house. A beautiful evening.

One of them would not live to see the first stars blossoming in the sky. Éomer had found before that the closeness of death sharpened his senses almost painfully. Now he forced his concentration to narrow to the circle traced out in smudged ash on the cobbles and lined by his men. He allowed himself a last glance over to the side, where Aragorn stood holding Lothíriel’s arm, having pulled her back a little. Elfhelm had positioned himself on her other side and her father and brothers clustered behind her protectively. He did not think she was conscious of any of them, though.

Then his opponent stepped forward and Éomer let the awareness of all else slip from his mind. Like himself, the man wore a hauberk of chain mail reaching to mid-thigh and had decided to dispense with a shield. Slowly Éomer unsheathed Guthwinë and the Southron followed suit. Briefly the tips of their swords met in a salute.

“To the death,” Éomer said.

“To the death.”

He started circling to the right, Muzgâsh doing the same as if they partnered each other in a well rehearsed dance. A dance of death. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the other man’s smooth movements: the way he held his scimitar, how he placed his feet. But above all the face behind the twin slits of Muzgâsh’s visor, for he had found that the eyes would give him warning of any attack a split second before the body moved.

There! A slash aimed at his left side, easily parried. Éomer followed it up with a couple of strokes, but did not close with his opponent, for this was only the beginning. They were still feeling each other out. He wondered how the gently curved scimitar would compare to his own sword, forged long and straight as was customary in the West. A powerful slashing weapon, he thought, flexible and sharp, but it did not have the long handgrip needed for fighting two-handed like his own Guthwinë. As they started circling each other again he also noted the man’s unusual reach, equal to Éomer’s own due to his large size, and the heavy muscles. Muzgâsh returned the scrutiny, his black eyes glinting with determination. Surely he knew he would not leave this place alive, no matter the outcome of their fight. A man with nothing left to lose and thus doubly dangerous.

It was time to take the initiative. Éomer shifted his grip on his sword and feinted to the right, then changed direction mid-stroke and aimed a heavy blow at his opponent’s head. Blocked effortlessly, but then he had expected as much. The blades grated against each other with an agonizing screech until he freed Guthwinë with a flick of his wrist, twisting it so as to stab at Muzgâsh’s neck. Blocked again. Suddenly he had to jump back to avoid the countering blow, targeted low and delivered with shattering power and amazing speed. Catching it on the cross guard of his sword, he turned with the force of it and suddenly found himself face to face with the Southron. For a heartbeat they strained against each other, neither one able to gain the advantage, then they simultaneously took a step back.

Muzgâsh started to circle again. “Not bad, horse king. It looks like we’re evenly matched.” When Éomer did not answer he grinned. “Perhaps we share more than just our taste in women.”

Keep your temper! Éomer told himself when the familiar rage threatened to rise within him, urging him to strike at the Southron no matter the risk. “Save your breath for fighting,” he snapped.

Muzgâsh ignored him. “Tell me, do you find that Lothíriel’s blindness adds to her appeal?” he whispered. “It makes her so delightfully helpless and vulnerable, don’t you think.”

He had to leap back at Éomer’s two-handed attack, but he laughed as he parried the strikes raining down on him and then suddenly pivoted to the side. Éomer’s momentum carried him past, leaving his side open. Fool! He dropped into a roll, barely evading the strike he knew to be coming at his unprotected back, and feeling the draught of Muzgâsh’s scimitar across his neck as it sliced through part of the horsetail on his helmet. The men standing around the circle cried out. Coming out of his roll, he only just managed to raise Guthwinë to block the blow that would have ended it all. Oh, but the man was fast! The impact of the stroke travelled down his arm with numbing force.

But when Muzgâsh raised his sword to strike again, Éomer lashed out at his knees in a desperate move, forcing him a step back and giving Éomer the time to scramble back to his feet. Once again they circled each other, both of them breathing hard now. Éomer caught a glimpse of Lothíriel’s face, white as chalk, and cursed himself for letting his temper betray him.

Muzgâsh followed his glance. “Such soft skin she has,” he purred.

Éomer’s hand twitched, but he knew better than to fall for the same trick again. Although… He gave a menacing growl. “You will pay for your words.”

Muzgâsh grinned, his black eyes glittering in triumph at getting another rise out of him. “I like her hair loose like that, don’t you?”

Holding Guthwinë with both hands Éomer attacked, just as expected. But although he put his full fury into the strikes, his head was clear. This time he would harness his temper to his will instead of letting it lead him astray. Sweat ran down his temples as he drove his opponent before him with a series of shattering blows. Muzgâsh managed to deflect his blade every time, but the effort told and he had to cede precious ground. No more jibes now, Éomer thought grimly.

Then from one moment to the next he changed the rhythm of his blows, striking fast and aiming low instead of high. Muzgâsh’s response came just a heartbeat too slow and Guthwinë opened a thin red line across the Southron’s left thigh. First blood. Not a disabling wound, but it might slow the man down just that little bit, which could make the difference between living and dying. Mercilessly he aimed his next thrust at the man’s left side, forcing him to put his weight on the injured leg, hoping for the gash to open further. Muzgâsh’s trousers were slowly starting to turn scarlet.

By now both of them were breathing in big, heaving gasps, but Éomer did not dare let up his attack lest he lose his advantage. Calling up all his reserves, he struck at his opponent’s weak side again and again. While the mail and padded tunic underneath it would cushion the force of the impact, a direct blow could still break a bone. In fact a lesser fighter would have long ago crumbled under the sheer force of Éomer’s onslaught, but Muzgâsh still held out.

Then from one instant to the next he suddenly dropped out from under one of Éomer’s strokes. What? Muzgâsh leaped back, then turned and ran to the edge of the circle. When Éomer followed him, he aimed a wicked underhand slash at him. Caught off balance, Éomer just let it slide off his sword, unable to counter effectively. That moment the Southron pivoted and snatched a burning torch from one of the Rohirrim lining the circle. Turning round he thrust it in Éomer’s face.

Fire exploded across his vision. Éomer jumped backward. He could not see! Around him he heard his men’s angry shouts and he raised his arm to ward off the blow that he knew was heading his way. Searing pain blossomed along his left arm, but he managed to deflect the Southron’s blade. With eyes still streaming and blind, he lashed out desperately and heard Muzgâsh laugh.

“Die, King of Rohan and join my father!”

The voice came from off to his right! Gripping the hilt with both hands,Éomer raised his sword and put all he had into a last strike. There would be no next one the way it left his side wide open to counterattack. Time seemed to stretch as Guthwinë fell.

Then it bit. Bone crunched and the smell of fresh blood filled the air. Muzgâsh cried out with a horrible choked-off sound. Blinking his eyes to clear his vision, Éomer could make out the shape of the man crumbling to the ground, his scimitar falling with a metallic clatter. Somehow Éomer’s blade had found the unprotected spot between hauberk and helmet. With a heave, Éomer pulled his sword from the man’s shoulder and more blood spurted out, staining the cobbles a deep red.

Éomer took a step back. Alive! When really, he should be dead… His eyes still smarted, spots dancing across his vision. That moment Muzgâsh lifted his head and reached for something at his side.

“It’s not over yet,” he whispered, red foam bubbling from his mouth.

With a superhuman effort he lurched after Éomer, striking out at his leg. But instinctively Éomer jumped back and the Southron’s dagger only cut his trouser leg and then glanced off his boot harmlessly. Broken, the wicked black blade fell to the ground. A moment later Muzgâsh slumped and did not move again. Yet when Éomer looked more closely he saw that the Southron had died with a smile on his face. He frowned in puzzlement.

Never mind. It was over. Éomer removed his helmet and took a deep, heaving breath. Then another. And another. The air tasted as sweet as never before. Above him to the east the first star blinked in the deepening sky. He was alive, Muzgâsh dead. Nothing else mattered.

Belatedly he became aware of his men surrounding him, clapping him on his back, cheering wildly. Oswyn took his helmet and sword from him.

“Lothíriel?” he asked.

Then she was in his arms somehow, crying and laughing at the same time. “Éomer! Are you all right?”

Without thinking he grabbed her, claiming her mouth in a hungry, desperate kiss. Oh, but it was good to be alive! How soft were her lips, how sweet did she taste. Desire ran through him like a tide of liquid fire as he buried one hand in her loose hair, pulling her close against him. He wanted her. Startled, she clutched at him in alarm, but then she threw her arms around his neck with a sob and responded with equal passion. Heat flared between them.

“Éomer! What do you think you’re doing!” Imrahil protested behind her.

Recalled to the present, he let go of Lothíriel abruptly. She swayed and reached out for his arm for support. At once, he steadied her. “I’m sorry,” he said, flushing with guilt. “Forgive me!“ How could he crush her so roughly after what she’d just been through.

Lothíriel blushed violently and ducked her head. But then she suddenly froze. “Éomer!“ she exclaimed, lifting one hand. “You are hurt!”

He looked down in surprise, for he had forgotten all about Muzgâsh’s last blow. Blood smeared her fingers where she had gripped his left arm. Gingerly he inspected the damage. The long sleeve of his mail shirt had absorbed most of the impact except along the lower arm, which was only protected by a gauntlet made from boiled leather. Here the Southron’s scimitar had cut a long shallow groove that was bleeding sluggishly.

“Nothing serious,” he decided. “It can wait, the blood is already clotting.”

Elfhelm uttered a protest. “Please, Éomer King, let one of the healers have a look at it.”

“Nonsense…”

But Lothíriel had already turned to the Marshal. “Is one of them here? Can you fetch him?”

“Yes, my lady. I will get him at once.”

The healer, a taciturn elderly man, was already hovering at the edge of the crowd. He took one look at the wound and decided it had to be stitched.

“Stitched?” Éomer exclaimed. “Nonsense, that will heal nicely of its own if let alone.” Why, he’d had much worse injuries in his days as Third Marshal and gone on fighting.

The healer gave him a sour look. “My Lord King, you know how to deal wounds, but I know how to heal them.”

“Please Éomer,” Lothíriel said. “Let him treat you.” Blind eyes looked up at him pleadingly.

“Listen to Princess Lothíriel,” Elfhelm added his bit.

Why did he get the feeling that would not be the last time he heard those words? He sighed. “Oh, very well.”

A radiant smile rewarded him. “I’m sure it won’t hurt too much,” Lothíriel assured him. “If you want me to, I will hold your hand.”

The generous offer left him speechless.

Serpent Tooth

Many years ago there lived in the deserts of the far South a giant Serpent. By day he slept in his cave and by night he went hunting, but at the dark of the moon he would shed his skin and be a man for one night. It happened one day that a maiden lost her way in the desert and the Serpent found her and took her to wife. Out of this coupling was born a son, Ulwarth, who made himself King of the Haradrim. And ever since the brood of the Serpent has held ill intentions towards Gondor and harried her.

(Telemnar: Ancient tales of Harad)

The fingers tightened on her own and Lothíriel could hear Éomer take a sharp breath.

“Almost finished, my lord,” the healer said.

“Just get on with it.”

Lothíriel felt her gorge rise at the thought of a sharp needle piercing Éomer’s flesh, but she suppressed the feeling. Being sick all over him would most definitely not help.

“Are you all right?” Éomer asked.

She attempted a smile, but got the impression she didn’t really succeed. “Just feeling a little faint.”

“Hurry up!” he told the healer.

The man only grunted in answer, but soon pronounced his work to be finished. “Be careful not to strain the arm,” he said, “and come and see me at the Houses of Healing tomorrow so I can renew the bandage.”

Lothíriel nodded. She would make sure.

“Yes, yes,” Éomer agreed impatiently. He squeezed her hand. “Lothíriel, would you like to sit down?”

Just then a breeze sprang up, bringing with it the smell of freshly spilt blood. For once Lothíriel was grateful for being blind, as the courtyard probably looked like a slaughterhouse. Nausea rose within her. “Do you think we could move away a little?”

“Of course!” He hesitated. “I think there is a garden round the side of the house, let’s go there. Just a moment.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly feeling light-headed, she leant into him. Bare skin met her touch, firm and warm. A lot of bare skin she realized after a startled instant and recoiled in confusion.

He steadied her. “I’m sorry! I was just going to say that I have to put my shirt back on first.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks heated up and she hoped devoutly that her father had not seen her snuggle against Éomer’s naked chest. Where was he anyway? “Have you seen my father?” she asked.

“Fortunately no.” A trace of laughter swung in Éomer’s voice. No doubt the course of her thoughts was easy to guess. “I believe Aragorn has taken him off to organize the transport of the wounded to the Houses of Healing.” He settled her hand on his arm, properly clothed now. “Let me show you the way to the garden.”

Lothíriel stumbled a little on the rough cobbles and could not help hissing in pain when she stubbed her toe on a stone.

“Your feet!” he exclaimed. “I’d forgotten!”

A heartbeat later she found herself gathered up in his strong arms. “Éomer, your wound!” she protested.

He was already crossing the courtyard with large strides. “Never mind that. You weigh next to nothing anyway. Doesn’t that father of yours feed you properly?”

A laugh escaped her. “He does, but I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”

“What?” he stopped abruptly. “No wonder you feel faint.” He turned round with her still in his arms. “Oswyn!”

Running steps announced his squire’s arrival. “You called for me, my lord?”

“Get Princess Lothíriel something to eat at once. Bread would be best.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lothíriel tugged at Éomer’s shirt. “And some water please.”

“And water!” he called after the squire. Then he continued on his way to the garden. “After all I would not want my bride-to-be to expire on me,” he whispered in her ear.

His bride-to-be. She hid her face against his chest as suddenly the realization of how close she had come to losing him crashed down on her like a giant wave, robbing her of her breath and crushing her under its weight.

“Lothíriel? Have I said something wrong?”

Unable to still the trembling threatening to overwhelm her, she just shook her head and clutched at his shoulders. “It’s me. I’m sorry.”

He sat down and pulled her into his lap. “You know, Lothíriel, you don’t have to be brave all the time.“ Enfolding her gently in his arms, he added. “Not when you’re with me.”

“Oh, Éomer!” Suddenly the memory of all the terror of the past day swept through her. Her throat tightened.

He cradled her head against his chest. “You’re safe now.”

Safe. At his words Lothíriel could no longer withhold the tears she had been bottling up for so long – they spilled out with big, raking sobs. Éomer just held her patiently, stroking her back and murmuring endearments. After a while her shaking lessened and she slowly regained some semblance of control, but for a long time she just leant against him, letting her tears wash away her fear. It was over.

“I was simply terrified,” she whispered at last. Suddenly it burst out of her. “Oh Éomer, I thought he had killed you! There at the end…” She remembered how everybody had shouted in alarm and started to shake again.

He squeezed her shoulder. “If only I’d taken better care of you! I’m so sorry you got caught up in this whole horrible revenge business. What a coward to try and get at me through you.”

Lothíriel could almost feel the man’s wet mouth on hers, his hands groping her. She shuddered. “He wanted to take me with him and marry me! You see, before I lost my eyesight in that accident, Denethor had promised me to a Prince of Harad.”

“To Muzgâsh?”

She nodded and Éomer cursed in Rohirric. “If your uncle weren’t dead already…” He took a deep breath. “Never mind. I promise that from now on I will look after you.” He dropped a light kiss on her forehead. “Are you feeling better now?”

Lothíriel wiped her sleeve across her eyes. What a mess she must look, she didn’t even have a handkerchief! But surprisingly enough, she did feel a lot better, if still exhausted and worn out. “Nothing like a good cry to cheer you up,” she said with a shaky smile. “I’m sorry; I’m not usually so tearful. Will your men think me dreadfully weak?”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “Lothíriel, the Rohirrim know courage when they encounter it.”

Courage? “I’m not brave,” she disagreed. Nevertheless, his words filled her with a warm glow.

“Let me be the judge of that. You kept your head and sent me a warning, you stood up to that horrible man and fought back. If that’s not courage, what is?”

She had not looked at it like that. “I suppose so. But I just did what I had to.”

“There you go.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Do you know, I could get used to seeing you wearing your hair loose like this.”

“Oh!” Self-consciously, Lothíriel raised a hand, but then let it drop again. “I suppose I ought to try and braid it. It’s not very seemly.”

“No?” he asked, running his fingers through her hair. “But it’s lovely and thick…”

A flutter of excitement arose at the bottom of Lothíriel’s stomach. Would he kiss her again? She would have liked him to, but what would her father say? And they were probably surrounded by his guards. Although it was really a bit late to start worrying about propriety now.

But he sighed. “I’m sorry, for you must be tired. And moreover I stink of sweat and blood.”

“As if that would matter to me!”

He laughed and touched her briefly on the cheek. “Well, it matters to me, for you deserve better. Tell me, would you like something to eat and drink now? And I want to have a look at your feet.”

Lothíriel nodded and he shifted her onto the bench. When he got up, she suddenly heard him stumble. “Éomer?”

“It’s nothing,” he reassured her. “I think my leg has gone to sleep while sitting down.”

He passed her a cup and when she lifted it to her lips, she found it filled with cold water. “Oh, that tastes wonderful!”

Éomer had started to roll up the legs of her trousers and now uttered a short order in Rohirric. Somebody went running off. “Poor you, didn’t your captors give you anything to drink?”

She set down the cup carefully. “They gave me some wine, but I realized it was laced with poppy syrup, so I didn’t drink it.”

“Is that how you escaped?” He closed her hand on a roll. “Here, have something to eat.”

Careful to take small bites so as not to upset her stomach, she nodded. “I played asleep and when the guards left my cell unlocked, I slipped out.” She smiled in remembered satisfaction. “And then I locked them up.”

“Serves them right!” He snorted with amusement, but then his voice turned cold. “They will never threaten another woman, we killed all of them.”

Lothíriel shivered, but could not find it in herself to feel sorry for the Southrons, for they would have shown her no mercy. Just then crunching gravel told her someone was approaching.

“Ah, here comes Oswyn with the water to clean your feet,” Éomer said. “Hand it to me,” he told the squire.

“You can’t wash my feet,” she protested, her mouth full of more of the delicious bread.

“Why not?”

“You’re the King of Rohan!”

Sure hands picked up one of her legs. “Exactly. Which means that I may do as I please. Hold still.”

What could she answer to that? So she just leant back with a contented sigh while he washed off the grime and cleaned the small cuts and scratches. How strange to think that the hands that touched her so gently were the same ones that had just dealt death to the Southrons! Somewhere in the garden a frog croaked hoarsely and crickets chirped in the grass, welcoming the night. Slowly a fragile peace began to creep back into her soul. How wonderful to feel the open sky above her and to have the evening breeze bringing the homely smells of cooking. Safe.

“There you are,” Éomer said, suddenly sounding tired. “Just let your feet dry for now and later the healer at the camp can put some ointment on.”

“At the camp?”

Slowly he rolled down her trouser legs again. “Lothíriel, I want you to stay in our camp tonight, for I would not feel easy else. You can have Éowyn’s tent,” he added.

Lothíriel hesitated. She did not want to be parted from him again either, not after nearly losing him. “I would like to,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure my father will let me.”

“Well, here he comes. Just let me handle things.” Getting up, he leaned on the bench so heavily that it shook. At the weariness in his voice, Lothíriel felt a brief flicker of unease, but then her father arrived.

“Lothíriel?” Her father took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Distracted, she smiled up at him. “Much better.”

“I’ve found your cloak.” He draped it round her shoulders. “And the wounded have been taken care of, so we’re ready to leave now.”

“Were many of the men injured?” Lothíriel asked, feeling guilty for not enquiring earlier. Her ordeal might be over, but for others the suffering had only just begun.

“We were lucky to outnumber the Southrons like we did,” her father reassured her. “A fair number of bad cuts, some head wounds and two broken arms, but no casualties.” He touched her on the arm. “Lothíriel, I would like to get you out of here now. Let me carry you to the horses.”

She extended a hand to Éomer, who took his cue at once. “Imrahil,” he said, “I was just suggesting to Lothíriel that it might be safer if she spent the night in my camp. Of course you are welcome to stay, too.”

Strained silence ensued. “Éomer, I truly appreciate what you did for my daughter today,” her father replied, “but I assure you I am perfectly capable of insuring her safety.”

“We do not know if any of Muzgâsh’s men managed to escape,” Éomer reminded him. How tired he sounded!

“I will take the necessary precautions.”

“That’s all very well,” Éomer snapped suddenly, “ but the Southrons managed to take her out from under your very nose!” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Forgive me, I’m tired and exhausted and not feeling very diplomatic.”

Lothíriel bit her lip. Why had he said that? Now her father might well be too offended to agree. “Perhaps Amrothos could come along as well?” she suggested diffidently. “Please? It would make me feel so much safer…”

After a moment her father sighed. “Lothíriel, how could I deny you anything today of all days? Very well. But for one night only and then we’ll have to see.”

“Thank you!” she exclaimed.

“Thank you,” Éomer echoed her. “And my apologies for what I just said.”

“My friend, are you feeling all right?” her father asked. “You look pale.”

Alarmed, Lothíriel sat up straighter. “Éomer?”

He squeezed her hand. “Dear heart, please don’t worry. It’s nothing but the strain from the fight.” Yet his voice sounded hesitant. “I’ll just sit down for an instant and will be feeling better in no time.” The bench shuddered under his weight when he sat down.

Lothíriel twisted round to face him and groped for his hand. “Are you hurting?”

“Oh no, not at all.” He stroked her hand in reassurance, but then hesitated. “Imrahil, would you mind having a look at my left leg? It feels … strange.”

“Your leg?” Lothíriel could not quite keep the rising panic out of her voice. “I thought Muzgâsh wounded you on the arm?”

“Well, he tried to stab me with a dagger on my foot, but I jumped back and he missed.”

“Not quite,” her father contradicted, all of a sudden sounding grim. “The skin is hardly broken, but there is a slight scratch on your shin here.”

None of them said anything for a moment. Her father cleared his throat. “Éomer, can you feel me touching your leg?”

“No.”

Lothíriel jumped up. “Where?”

“Lothíriel, your feet will get dirty again,” Éomer protested, but she waved him to silence.

“Oh never mind! Where?”

Her father guided her hands to Éomer’s leg and kneeling down she followed the cut in his trousers up to where it met bare skin. The scratch the dagger had left was so shallow she could hardly discern it. Letting her fingers rest on his leg, she frowned. “Your skin feels cold to the touch.”

“Let me get a healer,” Imrahil said. His footsteps receded quickly.

Lothíriel slumped against Éomer and wordlessly he stroked her back. Around them, she could hear his guards talking amongst each other in worried voices. Please, she thought, it cannot be… She dared not finish the thought. Could Muzgâsh strike at them from out of the grave?

It seemed to her that an eternity passed before the healer arrived. He knelt down beside her. “My lady, may I have a look?”

When Lothíriel got up to make room, her father put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “Don’t worry, daughter. Aragorn is here as well and you know how renowned he is as a healer.” She could only manage a jerky nod while she listened to the two discussing the injury in low voices. Please, oh please!

“Éomer, did you see the dagger the Harad Prince used?” King Elessar asked.

“Only briefly.” Éomer spoke slowly, as if just forming the words exhausted him. “The blade broke.”

Lothíriel shook off her father’s arm and groped her way to the bench to kneel down next to Éomer and slip her arms around him. With a grateful sigh he leaned against her shoulder. “A strange colour,” he added. “Black. Not made of steel, I think. Something else.”

King Elessar cursed under his breath. “A Serpent Tooth!”

“What is a Serpent Tooth?” her father asked.

“I have read of them,” King Elessar explained. “The Harad royalty carry them as a sign of their descent from the fabled Black Serpent.”

Lothíriel swallowed. “Could it have been…poisoned?” Somehow voicing her fears made them seem real all of a sudden.

“I am afraid so.”

Silence. Éomer’s weight pressed heavy against her and his breathing sounded laboured. “Can you do something?” she asked in a whisper. Please!

“I will have to see,” King Elessar said slowly and Lothíriel got the distinct feeling he was trying not to alarm her. Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. “I have to find that blade first!” He grabbed her arm. “Listen Lothíriel, you have to keep him awake, don’t let him fall asleep.”

For the second time that day, Lothíriel found herself clutching at the King of Gondor. “But how?”

“I don’t care. Talk to him, do something. But if you love him, you must not let him slip away from you. Will you do that?”

Lothíriel nodded. Then he was gone, leaving her in the centre of a circle of worried Rohirrim. “Éomer, did you hear?” she asked.

“Hmm.”

He already sounded half asleep, Lothíriel thought with rising panic. Twisting round, she tried to shake him, but she might as well have tried to move a mountain. What to do now? Talk to him!

She moistened her lips. “Éomer! Why don’t you tell me about Rohan?”

“Rohan?”

“Yes! You want me to come to Rohan with you, don’t you? What does Edoras look like?” She was babbling!

“Beautiful,” he said slowly, his voice slurred. “On hill. Beautiful.”

“And the Golden Hall? What does Meduseld look like?”

“Big.” It hurt her to hear how much effort that simple word cost him. “Sorry,” he sighed. “Tired.”

“I know you’re tired, but you mustn’t fall asleep!”

“Princess, his eyes are closing!” somebody exclaimed. Oswyn.

“Éomer! Don’t leave me!” A sob escaped her.

This seemed to rouse him slightly. “Not worry,” he murmured. “Just sleepy.”

“No!” She groped around desperately for something to keep him awake. “Éomer, I’m telling you, if you fall asleep now I will marry someone else!”

He seemed to straighten up slightly. “No.” But then he slumped against her again. “… won’t let you.”

“I will! A Harad Prince!”

“Cruel,” he said. “….not love me.”

At the hurt in his fading voice she felt as if her heart was being hacked into little pieces. “Oh Éomer, of course I love you! But you must not sleep! Fight!” A tear ran down her cheek. Where was King Elessar!

“So cold,” he sighed.

His head lay heavy on her shoulder and it took all her strength to lift his face between her hands. “Look at me!” she ordered him. “Open your eyes!”

He muttered something unintelligible. Somebody grabbed her arm. “Princess, he’s falling asleep. Please do something!” Oswyn again, sounding as panicky as she felt herself. But what could she do! Éomer’s cheeks felt cold and clammy under her fingers, his bright flame flickering and going out. Somehow she had to find a way to fan these last, dying sparks into a burning blaze again.

Desperation howling at the edges of her mind, she pushed his head back. “Éomer!” Some of his hair had fallen across his face and she smoothed it back. Her fingers traced his dear features, the shape of his eyes, his cold lips.

“Don’t you dare leave me!” she whispered. Then she bent forward and kissed him.

Night’s Lady

My own true love, the salty sea,
Whither will you carry me?
North, where giant fishes roam
And under icebergs make their home.
East, where beckon Gondor’s shores,
Here the Ship Kings set their course.
South, where stars and moon seem close
Spices grow and lions doze.
West, where lies a distant land,
Wondrous fair, but we are banned.
My own true love, the salty sea,
Whither will you carry me?

(Sea shanty from Dol Amroth)

***

The music wove through his troubled dreams. Clear notes, soothing him and bringing peace with them. For a long time he just listened. A harp, his mind informed him after a while. And a low voice. A little rough. Tired. He liked the voice. It sang of the sea, and ships, and a beautiful country far across the ocean. He had never seen the sea.

Only a sea of grass, floated across his mind. A limitless expanse of green and gold, with ripples of wind running across it, and merging into the sky. Beautiful. Then the music changed, picking up speed, and his feet twitched. A dance tune. My love has claimed a ribbon from me… He opened his eyes.

A high ceiling, dim shadows chasing across it from the firelight, met his sight. He lay in a bed, covered with blankets. It was not his own room and hot and stuffy as well. The harp was still playing, but the voice had ceased. He frowned, for he wanted it to continue. Slowly he turned his head. It took an effort to do so and he frowned again. Surely turning his head had once been the easiest thing in the world? How weak he felt.

A woman sat in a chair by the side of his bed, her face lowered over her harp. Wearing a simple blue dress and with her black hair caught up in a thick braid, she absentmindedly plucked the strings. At the weariness lining her face he felt his heart contract. She should be laughing and dancing, not sitting in a dark room late at night, worrying. From the recesses of his memory rose the image of her smiling up at him, happy and carefree. Then the last notes of the song faded away and with a tired sigh she leant back in her chair. Silence spread, the hushed stillness of the dark hours just before the coming of the dawn. Somewhere outside an owl called.

He watched her rub her eyes. They seemed black in the muted light, but beautiful even when tired. Unseeing. Suddenly he realized that he knew the silken feel of her skin under his fingers, the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips. Time seemed to contract as memories crashed down on him. A man handing him a letter. Black eyes glittering malevolently in a dark face. A fight. A death.

Éomer gasped. “Lothíriel?”

She jumped up, setting down the harp with a discordant clang. “Éomer?” Her hands found his arm and travelled up it with lightning speed. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, where–”

He never got the chance to finish his question, for Lothíriel grabbed his head and kissed him. At first she only got hold of his cheek, but she quickly corrected her aim. “Oh Éomer!” A sob escaped her. “He said you were on the mend and would wake up soon, but I didn’t believe it.”

“He?”

“Aragorn.”

Tears were streaming down her face and he lifted a hand to brush them away. “You’re crying.”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers shook as she traced them across his face. “You’re awake!”

He frowned. “Lothíriel, where are we? What happened?”

“In the Houses of Healing. Don’t you remember? You were poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” He tried to sit up, but instead sank back into the cushions.

“Be careful, you mustn’t strain yourself!” Lothíriel put one hand on his chest and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You nearly died,” she said, picking up his hand and holding it against her cheek.

He tried to recall what had happened and slowly the memories came crawling back – Muzgâsh, the fight, talking to Lothíriel in the garden. “I remember now. Aragorn came to have a look at my wound.” Yet after that was a complete blank.

Lothíriel nodded. “He realized Muzgâsh’s dagger had been poisoned and he found the antidote…eventually. Do you remember anything else?”

“Nothing at all except suddenly feeling faint,” he admitted. “Poor Lothíriel, did I frighten you?”

She swallowed. “I thought I had lost you! If Aragorn hadn’t been there…”

“I’m sorry.”

“You fought the poison, but even so…” Her voice broke.

“Oh Lothíriel, dear heart!” He slipped his hand round the nape of her neck and pulled her towards him. “Come here.”

It was the right thing to do. She hid her head against his shoulder and with a little whimper snuggled into his arms. “I thought I would never be able to do this again,” she whispered into his shirt.

He stroked her back while sobs shook her, cursing himself for causing her so much anxiety. “I’m not very good at protecting you, am I.” He would do better from now on, he vowed to himself. How good it felt to hold her close.

After a while her crying abated and she sat up again. “One of the healers might come in at any moment. They check on you every hour.” She nodded towards a doorway behind her. “And Amrothos is sleeping next door. My father insisted on it after–“ Lothíriel stopped and it seemed to Éomer that she was blushing. But then she shook her head. “Anyway, he sleeps like a log.” She seized the edge of one of his blankets and wiped her eyes, attempting a smile. “And I never have a handkerchief with me when I need one.”

He stroked her hand. “I will make sure you need not worry about me again. I promise.”

She gave a determined sniff and nodded.

Just then came a soft knock on the door and it opened slowly. Even though Éomer knew they were in the Houses of Healing, he tensed. After his experiences with the Haradrim he would tread warily for a while. However, it was only the healer who had sown up his arm after his duel with Muzgâsh, so he relaxed again. Not that he was in any shape to defend his lady at the moment anyway, he thought with a rueful smile.

“King Éomer,” the man greeted him. “It’s good to see you are awake. I am Healer Daeron. How do you feel?”

Éomer considered the question for a moment. Like he had been trampled by a herd of mûmakil? But he did not want to alarm Lothíriel any further, so he rephrased his answer. “Weak and hungry, but not in any pain.”

“Good.” The healer set down his satchel at the end of the bed. “Are you still feeling cold?”

“Cold? Not in the least!” If anything he was too hot. The fire made the room stuffy and also his many blankets threatened to smother him.

Lothíriel had curled up in her chair again. “The poison made you cold and sleepy. We were afraid you were going to slip away from us.”

Daeron pulled one of the blankets away, but then he hesitated. “Perhaps Princess Lothíriel would like to wait in the other room while I examine you?”

She looked surprised. “Why?”

“My lady!” Clearly the man’s sense of propriety had been offended. “King Éomer wears nothing but a thin linen night robe.”

Lothíriel shrugged. “Oh, I know that. Besides,” she continued triumphantly, “it’s not as if I could see anything.”

“But–” The healer cleared his throat. “My lady, the King of Rohan will have to attend to certain…calls of nature.” Éomer had to suppress a grin when the man threw him a wordless plea asking for support.

“Lothíriel dear heart,” he said, “do you think you could organise something to eat for me? I’m really hungry.”

She raised an eyebrow, but then she got up. “Of course! What would you like?”

“Meat broth,” the healer answered for Éomer. “And a couple of slices of bread. There’s always a servant on duty in the kitchen. She will know what is suitable.”

Lothíriel nodded and groped for her cane, which she had leant against her chair. “I won’t be long.”

Éomer tried to sit up and held out his hand. “Just a moment!” He turned to the healer. “Daeron, is there a guard she could take with her?” He did not like the thought of Lothíriel wandering alone through empty corridors late at night and was determined not to take any more chances with his lady.

The healer snorted, the first sound of amusement Éomer had heard from him. “My Lord King, there are six of your men outside the door to this room and four men guarding the windows. Plus more men watching the main gates and an indeterminate number of riders just scattered around the Houses of Healing. It’s a bit like living in an army camp.”

“And anyway,” Lothíriel said from the door, “Elfhelm insists I always take at least two guards with me.” She grinned. “Your Marshal is worse than my father!” At her words Éomer sank back into the cushion, satisfied to hear that Elfhelm took his charge so seriously.

When the door had closed behind Lothíriel, Healer Daeron gave a sigh of relief. “My Lord King, are you feeling strong enough to be able to get up?” he asked.

Grimly, Éomer nodded. He knew from past experience that the quicker you got back on your feet, the quicker you recuperated. But even with the healer supporting him, he became light-headed just from sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. In fact he could not remember the last time he had felt so weak.

“Ready to get up?” Daeron asked.

“Yes,” Éomer said through gritted teeth.

The healer staggered under his weight, but Éomer managed to heave himself to his feet. Then he had to stop to catch his breath.

Daeron watched him worriedly. “My lord, are you all right? Would you like to sit down again?”

“No.” He would not let some Haradrim poison defeat him.

A little uncertainly, the healer motioned to a door across the room. “There is a bathing room adjacent to this one. Do you think you can make it?”

“Yes.”

He took a step. Then another one. And another one, leaning heavily on Daeron. A pause to catch his breath and to give his legs a chance to stop shaking. Then another step. By the time he reached the other side of the room he felt as if he had ridden across the Riddermark without stopping. But he had made it.

The healer opened the door for him and helped him step across the threshold. How could such a small thing take such a ridiculous amount of effort! The bathing room was tiny, with a wooden tub taking up nearly all the space. In one corner, next to a small chest, stood a stove with a basin of water on it. Éomer eyed the tub dubiously, not sure if he would be able to get in it, let alone out of it.

Daeron followed his glance. “I suggest that for the time being you just have a quick wash.”

At Éomer’s grateful nod, the healer helped him undress. Then he unwrapped the bandage on his left arm. With some surprise Éomer saw that the wound had started to heal already. The arm was still bruised, but no longer hurting.

Daeron inspected his work, careful not to touch it. “Healing nicely and no sign of redness.” He nodded in satisfaction. “I think we can leave it open to the air now.”

Above the drain in the corner a wooden grid lay on the floor, and Daeron helped him stand on it before going to fetch the water. Then he picked up a sponge and started to wash Éomer down with lukewarm water from the stove. It felt odd to have a stranger ministering to him so intimately and involuntarily Éomer’s mind went to Lothíriel. Would she tend to him this way the next time he returned tired and worn from hunting orcs or patrolling the Ered Nimrais? The thought rather appealed to him.

Almost on cue, from the next-door room he heard her voice and a quick peal of laughter, then a man replying whom he recognized as Aragorn. Daeron threw a nervous look at the door as if he expected her to come bursting in any moment and picked up speed. “Almost finished.”

Éomer nodded. How good it felt to have the sweat rinsed off and to have cool air brushing against his skin. Surely his strength would return soon. Daeron handed him a towel to dry himself and a fresh robe and after attending to his other bodily needs, Éomer followed him back into the bedroom. Lothíriel stood by the window, which she had just opened, but when the door creaked she whirled round.

“Éomer! How are you feeling now?”

“A lot better,” he said and it was almost true.

Lothíriel smiled with delight and trailing one hand along the wall, crossed the distance between them. She held out her other hand to him and when he caught it, squeezed his fingers. “You will be back to normal in no time.”

Éomer locked eyes with Aragorn, who sat on the edge of the bed. “Will I? Or will there be long-lasting effects from this poison?” he asked, voicing his secret fear.

Aragorn shook his head. “I don’t think so. You are just very weak, that is all. Eat and you will feel better.” The quiet authority in his voice convinced Éomer that his friend spoke the truth.

Lothíriel waved towards Aragorn with a flourish “The King of Gondor and I have endeavoured to bring you the best the kitchen of the Houses of Healing has to offer.”

Aragorn grinned. “What she means is that she needed somebody to carry the tray for her and I came in handy.”

Healer Daeron seemed slightly scandalized at hearing of his king ordered about like that, but Lothíriel looked unabashed. Dropping Éomer an exaggerated curtsy she held out a hand. “Would you require your evening meal now, my Lord King?”

Warmed to see the lines of care chased from her face by a mischievous smile, he laughed. “My Lady Princess, I would indeed.”

Leaning only very slightly on the healer, he made his way across to the bed with slow, deliberate steps. Daeron made him wait a moment while he changed the sheets with the ease of long practice and then helped him to sit down. With a sigh of relief Éomer leaned back against the cushions.

The healer gave him a curt nod. “I have to continue on my rounds now, but I will look in again later.” His hand on the handle of the door, he paused and shot a look at Lothíriel. “My lady, remember that the King of Rohan needs a lot of rest.”

“Of course,” she replied in her most demure tone and folded her hands in her lap.

Daeron regarded her uncertainly. “Right,” he said.

When the healer left, Éomer caught a glimpse of his riders in the hallway. One of them turned round and his face split into a huge grin when he spotted his king. He elbowed one of his comrades, who also had a look. As the door closed behind Daeron Éomer could hear his guards starting to talk to each other in Rohirric. No doubt the news that he was better would spread quickly now.

Aragorn had picked up a tray from a nearby table and now placed it on the bed. By some ingenious mechanism short legs folded out to support it, so Éomer did not have to balance it on his lap. The smell of meat broth rising from a bowl made his stomach grumble.

Aragorn handed him a spoon. “Here my friend, but take it slowly.”

Éomer nodded and started with a small spoonful. He knew the effect too much food at once could have on an empty stomach. Lothíriel had sat down in her chair again and now put her head to one side, listening attentively to every slurp he made and making him feel rather self-conscious.

“You look gaunt with hunger,” Aragorn commented, handing him some bread to intersperse with the broth.

“Like a wild barbarian from the North?” Éomer asked.

Aragorn laughed, but Lothíriel sat up straighter. “You are not a barbarian!”

Éomer brushed back a strand of tangled hair from his face. “Thank you, my love. It’s a good thing you can’t see me, though. My hair looks as if I’d slept on it for three nights running.”

Aragorn looked at him a bit strangely. “You have,” Lothíriel said.

Éomer let the spoon sink back to the bowl. “What?”

“You were injured three days ago,” she explained. “I’m sorry, I forgot to mention it.”

Three days! No wonder he was so weak. “Have I really been asleep all that time?” he asked in disbelief.

Lothíriel nodded, a shadow passing her face. “Mostly.”

Éomer looked to Aragorn for an explanation. “You were unconscious most of the time,” his friend said, “but sometimes bad dreams troubled you. Nightmares of the war – you probably won’t remember them.”

Appalled that she’d had to witness them, Éomer reached out to clasp Lothíriel’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Don’t be. The only thing that matters is that you’re better now.” Bending forward, she trailed light fingers across his cheek. “I washed your face, but I didn’t think about the hair.” She turned to Aragorn. “Could you get me a comb please?” She appeared to have lost all her shyness with the King of Gondor.

With the air of one well used to being ordered about, he disappeared into the bathing room and emerged a short while later with a comb held triumphantly aloft. Lothíriel accepted it with a word of thanks and then settled herself on the bed next to Éomer. He picked up his spoon and resumed eating. Feeling her clever fingers brushing through his hair, separating small strands and combing them gently, the thought flitted through his mind that getting poisoned had almost been worth it.

When he looked up again he saw Aragorn watching him with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and wondered if his thoughts had been so transparent. He cleared his throat. “Lothíriel said you found the antidote to the Southron’s poison?”

Aragorn nodded. “I thought that the Harad Prince would have had some along, in case he nicked himself on his own knife. We found it in a cleverly disguised compartment in the pommel.” Lothíriel’s hands stilled for a moment in their task, but then continued.

“So I owe you my life,” Éomer said quietly. And life was precious now. “Thank you.”

Aragorn got up from his place on the end of the bed. “We are brothers. There are no debts between us.” He gave a yawn. “I think I will leave you now and seek my own bed.” At the door he turned, a grin on his face. “Just remember what Daeron said, you need your rest.”

Peaceful silence descended, only broken by the birds in the garden starting up their dawn chorus. Lothíriel got up and shifted her position to his other side while he carried on with his meal. The broth finished, he leaned back and closed his eyes, simply revelling in her presence. When the last tangle had been smoothed out, she ran her hands through his hair.

Suddenly not feeling quite so tired anymore, he turned to her, caught her fingers and raised them to his lips. “Thank you.” Then before she could answer, he snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Lothíriel leaned into him, slipping her arms round his neck, her face a finger’s breath away from his. Trembling lashes framed eyes like a clear forest pool and Éomer wanted nothing better than to drown in them. Her lips tasted salty from recent tears, but curved into a smile when he kissed her. Warmth spread through him.

But then she gently disengaged herself. “Please, you mustn’t strain yourself.”

“Kissing you is no strain,” he protested.

She slid her fingers down his throat, to where his pulse beat near the surface. “Éomer! I think you need a rest now.”

He gave a small growl of frustration, but reluctantly let go of her. It was true he was tired and besides the healer might come back any moment. Or worse, her brother might wake up!

She picked up the tray and put it on the floor, then sat down on her chair and felt for her harp. “Let me play for you.” Soon the soft strains of a melody filled the room.

Sleep dear heart, close your eyes
Horses race across the skies.

Éomer smiled when he recognized a Rohirric lullaby. Where had she learnt that?

Black and brown, white and grey
Flowing manes, loud they neigh.

Sliding down on the cushions, Éomer turned on his side so he could watch her.

Their riders call, heed them not
Following them is not your lot.

He remembered their first meeting in Imrahil’s garden and sitting in the embrasure of the wall walk, the sun setting behind Mount Mindolluin. With a simple smile she had taken possession of a piece of his heart forever, although he had not realized it at the time.

You stay safe, by the hearth
With the one who gave you birth.

Did she remember how during their conversation he had asked her to play for him one day? Little had he known the circumstances under which she would redeem her promise.

Sleep, dear heart, close your eyes
Horses race across the skies.

His eyes dropped shut.

Sunlight

Knowing the limitations of her sex, a maiden is well advised to trust her father’s judgement where the selection of a suitable husband is concerned. He will make sure such an important decision is based on the worthiness and eligibility of a suitor and not on some silly fancy, which will pass as quickly as it has arisen.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment)

***

Gruel... Éomer tried to muster up some enthusiasm. It was food after all, nourishing and easy to digest and he’d survived on much worse in the past. He dipped his spoon in the stuff and started eating. Bland and gluey, as expected. But at least he felt stronger this morning and had actually managed to make his way to the bathing room and back on his own. A small victory.

The door opened and he looked up quickly. But it was only one of the servants, coming to gather up the used sheets that Daeron had dumped at the foot of the bed the night before. With a quick curtsy she left the room again. Éomer frowned down at his tray and pushed away his bowl – he’d had enough of the stuff. Then he sighed and had to acknowledge to himself why he felt so out of sorts. Morosely he stared at the empty chair and covered up harp next to his bed. He knew it was selfish of him to want Lothíriel’s company when she was resting after last night’s vigil, but he could not help it.

The door swung open again and a blond head poked in. “Awake at last, brother of mine?”

“Éowyn! What are you doing here?”

His sister grinned and stepped into the room. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and sat down in the vacant chair, dumping a bundle of cloth she had been carrying on the floor.

“Of course I am,” Éomer replied. “But shouldn’t you be in Ithilien with your newly wedded husband?”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t abandoned my husband already. Faramir is in Minas Tirith as well.”

“He’s here as well? Whatever for?”

“Éomer, first we get a message informing us that Lothíriel has been abducted and the next day another one arrives saying you are in the Houses of Healing, injured and fighting for your life. Of course we came!”

“Oh!” He had not considered that possibility before. “Well, I’m sorry to cause you unnecessary worry. They should have known better than to send for you.”

His sister raised an eyebrow. “Aragorn did not think so. In fact since I arrived here two days ago, I’ve been taking turns with Lothíriel watching over you.”

At her words he sat up straighter. “Éowyn, do you know where Lothíriel is? The healer this morning only said that she had retired for a rest.”

She grinned. “Is that why you sound so grumpy?”

“I’m not grumpy!” he protested. But when Éowyn kept looking at him quizzically, he felt a reluctant answering grin rise to his lips. “Well, maybe a little bit,” he conceded.

Éowyn laughed. “The Warden has offered Lothíriel the use of a small room in the healers’ wing to sleep in during the day. No doubt she will be along later in the afternoon to check on you.” When Éomer opened his mouth to ask a question she held up her hand. “And yes, she’s got guards watching her at all times.”

Satisfied, Éomer nodded. “Good! By the way, has a search been organised to make sure none of the Southrons escaped?”

“Aragorn has had the city searched, but no more were found. I know Faramir’s rangers have stepped up their patrols and also Elfhelm will come along later to report on his efforts of scouring the countryside. He wanted to see you this morning, but you were still asleep.”

Good. It looked like the situation was well under control. Éomer picked up his spoon and gave the bowl of gruel an unenthusiastic stir. “Do you think you could get me something decent to eat?”

“Poor brother,” his sister said with entirely false sympathy. “I’m afraid the only way to convince the healers that you’re better is to eat up. Then maybe for the evening meal you might aspire to something edible.”

He groaned but followed her advice. Truth to tell, he was still hungry and any nourishment would help to get his strength back. “I do not intend to lie in bed all day whether the healers want it or not,” he warned her. “And I’m getting tired of being treated as if I were at death’s door.”

Suddenly serious, Éowyn leaned forward. “Éomer, only a little while ago you were at death’s door! Don’t overdo it. Think of what Lothíriel would say if you suffered a relapse.”

“I’ll take it easy,” he promised grudgingly. After all he did not want to cause Lothíriel any more anxiety than she had suffered already. He hesitated. “I don’t remember anything of what happened. Tell me, was it very bad?”

“From what I’ve heard the first night was the worst. We did not arrive until the next day when Aragorn felt your condition had stabilized, but even then...” She looked down and in the bright noon light Éomer saw dark shadows under her eyes.

He took her hand. “I’m sorry to have worried you so much!”

“Just don’t do it again,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “I only have the one brother.”

“I’ll try not to.” Bemused, Éomer pulled up the sheets to have a look at his left leg. The scratch Muzgâsh’s dagger had left on his shin was barely perceptible. “It seems incredible that such a small wound nearly killed me.” In a way he still could not quite believe it, even though his weakness bore witness to his body’s struggle to stay alive.

His sister bent down to have a closer look. “Aragorn said that if the dagger had penetrated any deeper he would have been too late with the anti-venom. The poison had spread throughout your body, which is why it took such a long time to purge.” She looked up at him. “Don’t you remember any of it?”

“Nothing in between feeling faint after the fight and waking up here last night.”

“Nothing?” Suddenly, Éowyn’s eyes seemed to glitter with something that looked suspiciously like laughter.

“No, nothing.”

“Ah well,” his sister pursed her lips in amusement. “In that case you missed the best part of it.”

She was definitely laughing at him! But what did she mean? “Out with it!” he commanded. “What happened?”

“Well, from what I heard you started to feel cold and sleepy.”

Éomer nodded impatiently. He knew that already. “And then?”

“Aragorn guessed the Harad Prince would have an antidote to the poison on him somewhere and went to search the body. But it took a while to find because it was hidden so cunningly and in the meantime Lothíriel had to keep you awake somehow…” Éowyn paused for a moment. “…my sources told me her method was unorthodox but very successful.”

At the expression on her face, Éomer got a hollow feeling in his stomach. “Unorthodox? What did she do?”

“She started to kiss you. So…thoroughly… that you insisted on slipping your hand inside her clothing and asked for more.”

Éomer stared at his sister with dawning horror. “I didn’t! Éowyn, are you serious? And right in front of Imrahil?”

Éowyn could not suppress her laughter anymore. “It must have been quite a sight! Both her brothers were there as well.”

“It’s not funny!” Éomer snapped, appalled by what he had done. Then he groaned. “Her father will never give his consent now.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. After all you have a solemn promise from the lady herself.”

“A promise?”

Éowyn leant back in her chair, obviously enjoying herself. “When Aragorn arrived with the antidote you refused to let go of her and swallow the stuff. She got you to cooperate by promising that you could have more whenever you wanted.” She grinned. “You made Lothíriel swear on her honour.”

Silence. Éomer hid his head in his hands. “What have I done!”

His sister laughed, but then touched him lightly on the arm. “Come on, Éomer, you were not yourself. I’m sure Imrahil realizes that you would never ask anything dishonourable of Lothíriel in your right mind.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure.” Éowyn nodded emphatically.

“But how can I ever face Imrahil again!” Éomer tried to think of words to apologize to Lothíriel’s father for his behaviour, but could not come up with any.

“Éomer, he consented to his daughter staying here and looking after you, so his opinion of you can’t be all that low.”

Well, that was something, a small ray of hope. Éomer picked up his spoon to finish off the remains of his meal, stone cold by now, when suddenly he was struck by another, worse thought. “What will Lothíriel think of me?“ And what had she thought of him when he had wanted to kiss her last night?

His sister took one look at the expression on his face and dissolved into fresh laughter. Éomer glared at her. “You are not helping! This time she has every right to call me a piece of scum.”

She held out a hand. “Please, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure if she objected to your actions she would have said so – loudly – and not spent every waking moment by your bedside.”

“She did?”

Éowyn nodded again. “Believe me, brother of mine, no woman minds being told that the man she loves desires her.” She paused for a pregnant moment. “Although admittedly most men choose a less public place to do so.”

Éomer groaned. How embarrassing for Lothíriel! He would have to apologize to her. No, better still, grovel! “Is the whole court talking about it?”

His sister just shrugged. “I don’t know and if I were you I wouldn’t care. And anyway, it had one good result: your riders are convinced that Lothíriel saved your life. Actually, they worship her! Even Elfhelm has come round.”

Still unhappy, Éomer nodded distractedly. He had the sinking feeling that his visit to Gondor and stormy courtship of the Princess of Dol Amroth would be talked about for a long time to come.

Éowyn bent down to pick up the bundle of cloth she had carried with her. “I thought that you would want to get up and sit in the garden, so I’ve brought you this.” She handed him a pair of soft buckskin trousers and an embroidered tunic.

Éomer looked at them with delight. Just wearing his own clothes would make him feel better and to get some fresh air sounded wonderful. “Éowyn, did I mention I love you?”

***

“Stop wriggling!”

Lothíriel did her best to keep still, so Hareth could do up the laces of her dress. But she felt so excited that Éomer was finally better! “Can’t you hurry up?” she asked.

Her maid snorted with amusement. “You’ll see your horselord soon enough. Don’t you want to look pretty for him?”

“Yes of course.” Lothíriel took a deep breath and told herself to be patient.

Hareth’s deft fingers continued with their task. She had insisted on going back to serving her mistress the day after the kidnapping, pronouncing herself fully recovered from her ordeal and adding dismissively that it would take more than a few Southrons to shake her. Lothíriel wondered how she would like it in Rohan – maybe Éowyn could find her a Rohirric girl as an assistant? Then she shook her head. Here she was already planning her married life when she hadn’t even got engaged yet.

“There,” the maid said, tying off the last laces. “I’m finished.”

Lothíriel whirled round and gave her maid a quick hug. “Thank you!”

Hareth laughed. “He must be a lot better if you’re in such good spirits.”

Humming a tune from Rohan and taking a few dance steps, Lothíriel smiled. “Oh, he is!”

That moment came a knock on the door. “Lothíriel, are you up?” Her father’s voice.

While Hareth crossed the room to open the door, Lothíriel smoothed down her dress and schooled her features. Her father would not approve of her skipping around like a giddy child. And of course staying on his good side was important, for he still had to give his consent to her marrying Éomer. She grinned to herself. Not that he had much choice really.

“Good morning, father,” she said, holding out her hands. “Or is it afternoon already?”

He placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “Actually it is. Did you sleep well?”

“Thank you, I did.” In fact it had been her first truly restful sleep for days. She had dozed off in her chair once she could hear Éomer’s deep, even breathing and only woken up briefly when Amrothos had carried her to her own room at daybreak.

“I’ve been told that Éomer fares better. Is that right?” Imrahil asked.

“Yes it is!” She had to stop herself from taking more dance steps. “He got up last night and had something to eat. Aragorn says he’ll improve rapidly now!”

Her father laughed and stroked her cheek. “It’s good to see you happy again. Shall we go and see him? I have something to discuss with him.”

Lothíriel caught her breath. Could it be that her father had finally come round? “What exactly?” she asked, trying to keep her voice nonchalant.

He took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Well, I still have to thank him for saving you from the Haradrim.”

Her face must have fallen, for he laughed again. “Patience, Lothíriel! You’ll find out soon enough.” He led her out the door, where her Rohirric guards greeted her with cheerful voices before falling into step beside them.

A long, echoing corridor led from the healers’ wing back to the main quadrangle, and once they got there a servant directed them to the gardens. When they stepped outside Lothíriel took a deep breath of the fresh air. The last three days she had spent all her time either in Éomer’s sickroom or sleeping off her exhaustion. How good it felt to have the sun shining on her face! A gentle breeze brought the scent of flowers and medicinal herbs with it. While the gardens of the Houses of Healing were famous for their beauty, they also served a practical purpose.

Her father led her along the winding paths between the flowerbeds and soon they could hear the sound of voices ahead of them, talking in the lilting tones of the language of the Rohirrim. It took considerable willpower to curb her impatience and keep her steps to the slow gliding motion appropriate to a Princess of Gondor. Then they turned a corner and found themselves greeted enthusiastically. Elfhelm and Guthlaf, she identified two of the speakers, Cadda the bard, Aragorn, the clear voice of Éowyn… but where was Éomer?

Her hand was taken in a firm but gentle grip and a kiss dropped on it. “Lothíriel, it gladdens my heart to see you.” The low voice, deepest red with rich veins of gold running through it, seemed to wrap itself around her. A tingle started at the bottom of her stomach.

“Éomer!” she could not keep the pleasure out of her voice. “How are you today?”

“Much better.” His forefinger stroked across the palm of her hand and Lothíriel shivered. It was amazing what an accidental touch like that could do to her insides.

“Here, sit on the bench beside me,” Éomer said, pulling her towards him. Lothíriel followed his lead willingly and sat down next to him, but half expected her father to utter a protest. However, he said nothing.

“Let me get you a cushion, my lady,” Elfhelm offered.

With an effort Lothíriel tore her attention away from the sensations engendered by Éomer’s closeness and smiled at the Marshal. “I’m fine, please don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother,” he assured her. “And the stone bench is cold.”

Over to the side somebody chuckled. Éowyn. “You didn’t offer to get a cushion for me, Elfhelm,” she teased the Marshal.

“You’re a Northern Shieldmaiden,” her brother shot back. “Tough as boiled leather.”

Everybody laughed and Lothíriel leant back, relaxing. Éomer’s voice had lost the tiredness of last night and he seemed remarkably high-spirited. Then she had to lean forward again as Elfhelm handed her a cushion for her use. Ever since the combat the Marshal seemed to take his promise to Éomer to look after her very seriously. At times he reminded her of an anxious mother hen.

Her father sat down on her other side. “Ah, here come Faramir and your brothers,” he remarked.

The three were also greeted warmly, even more so because they had apparently brought a couple of bottles of wine with them.

“We wanted to raid the kitchen of the Houses of Healing for glasses,” Amrothos explained, “but they only have tin cups. Not quite appropriate for finest Moragar, but they will have to do.”

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow in surprise. It wasn’t often that her father parted with his favourite vintage. “Are we celebrating Éomer’s recovery?”

“Not quite,” Imrahil answered and got up. He raised his voice. “Éomer?”

Around them the others fell silent. Éomer relinquished her hand and stood up too. “Yes?” For some reason he sounded nervous.

“Do you remember that morning when you caught us up on the way to Minas Tirith?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“You asked me a question there in the fog. Now you may do so again in the sunlight.” Lothíriel’s heart started to beat faster.

Éomer drew her up to stand beside him. “Imrahil, will you grant me your daughter’s hand?”

“I will.”

Lothíriel could contain herself no longer. “Father!” She flew into his arms and embraced him. “Thank you!”

He pulled her close. “Lothíriel, I only desire to see you happy.”

“Oh, I am!” She brushed a tear from her eye. Then she found herself caught up in Elphir’s arms and Aragorn’s after. With all the felicitations getting exchanged it took a while to get back to the one she wanted the most, but finally Éomer took hold of her again.

“I want to kiss my betrothed too,” he complained and then followed up on his words.

How good it felt to have his lips pressing against hers, a strong hand slipping round her back. However, before she could respond by throwing her arms around his neck he had already let go of her again. Lothíriel bit her lip. But aware of her father standing right behind her, she suppressed the irrational disappointment at the brevity of their kiss.

A cup was thrust into her hands by Amrothos. “A toast!” her brother exclaimed. “To Éomer and Lothíriel.”

“Éomer and Lothíriel!” the others echoed.

The wine tasted rich and heady. She would have to be careful not to drink too much of it! That moment a hand slid around her waist. “To us,” her husband-to-be whispered in her ear.

“To us.” Lothíriel took a small sip, her heart suddenly overflowing with happiness. She smiled up at Éomer. “I have to be careful not to have too much Moragar on an empty stomach or I’ll end up getting drunk and embarrassing you.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you’re a delightful drunk. Haven’t you had anything to eat yet?”

Blushing, she shook her head. “I was in a bit of a rush when I got up.”

Éomer ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “I think I’ll have to make it my task to ensure you’re fed properly. Fatten you up!”

He drew her down to sit beside him and sent one of his riders to fetch some food. Leaning against him, she was quite content to just let the conversation wash over her. It looked like Éowyn had decided to take organizing the wedding into her capable hands. Listening to her prospective sister-in-law discussing the details with Elfhelm, Lothíriel got the distinct impression that the two had spent considerable thought on the arrangements already.

“You agree with getting married in Edoras, don’t you?” Éowyn asked them. “It’s traditional for the Lord of the Mark.”

Éomer laughed. “So we actually get a say in the matter?” he teased his sister. “But to be honest as long as we do get married, I don’t mind where.”

Just then servants arrived with platters of food and Éomer busied himself being true to his word and making sure she got plenty to eat. Leaning back in the crook of his arm and nibbling a piece of cheese, Lothíriel gave a sigh of pure contentment. A day ago she would not have thought this scene possible: to sit with Éomer in the garden, surrounded by their family and friends, celebrating their betrothal. She was so happy it almost hurt.

After a while the conversation turned from wedding preparations to more general topics like trade and horses, but Lothíriel noticed that Éomer did not say much.

“Are you still tired?” she asked.

“A little bit,” he admitted. “Still, finally having something proper to eat and drink should help.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

He squeezed her hand. “I promise I won’t.”

Soon afterwards Aragorn took his leave, saying he had a council meeting to attend, and as if that was a signal, the others also started to drift off.

“May I stay here a little longer?” she asked her father when he got up.

“Of course. Enjoy the company of your betrothed.”

“Father,” she asked impulsively. “What made you change your mind?” Next to her, Éomer suddenly tensed.

Imrahil brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Do you remember when your mother fell ill?” He sighed. “I would have done anything to keep her alive – anything at all – and the last few days I saw the same desperation in you.”

Lothíriel jumped up and hugged him. “Oh father, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be sad. This is supposed to be a happy day for you.” Imrahil kissed her again. “I just wish your mother were here to see you all grown up, for she would have been so proud of her brave and beautiful daughter. You will make a fine Queen of Rohan.”

“Thank you,” she whispered past the lump in her throat.

“Besides,” he added dryly, “I grew up by the sea and know you cannot sail a boat against the tide.” He let go of her. “Éomer, my friend?”

“Yes?”

“I’m leaving my daughter in your safe hands.”

“Thank you. I promise to look after her.” Lothíriel could have sworn Éomer sounded embarrassed. But why?

When Imrahil was gone, taking her brothers with him, Lothíriel sank down on the bench again and Éomer put his arm around her shoulder. Leaning back against his solid, warm presence she thought to herself that she would have to get used to thinking of him as her betrothed now. Her betrothed! It had a good ring to it. And how nice to have the sun playing across her face and to listen to the birds chirping in the bushes. An insect flew by, buzzing lazily.

“Éomer, are we alone now?” she whispered, lifting a hand to his face.

His voice shook with sudden amusement. “Well, except for half a dozen guards.”

“Oh!” She snatched her hand away and her cheeks warmed up.

“Ceorl!” he said loudly.

“Éomer King?” The rider’s tone was completely impassive.

“Do you see that rosebush over there?”

“Yes, my Lord King.”

“I think it needs guarding…”

Silence for a moment. “Shall I take my men round the corner and make sure it doesn’t come to any harm?”

“An excellent idea,” Éomer agreed. “Good man!”

Lothíriel’s cheeks burnt with blistering heat by the time the riders’ steps receded.

Chuckling, Éomer took her hands and lifted them to his lips. “Don’t worry about them, dear heart. They are Rohan’s finest.” Then he lowered his voice, suddenly serious. “But I think I owe you an apology.”

“An apology?” she asked, surprised.

“I don’t remember any of it, but Éowyn told me what I did when you tried to keep me from falling asleep after I got poisoned.”

“Oh, that!”

“You were right to accuse me of having the manners of an orc.” The self-recrimination in his voice rendered her momentarily speechless. Did he really worry about that? But she did not get the chance to answer, for he went on at once. “After what you’d been through that day, to ask to touch you! All I can say is how sorry I am.”

“But I didn’t mind.”

“What!”

“Well, at the time all I could think of was to keep you alive,” she tried to explain. “Although of course I did mind…” What a muddle she was making of her answer! Why did Éowyn have to go and tell him? She made a helpless gesture. “I mean I did mind…you doing it so very publicly...”

“And if it were less…” he hesitated, “…public?”

“Then I wouldn’t mind.” Surely he realized that by now! “That is, at the proper time and place…” Now she was blushing in earnest. “We’re going to be married, aren’t we.”

Éomer squeezed her hands. “Lothíriel, believe me, I would never ask anything of you that you’re not willing to give.”

“I know that,” she said simply. “I’m safe with you.”

He caught his breath. “Thank you.”

What a silly thing to be worried about! Suddenly another thought struck her. “Éomer,” she asked, “is that why you didn’t kiss me properly earlier on?”

“Lothíriel!”

“Well, is it?”

Éomer started laughing. Then his arm slid down to her waist and he pulled her towards him while his other hand cupped her cheek. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “My lady, are you complaining?”

A most delicious tingle ran down her spine. She lifted her face to him in anticipation. “Not anymore.”

“Good.”

Then he kissed her. Properly. And he would not let her feel his pulse either.

*

*

*

A/N: Sorry for being late with this chapter! The last week was a succession of crises, from minor to major (though nothing really serious) and I just lacked the peace of mind necessary for writing. However, I hope that things will improve soon and should have the epilogue ready for you by the week after next.

Epilogue: Queen of the Golden Hall

3020. In this year Éomer, King of the Mark, wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The harvest was plentiful and the Eorlingas prospered. It is said that ever after they called their king Éomer Éadig.

(The Chronicle of the Riddermark).

Edoras, August of Third Age 3020.

The fiddler stepped forward onto the floor of Meduseld and played a couple of stanzas of a simple tune. Then he stopped and looked around the circle to see if anybody would accept his challenge. Next to Éomer, the Queen of the Mark wriggled with excitement and tightened her grip on his arm. After a moment’s pause another fiddler stepped forward and played the tune back to the first man, picking up the pace and adding a little flourish at the end. The first musician grinned and the two started to circle each other like a pair of fighters, taking turns playing melodies to and fro, each one trying to outdo the other with his skill. The crowd started clapping rhythmically and his wife joined in with open enthusiasm.

His wife. Éomer savoured the words as he watched the enjoyment playing across Lothíriel’s face. She had been in excellent spirits all evening, displaying none of the customary nervousness of a bride. Tradition had it that dancing with the queen at her wedding brought good luck and she had been much sought after – but now Éomer had reclaimed her hand and he did not intend to give it up again tonight.

The fiddlesticks raced across the strings and sweat ran down the musicians’ faces. Even though the doorwardens had thrown the doors wide open, the air was hot and close with so many people assembled in the hall. He couldn’t help wondering if Lothíriel would like to retire soon.

Touching her lightly on the arm, he bent down to whisper in her ear. “Are you tired yet?”

She looked up with a brilliant smile. “Oh no, not at all.”

“Are you sure? You had a long journey from Minas Tirith.”

“Don’t worry, we took it easy.” She patted his hand reassuringly. “And after all we arrived here yesterday and I had a good night’s rest. How well they play! I feel like I could dance the whole night away.”

Actually dancing was not what he’d had in mind, but he couldn’t very well tell her so. However, he did not want to spoil her enjoyment of her wedding day, so he just gave a wry grin. “In that case, would you like to dance with me?”

The way her face lit up at his suggestion was answer enough. At least he got to slip his hand round his wife’s waist and hold her close whilst they whirled around in one of the Rohirric dances that she liked so much. Feeling the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her dress was a pleasant sensation and Éomer enjoyed the way she trusted his lead, completely at ease. He had expected her to be a little shy with him after their not seeing each other for three months, but she showed no sign of that.

Other couples joined them and he caught a glimpse of Éowyn dancing with Faramir and laughing at something her husband said to her. Well, his sister certainly deserved a bit of relaxation after all the hard work she had put into organising the wedding. Éowyn had also made it plain from the beginning that she very much approved of the future Queen of the Mark, which would hopefully help Lothíriel win the acceptance of the Meduseld household. Not that there had been any objections raised to her, not even by his council. His advisors had been so relieved to get him back alive, even if a month later than planned, that they had agreed to everything without a murmur. Besides, Imrahil’s daughter remained a good match, blind or not.

The musicians picked up the pace for the finale and Lothíriel laughed with delight when he spun her round faster. “Tired yet?” he asked hopefully.

But she just shook her head. “Certainly not!”

What a desirable wife he had. Tailored from shimmering silk in a fresh spring green, her gown clung tightly to her upper body and over her hips, only to flare out into a wide skirt, which fell in soft folds to her feet. No embellishments distracted from its elegant lines and Lothíriel’s only ornament were her mother’s pearls, resting on the smooth skin of her chest. However, knowing everybody’s eyes on them, Éomer did not allow his glance to linger there.

When the dance ended, they found themselves near the side of the hall and he pulled her a little apart, into the shadow of one of the massive carved pillars upholding the roof. Not that they provided any real privacy – that would have to wait for later…

Laughing breathlessly, Lothíriel leant back against the pillar. Her bridal wreath threatened to come loose, so she reached up to adjust it. In a way he still couldn’t quite believe they were truly married and that she would share the rest of his life with him – that Meduseld would become her home and he would wake up to her presence by his side in the mornings. In fact he had pictured their reunion and wedding so many times in the past months that the actual ceremony here in the Golden Hall had seemed like a dream. Not until Lothíriel had placed her hand in his and spoken the vows in perfect Rohirric had it become real. Her voice had carried across the hall, confident and sure, and her face had shone with joy. His own at last.

“I have been so blessed,” he told his wife impulsively.

She blushed rosily. “So have I.”

He brushed back a strand of her hair that had come loose during the dancing. “It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have happened if I hadn’t met you.”

Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “You would have married Wilwarin of course.”

Éomer shuddered. “Certainly not!” At least he hoped he would have had enough sense not to fall into that particular trap. But for sure he would have ended up with a marriage made from duty, not love, if Lothíriel had not romped into his life, upsetting all his carefully laid-out plans and stealing his heart without even trying to.

She was still grinning. “Did you hear that Wilwarin got married?”

“What!”

“Apparently she stopped over in Lossarnach to break her journey home.” Lothíriel’s voice shook. “Girion the Fat ended up offering for her hand.”

Éomer stared at her. “Are you serious? Why, he must have been roaring drunk!”

They broke into laughter. But hearing about other people’s marriages reminded him of his own.

He leant towards her. “Are you thirsty? We could share a goblet of wine somewhere...” Preferably the bridal cup in their rooms.

“Oh, I’m fine, please don’t bother.”

“Or perhaps something small to eat?” He had given orders to leave a plate of nut cakes in their bedroom in case Lothíriel was hungry later on. Although she had shown a healthy appetite at the evening meal.

Smiling, she shook her head. “Truly, don’t worry about me.” A little hesitantly her hand wandered up his arm. “I would much rather just enjoy my husband’s company.”

He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. “And I would like to enjoy my wife’s.”

Lothíriel’s face became serious. “It’s a shame we’ve had so little opportunity to talk to each other alone since I got here.”

“I know,” Éomer sighed. He had been busy with welcoming all their guests and Éowyn had spirited Lothíriel away at once to show her around Meduseld. In fact he had not exchanged more than a couple of words with her in between greeting his bride-to-be at the gates to Edoras the day before and speaking their wedding vows that morning.

Lothíriel leant closer. “But perhaps we could go somewhere else?” She lowered her voice. “To a more … secluded … place?”

Éomer stared at the blush slowly spreading across her cheeks. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? It dawned on him that he would have to be much more direct in his dealings with his bride. “Tell me, would you like to retire now?” he asked a little diffidently.

Her colour heightened, but she answered at once. “Yes I would.”

“As you wish, my lady wife.” Suddenly he had to laugh. “It’s what I’ve been trying to suggest to you for the last half hour.”

Her mouth opened with astonishment. “You have? But you only asked if I wanted to eat or drink.”

“Well yes. But you see, I had doing so in our rooms in mind…”

“Oh!”

Éomer took her hand and settled it on his arm. “I’m sorry for not speaking more plainly.”

The mischievous grin that he knew well by now flashed across her face. “My Lord King, you should have mentioned eels!”

At that Éomer had to laugh so loudly that the people standing nearest to them, who had turned their backs discreetly, looked round in surprise. But he just ignored them and drew his wife with him to make their way towards the dais at the other end of Meduseld, where the door leading to their private quarters lay, covered by a curtain. He did not head straight for it – that would have been foolishness – but stopped to listen to another fiddling contest for a moment before moving on unobtrusively further down the hall. With beer and ale flowing so freely his riders would get rowdy, and while he did not doubt his ability to quell any of them, he did not want Lothíriel to suffer the least embarrassment. By far the best strategy would be to slip out the door without anybody being the wiser.

As he helped Lothíriel ascend the steps to the dais, he cast a quick look ahead. The last and most difficult hurdle was to get past the table of honour without being delayed. All three of Lothíriel’s brothers sat there with their families, as well as half the Riddermark’s council. At least Imrahil was so deep in conversation with Aragorn that he paid no notice to them. Hurrying would only draw attention, so Éomer sauntered along the edge of the dais, much as if they wanted to sit down to have a rest after the energetic dancing. Lothíriel glided alongside him, the perfect Gondorian lady, yet he got the distinct impression she would have liked to skip excitedly instead. Nearly there now! Ahead of them, the man guarding the door straightened up and reached for the curtain.

“Lothíriel!”

For a moment Éomer was tempted to simply ignore the voice, but Lothíriel had already turned towards the speaker. “Is that you Amrothos?”

“Come and join us for a glass of wine,” her brother called loudly.

“I can’t,” the Queen of the Mark said with a happy smile, “Éomer wants to retire.” Then she bit her lip as if suddenly realizing what she had said, her hand tightening on Éomer’s arm and blood rushing to her cheeks.

Around them conversation ebbed abruptly and Éomer found a large number of eyes levelled at him with an unmistakable hint of amusement in them.

Alphros, who had been watching the dancing with a bored expression on his face, leant forward. “Does Aunt Lothíriel have to go to bed already?” he asked his mother in astonishment.

Annarima hushed him at once, but her voice shook. Sitting at her side with an arm around his wife’s shoulders, Elphir suffered from a sudden coughing fit and turned his face away. By now the silence had spread to the nearby tables as well.

It was Imrahil who broke it. “In that case we won’t keep you.” He got up to cross the distance between them and placed a kiss on Lothíriel’s cheek. “Good night, daughter.”

“Good night,” she replied gratefully.

Imrahil cast a look at his sons and after a moment they obediently chorused his words. Éomer took the opportunity to attempt a dignified exit. With a last nod at the assembled company he grasped his wife’s arm and guided her towards the door leading to the passageway abutting the hall. Behind him he could hear conversation starting up again, but not a single jest was levelled at them from his riders. Not quite believing his ears, he looked round before leaving. The tables nearest the dais were occupied by his best men, the éored he had sent to Gondor under Elfhelm’s command to escort the future Queen of the Mark to her new country. Just then a rider from another table opened his mouth as if to call something, only to get such threatening frowns cast his way from Éomer’s men that he closed it again abruptly. By the looks of if Lothíriel had acquired more champions!

But even so he heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief when they finally entered the small anteroom leading to their quarters and he closed the door behind them. They had made it. Alone at last!

Lothíriel sagged against him. “Oh Éomer, I’m sorry! Why didn’t I have the presence of mind to lie to Amrothos.”

Suddenly struck by the funny side of the encounter, Éomer started laughing. “Dear heart, you are hopeless at lying.” He tilted up her chin. “Your face would have given you away at once.”

Her lips curved into a rueful smile. “You are probably right.”

“Anyway,” Éomer whispered, slipping one hand round the small of her back, “they will have to get used to the sight of their king and queen retiring early.” Unhurriedly, he pulled her closer and claimed her mouth for a first kiss. Gentle and restrained, light and teasing, allowing none of the hunger he felt for her to leach into it. They had all night and he had sworn to himself to take it slowly.

Lothíriel gave a happy little murmur and yielded into the circle of his arms, moulding herself against his body. How delicious she tasted. He permitted himself to slide his other hand round the nape of her neck, resting his thumb on that sensitive spot just below the ear and massaging it gently. In the three months that they had been apart, he had forgotten the softness of her skin and the subtle, ravishing scent that clung to her. Had forgotten how her hair, piled up and pinned, called to him to set it loose and run his fingers through it. Had forgotten how her grey eyes were wide and unfocused and drew him into their dark depths with utmost ease.

She raised herself on tiptoe and clasped her arms around his neck, pressing her slim form against him. Her touch seemed to vibrate through him, kindling a slow fire deep within him, and he caught his breath. How he had missed her. Without thinking he deepened his kiss, demanding more. When she responded eagerly Éomer felt his control fraying. He wanted her. He needed her.

But he had not yet forgotten how holding her could cause his desires to bypass his brain quite effortlessly. It would not happen, not tonight. With an effort Éomer disengaged himself and drew back, causing Lothíriel to mutter a soft protest. “Patience, lady love,” he whispered, tracing a finger along her partly opened lips. “I intend to do this properly.”

She broke into a radiant smile, like a child being promised a treat. “I’m sure you will.”

The confidence in her voice took his breath away. He still didn’t know what he had done to deserve such unconditional trust, but he would do anything in his power to justify it. Her bridal wreath had started to slip in earnest now, so he steadied it with one hand while letting the other hand roam down to her waist and drawing her closer again. “So tell me, my lady wife,” he asked, keeping his tone light and playful, “would you like that glass of wine now?”

Lothíriel nodded. “Yes please.” Then as if struck by a sudden thought she wriggled out of his embrace. “But first I have to get changed.”

Surprised, he let go of her. “This instant?”

With a suspiciously demure expression on her face she smoothed down her dress. “Yes. Hareth said she would wait up for me. Can you show me where the dressing room is?”

“Why yes, of course.” Slightly mystified at her sudden urgency, he offered her his arm. Had he overwhelmed her with that first kiss after all? Yet she seemed completely relaxed with him as he escorted her to the door leading off from the anteroom to the Queen’s rooms and held it open for her.

On the threshold Lothíriel turned round with an impish grin. “You see, I want to do things properly as well.” Then she pulled the door closed behind her.

Éomer stared at it for a moment. What had she meant by that last statement? But he got the distinct impression that from now on life would be full of surprises. Lothíriel had proven her unpredictability more than once! Shaking his head in bemusement, he turned and headed for their bedroom.

A quick look round showed everything to be in order. A dozen candles shed their soft light on the newly tidied room, and the table by the window held a plate of small cakes and the bridal cup. Éomer smiled when he saw the harp standing in one corner and crossed over to touch it admiringly. The dark, satiny wood was polished to perfection and the strings hummed with pleasure when he ran his fingers over them. On his orders the instrument had only been delivered this afternoon to make sure Lothíriel would not come across it on her tour of Meduseld. A traditional Rohirric harp from the best instrument maker in the Mark: his morning gift to his wife. Lothíriel would of course receive the customary lands and horses of a queen as well, but this was his personal present to her. He was looking forward to seeing her face when she got to play it for the first time! Unless he was very much mistaken, she would insist on trying the harp out immediately once he presented it to her in the morning. Not too early though, he promised himself.

Involuntarily his eyes were drawn to the bed, whose oak frame with its massive four posters had served many Kings of the Mark. White and crisp, the sheets had already been turned back and a short robe laid out for him. Éomer picked it up and shook it out. It was thickly embroidered with gold thread and not the kind of garment he usually wore, but no doubt his servants considered it appropriate clothing for a king’s wedding night. With a shrug he started to shed his clothes and donned the robe instead. Hopefully he would not wear it all that long anyway, he thought with a grin.

Tying the sash at his waist, Éomer went to open a window to let some cool night air in. The rooms all faced south and offered a breathtaking view of the Ered Nimrais. Overhead the sky was still clear and slowly fading to a deeper blue, but above the mountains clouds were piling up into large towers shaped like giant anvils. They would probably shed their burden of rain later in the night.

Behind him a creak sounded and he spun round, old reflexes taking over. Lothíriel stood in the doorway, a shy smile on her face. She closed the door and took a couple of uncertain steps into the room. “Éomer?”

Her hair tumbling in a luxurious mass down her back, his wife wore a flowing nightgown that revealed and concealed her curves at the same time. His wife… It took a couple of attempts to clear his throat to give a coherent answer. “I’m here.”

She smiled at him and twirled round, the midnight blue silk billowing out around her, revealing tantalising glimpses of white limbs. “Do you like it?”

Did he like it! With a couple of strides Éomer crossed the room and gathered her up in his arms. When he brought his lips down on hers and buried his fingers in her long black hair she laughed with pleasure. All of a sudden a wave of red-hot fire flared through him. Heat and hunger. Éomer fought for control. With an effort he loosened his grip on Lothíriel. Did his desirable, provocative wife have any idea how very much she tempted him?

“She said you would like it,” Lothíriel whispered breathlessly.

“She?” The sound of his ragged breathing filled his ears.

“Éowyn. It is a present from her.”

Trust his sister to come up with such a wedding gift! She had truly taken his measure by now. “It’s a very pretty gown,” he said, letting his hand run down Lothíriel’s back, “but it is you who makes it beautiful.” And he realized that indeed somewhere along the way her features, including a determined chin and her nose turning up at the tip endearingly, had become his measure for beauty.

She coloured with pleasure at his compliment and looked up at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to take the next step. Éomer swallowed. What if his lovemaking brought back memories of what she had suffered at Muzgâsh’s hands? He realized that he was nervous – more nervous than his bride on her wedding night!

“A glass of wine?” he asked.

She nodded and let him guide her to the table at the window. Why did he get the feeling he was being humoured? Filled with red wine and with cinnamon, cloves and honey added, the bridal cup sat on a little stove to keep hot. Carefully he poured a measure into the golden goblet set out ready for them and lifted it to Lothíriel’s lips. She took a sip, lightly resting her fingers on his.

“Nice.” With unconscious sensuality she ran her tongue across her lips.

Éomer set the cup down on the table again. He wanted to taste the wine directly on his wife! Taking her by the shoulders, he claimed her mouth for another kiss. Warm, sweet and spicy. Like love itself. Silk whispered under his fingers as he let his hands glide down her sides, tracing her gentle curves, until they settled on her hips. Such a narrow waist. Even though in his mind he knew not to underestimate his wife, he still felt like he might snap her in two if he wasn’t careful.

Éomer drew back a little. “More wine?”

She exhaled her breath in a little sigh. “No.”

“A nutcake?” After all he did not want her to think that he would pounce on her at the first opportunity.

Lothíriel shook her head. “No.” She leant into him. “I’m not hungry…” A little hesitantly, as if doubting her own daring, she let one hand trail up his chest. “…except for you. Éomer, may I feel your face?”

He smiled down at her. “Of course you may, my lady wife.”

When her fingers rose to his face he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the world felt like to her. He had done so repeatedly in the past three months, earning himself a fair share of bruises from walking into things. But as a result their suite of rooms was now bare of all but essential furniture. Through the cool silk of her robe he could feel her stretch to stand on tiptoe, the faint scent of her favourite perfume clinging to her. From afar echoes of the celebration in the hall reached his ears and the taste of sweet wine lingered in his mouth.

Lothíriel followed the line of his eyebrows, then her fingers fluttered across his cheeks, the touch more intimate than a kiss. “Your wife,” she repeated his words wonderingly. “It doesn’t seem possible that we are together at last!”

“Oh, Lothíriel!” he whispered, opening his eyes again and drinking in the sight of her. “How I’ve missed you.”

A look of intense concentration on her face, she traced his mouth. “And I felt like you had taken a piece of myself with you when you left for Rohan and only being with you would make me whole again.” She sighed. “At the same time I was convinced something would happen to keep us apart, that father would change his mind.”

Involuntarily Éomer tightened his grip on her waist. “Believe me, in that case I would have come and abducted you! Even if I had to ride to the City of Serpents itself and seize it.”

“Well, I would have run away to Rohan anyway.” At the determination in her voice Éomer had to smile. Yet he could almost see her arriving in Edoras tired but triumphant after a journey of hundreds of miles and with a gaggle of champions in tow.

“Nobody and nothing will ever part us now,” he promised.

She smiled up at him and quoted her wedding vows in Rohirric. “You are mine and I am yours.” Her hand trailed down his neck, the light touch making him shiver, then cautiously slipped inside his robe, much like a little bird coming to rest. She stopped abruptly. “Éomer, you’re burning hot! Are you all right? Have you really recovered from that poison?”

Torn between embarrassment and amusement, he only just managed to stop her from bending down and checking his leg. “I’m fine, Lothíriel!” Although he got the feeling he would never recover – from her.

When she lifted an anxious face to him, he found himself obliged to attempt an explanation. “I’m afraid that’s what your closeness does to me, lady love.”

“Oh!” Colour flooded her cheeks as understanding dawned. He had feared she might shrink back in maidenly confusion, but instead after a moment she answered with that rare honesty of hers. “You do the same to me.”

He traced the delicate line of her jaw. “I would not have you think that I’m no better than that Harad Prince.”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “Éomer, you love me and you care for me as a person.” Lothíriel shivered. “Muzgâsh just saw me as a convenient means to take his revenge. A thing.”

He drew her into the protective circle of his arms. “Lothíriel, forgive me. I did not intend to remind you of him!”

Pressing herself against him, his wife twined her arms around his neck. “Éomer, just forget the troubles of the past.” Her lips sought his own. “We are together at last, you and me,” she whispered. Through the thin silk he could feel the heat of her body. “Husband of mine,” she breathed, “now is the proper time and place.” And she gifted him with a smile. A supremely confident smile, full of anticipation for a wonderful venture about to be undertaken. “Love me.”

Éomer stared down at his wife: shy and bold, vulnerable yet strong, innocent and wise. Giving herself completely, without holding anything back. Suddenly he felt joy well up within him, filling him to overflowing and spilling out as laughter. In one smooth motion he gathered her up in his arms. “Lothíriel, I’m yours to command!”

Later…

Lothíriel swam up through the waters of her dreams, floating lazily for a while before rising to consciousness. Soft thunder rumbled outside. Another sound … rain, she recognized it after a moment. Heavy drops hitting the pavement and water gurgling through gutters and flowing off eaves. She stretched languidly, revelling in the feeling of utter relaxation pervading her. The dragon at the bottom of her soul was sated. Finally set free, it had tried out its wings, rising high in the air, swooping and soaring, before ending the flight in a mad, plummeting tumble that had robbed her of all conscious thought.

A breeze from an open window brought the smell of wet earth with it and brushed a chilly touch across her skin. But she was nice and cosy, the heat spilling off her sleeping husband keeping her warm. Her husband – in every sense now. She supposed it should feel strange to be lying naked between the sheets with Éomer snuggled up against her back, his heavy arm thrown across her waist, but instead it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Sensing the slow rise and fall of his chest, Lothíriel smiled. They had embarked on a wonderful journey tonight and while the waters would not always be as calm as now, she knew that together they could weather whatever storms life would throw at them. She belonged here.

Gradually she identified other sounds. The sudden creak of a wooden beam, a gust of wind rattling the windows, the bed curtains whispering in the draft. Idly she thought that she would have to get used to the absence of the ever-present murmur of the sea and the differing noises of her new home.

Her husband’s soft breath caressed the nape of her neck and a kiss was placed on her shoulder. “Did the storm wake you, dear heart?” he asked.

Remembering how his hands had moved upon her, gentle but sure, Lothíriel felt little shivery thrills run through her whole being at his touch. Not trusting her voice she just nodded.

In lazy whirls he started to trace the outline of her spine. “It’s early yet with dawn still several hours away.” His voice held that dark warmth that he kept for her alone. “Nobody awake but you and me.”

Lothíriel knew that there would be guards outside on their rounds, yet that moment it truly felt as if Arda had ceased to exist at the boundaries of their room. His hand continued its leisurely exploration and at the same time he leaned forward and nibbled her ear. Involuntarily she gasped and Éomer gave a low chuckle. Oh yes, he enjoyed the effect he had on her, playing her like a harpist played his harp. But she had made a surprising discovery last night.

Twisting round to face him she ran a hand across the muscles of his chest, feeling them tense beneath her touch, and up to his neck. Then slowly, teasingly, she laced her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down towards her, only to stop when their lips were a finger’s breadth apart.

Éomer groaned softly. “You’re learning fast.”

She laughed and pulled him down the rest of the way, putting all her newly acquired skill into the kiss she gave him. “I’ve got a good teacher.”

“You’re an apt pupil!” He sank back onto his side, settling her in his arms more securely and she nestled against his shoulder. With his other hand he brushed back her hair, fanning it out on the pillow. “Oh Lothíriel, I love you.”

Lothíriel lifted her hand and traced the planes of his face. She knew them by heart already, yet she would never get tired of doing so. “I love you, too.”

He bent down to kiss her, taking his time about it and in no rush to proceed, although she knew with delightful certainty that proceed he would. His hair fell like a soft curtain across her breasts – no wonder the ladies of the court of Gondor used to call him the Lion of Rohan. From the window the sound of rain intensified.

All of a sudden a loud clap of thunder sounded and she jumped. At once his arms tightened around her protectively. “It’s only the storm.”

“I know.” She savoured the feeling of being held safe while outside the elements raged. “Will we get them often?”

“In the summer, yes. They arise unexpectedly, but pass quickly. In the morning it will seem as if the storm never happened.” His voice took on a dreamy tone. “Then everything is fresh, the dew glittering like thousands of diamonds in the light of the rising sun. And in the distance you can see the tips of the mountains, crowned with snow, so clear that you feel you can reach out and touch them.” He sighed. “Oh Lothíriel, the Riddermark is beautiful. I wish I could show it to you.”

“But you do with your words! Éomer…does my blindness matter to you?” Lothíriel held her breath. She thought she knew his answer, but found that hearing him say it aloud had taken on a sudden and overwhelming importance.

Gently he kissed her eyelids. “It does for your sake. If only you could see our sea of grass, turning from spring green to burnished gold as the year progresses!”

“I see the world through your eyes.” Lothíriel smiled at him. On this night, with her whole being filled with joy, she could not find it in herself to be sad. “Éomer, when I’m with you, there is no darkness. If my accident was a step on the road that led me here, I can accept it.” Stroking her hand across his shoulder and down to his chest, she resolved to get to know every inch of him, to sculpt an exact picture of her husband in her mind. His skin seemed to burn under her caress and she felt a tremor pass through him.

“Fate can take strange turns,” he agreed, his voice sounding strangled.

Lothíriel paused, enjoying her power. It was a heady feeling, almost as if she’d had too much wine – or like playing with fire. “I could have ended up married to Muzgâsh…”

When his arms closed on her possessively, she added, “but I think I prefer being Queen of the Mark.”

Éomer went still. “Oh, do you now?”

“It’s marginally better.”

Powerful muscles rippled under her touch and the next moment Lothíriel found herself pinned below her husband’s body, her head cradled by his arms either side. “Are you sure?”

Not fooled by the menacing growl in his voice, but nevertheless with her heart hammering wildly, Lothíriel shrugged. “Well…” Suggestively she trailed her fingers along his sides and around his back.

He quivered, taut as a bowstring, radiating a sense of barely controlled power. “Yes?”

But knowing she was perfectly safe with him, Lothíriel just laughed up at him. “…I suppose so.”

With a hiss Éomer drew his breath in. “I am warning you…” He buried his fingers in her hair, pinioning her head. “…Queen of the Golden Hall or not…” She waited for him to take her mouth in a kiss, but he just nipped her bottom lip teasingly. His warm male scent enveloped her. “…if you say something like that…” Éomer lowered his head and slowly and lingeringly kissed the hollow at the bottom of her throat. It was Lothíriel’s turn to have a tremor run through her. “…my lady wife…” His lips trailed lower and involuntarily she dug her fingers into his sides and arched her back against him. “…you will have to live with the consequences!”

“Yes, please!” she whispered.

And the Lion of Rohan was happy to oblige.

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A/N: Éadig means ‘blessed’ and according to Tolkien is the name his people gave Éomer. The rest of the quote as well as all the other ‘quotes’ in this story are my own invention.

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A/N: Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Lady Bluejay, and to Willow-41z for their comments and encouragement. Also thank you very much to the ladies at the Garden of Ithilien for their input ranging from stylistic issues to plotting and characterization. And finally many thanks to you, my readers and reviewers! I really appreciate all the positive comments I’ve had for this story and will miss hearing from you. Take care!

If you want to read more of my writing, there are other Éomer & Lothíriel stories of mine on this site, or you can find my original stories on Amazon, iBooks, Kobo, Scribd, etc. by searching for ‘Lia Patterson’:

Wind Weaver (out in June 2022)

Daughter of Wolves (free on iBooks, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords)

Elephant Thief

Bride to the Sun