Morgengifu

Meduseld - in the last year of the Third Age.

The bed creaked slightly as Éomer carefully shifted his weight, not wanting to disturb his sleeping wife – his arm had gone numb where she had been lying on it for the past couple of hours and he needed to move. When she showed no signs of waking, he did so cautiously, giving the affected arm a shake to get rid of the tingling sensation before he draped it gently over her, pulling her into the warmth of his body. Her eyelids flickered, but she did no more than give a little sigh and snuggle in closer.

Only a hint of dawn showed through the gap in the curtains, but one of the lamps still gave a soft glow over the bed, enough for him to relish the sight of his enchanting new wife. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth– his wife. Queen Lothíriel – his wife of...about fifteen hours. A smile moved his lips and he brushed them gently across her forehead, loving the touch of silky black hair and ivory skin.  Enchanting indeed, and when she woke he would be able to gaze into those huge silver-grey irises. He choked back a laugh – those striking orbs had captivated him all those long years ago. Lothíriel would probably always be able to get her way just by looking at him, and when she discovered that, he would likely be in trouble. What hope had he now, when he hadn’t been able to resist back then?

ooooo

‘We need no further guidance,’ said Elfhelm; ‘for there are riders in the host who have ridden down to Mundburg in days of peace. I for one.’  (From ‘The Return of the King’ by JRR Tolkien.)

Minas Tirith – TA 3006

The City of Kings jutted out onto the plain almost as if it had been spewed from the mountain itself. But perhaps not content with such common stone, its creators must have studded the white rock with precious jewels, because the whole city sparkled in the midday sun. Éomer stared, never having seen anything so vast and huge that had been built by the hands of man. 

‘Impressive isn’t it,’ the Rider by his side muttered. ‘Beautiful,’ another one added. Éomer dutifully nodded his agreement. Impressive certainly, but as to whether it was beautiful, he wasn’t sure. Used to buildings that hugged the landscape, blending in colour and form to their surroundings, this statement of authority and skill stood out as a foil to the power of nature.

‘Éomer!’

‘Yes, Captain?’ Éomer reacted immediately to the commanding voice, riding his horse forward when Elfhelm waved a mail-clad arm.

‘Ride with me a while,’ Elfhelm directed, motioning to his squire to drop back.

Éomer matched his horse’s pace to that of his captain, waiting for the taciturn man to speak. Never one to waste words himself, Elfhelm disliked idle chatter. But Éomer respected him more than any other man, except perhaps his cousin Théodred, and felt privileged to be riding in his éored.

‘You have not been to Mundburg before? Théodred did not bring you?’ Elfhelm asked at last.

Éomer shook his head. ‘He visited some years ago but I was deemed too young for a long, fast ride.’

‘Well, the ride back will be faster than the journey here,’ Elfhelm mused, gesturing behind to the string of horses, and the outriders keeping them in line. They had been escorting more than twenty from the breeding station at Aldburg. All good horses, destined for Gondor’s errand riders and, some said, for Steward Denethor’s two sons. Before he spoke again, Elfhelm cast his eyes to the top ramparts of the city where Éomer could see a white flag fluttering in the gentle breeze.

‘You have a choice, Éomer. Last time I brought horses here the men were quartered in the citadel barracks and ate there, but Lord Denethor was kind enough to ask me to share the daymeal with himself, his sons and some of his captains. If the same happens again, I can introduce you to the Steward as Théoden King’s sister-son and no doubt the invitation will be extended to you. But if you prefer you can stay with your fellow riders.’ 

Éomer let out a breath as he quickly went through the options in his mind. But the decision did not take much real thought. ‘I think I will stay with the men, lord.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I am the youngest and most lowest ranked rider in your éored, and I want to rise by my own endeavours, also I want to be accepted by the men. It will not help me to become a real part of this unit if I set myself up as different because of my relationship to Théoden King.’  

A rare smile crossed Elfhelm’s face. ‘Then I can only advise you to remember your young age and not to be inveigled into visiting the taverns with your compatriots. They will outdo you in both capacity and stamina and quite frankly it would please most of them to see you crawling around in your own vomit.’

Éomer laughed. ‘They have already tried that, but although I enjoy a mug of ale I have no wish to become so inebriated that I don’t know what I am doing.’

‘Good, then you might take the time to see a bit of the city and ponder on the difference between the way we do things at home and what goes on here.’

Éomer had every intention of seeing all he could, and as they entered through the massive gates into the huge paved square he looked around in awe at the intricate stonework and the imposing effigies of Gondor’s past heroes.  Compared to the Riddermark it was all so very old. One particular thing he noticed was that no one had stuck any jewels on the stone walls as he had thought, but the rock itself contained tiny chips of bright crystal that reflected the light. Wondrous indeed.

And he could not fault the hospitality shown by the company with which the éored had been billeted. Straw pallets had been put down ready for their bedrolls and cold fare of fresh bread, meats and cheeses laid out to sustain them until the main meal of the day, which would be served at sunset. Éomer, his belly full of salted pork, courteously refused the invitation given by some of his fellows to join them in their search for a drinking hole and set off into the city. He wanted to find a present for Éowyn.

These Gondorians were certainly a polite lot –at every shop or stall he visited the proprietor placed his hand on his chest and bowed his respects, even though most were twice his age. There were so many things on sale, from fruit, flowers and sweetmeats to boots, belts and ornamental daggers. Éomer looked at some very pretty necklets but in the end decided to buy his sister a lady’s dagger, one that had a small but lethal blade, sure she would undoubtedly prefer that in spite of not yet being out of childhood. The knife he finally settled on had crystals set into the handle, much like the shining chips in the stone around him; it would help him to explain how and why Minas Tirith glittered so amazingly in the sun. Pleased with his purchase, he visited another stall that sold leather goods to buy a sheath for the dagger. The one he chose was decorated with a gold design depicting mythical birds and animals which he hoped would please her. With his shopping done, and both knife and sheath stowed safely in his belt pouch, Éomer decided to visit Fleetfoot, just to make sure his horse had settled in the unfamiliar stables.  He still had a while before he needed to meet his hosts in the mess hall.

He had been looking at the shops and stalls on his way down, but walking slowly back up to the higher levels Éomer had time to take in the architecture and note the many empty houses and deserted courts. It was certainly a city with plenty of room for others to dwell. But the street still struck him as busy; in fact he had never seen so many people together who were not warriors. Most showed an interest in him, especially the dark-haired children who whispered and pointed until he smiled at them. Then they bowed civilly, before running off laughing together. The climb made him warm and he briefly considered finding a tavern and downing a mug of ale, but spotting a stall selling different kinds of fruit juice he went over to see what was on offer. Pomegranate drew his attention. Éomer had no idea what a pomegranate was, but watched fascinated as the glossy pink-red fruits were halved and upended on a rounded grooved piece of metal, which was turned by a handle to allow the juice to collect in a jug below.

‘Just arrived from Belfalas,’ the stallholder told him as he passed over a mug.  Éomer sipped at the dark red drink hesitantly, conscious of the man watching him for reaction. But a smile broke over his face as he tasted it – unusual certainly, but sweet and refreshing.

His thirst quenched, Éomer quickly reached the sixth level and the stables, but instead of immediately going in, his attention was caught by the sound of bird song coming from further along the road. Seeing a large building on the left of the quiet street, which appeared to be surrounded by a greensward and many trees, he wandered in that direction, pleased to see that the city did contain something other than stone and there were places free of people. When he reached the large building he saw that a few steps led up to a beautifully carved door and he stopped to read the inscription above it – of course, it was the Healing Houses. Thinking he would get a good view towards the Ephel Dúath, as the wall enclosing the greensward was only about shoulder height, he decided to carry on. Opposite the Healing houses were some substantial dwellings, built against the Citadel wall and hidden behind big gates and he guessed that important nobles lived on this level. When he turned his attention back to the southward side of the road, wondering if he would get a glimpse of Mount Doom from between the trees, he heard a cry. For a moment he did not realise where it had come from but when the cry was followed by a muffled sob he located the sound and looked down over the wall.

The ground fell away from the level of the road, so the drop was a lot higher the other side and sitting on the grass below was a child – a young girl with black hair. She was rubbing at her ankle.

‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’ Éomer called out.

She didn’t immediately see him and looked around confused.

‘I’m up here.’

‘Oh...I didn’t see you.’

‘Are you hurt?’ Éomer repeated.

‘Only a little, I think, but I dropped some of my apricots.’ Looking around her she gestured to where Éomer could see a linen bag, some unfamiliar orange fruits spilled on the grass. ‘I got down here easily but it’s a lot higher to climb up from this side.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Can you walk? If so there is a little door in the wall along there.’ Éomer pointed a few yards on.

‘It’s locked. I tried it before. That’s why I had to get over the wall.’ She got to her feet and took a tentative step. ‘It doesn’t hurt much now, I will have to try and climb again.’

She had a cultured voice for a child and wore a very pretty blue dress, which made Éomer think she must be some nobleman’s daughter. He wondered why she was collecting fruit and scrabbling over walls. ‘Why don’t you go into the Houses and come out through the front door?’

She lifted her head and stared at him. Now she was standing, he got a good look at her – an attractive little thing with a pale, heart-shaped face and big silver-grey eyes. About seven or eight, he guessed.  But her expression told him she thought him a bit stupid.

‘Because then they would know I’d been in here filching apricots, wouldn’t they?’

He hid a smile. ‘I suppose they would.’

‘You will have to come down here and give me a hoist up.’

Definitely a nobleman’s daughter! ‘Will I?’

A little grin broke across her face and she fixed her huge eyes on him. ‘Please will you climb down here and give me a hand to get back up?’

When he said nothing, she pointed to the bag on the grass.  ‘You can share my apricots.’ 

‘But they’re not yours, are they?’

She dismissed that idea with an impatient wave of her hand. ‘Well, only the wasps seem to be eating them, and our cook makes wonderful apricot tarts. It would be a waste to let them rot, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose it would,’ he agreed.

‘So you will come down?’ She smiled appealingly up at him.

Someone knew how to get her own way. Giving in — after all she couldn’t stay down there all night – Éomer heaved himself up and put his leg over the wall. He hung by his hands, lowering himself down as far as possible before he dropped the last couple of feet. ‘I will be able to get you up; I just hope I will be able to get myself back over.’

‘You are very tall,’ she said, looking him up and down.  ‘And anyway you will probably be able to climb one of the trees that hang over the wall.’

Climbing trees and assisting in filching fruit, Éomer was not sure his captain would approve. ‘Right, let’s see about getting you out of here.’

‘Don’t you want a apricot?’ She picked up a beautiful ripe golden apricot and held it out to him.

It did look good, and Éomer chuckled. ‘I suppose I might as well since I’m here.’ He felt a bit of a fool admitting he had never tasted one, so kept quiet on that.

She nodded and sat down on the grass. ‘If we eat the ones that fell out of the bag there will be room in it for us to collect some more.’

Us! Laughing to himself, Éomer sat down beside her. He took a big bite of the apricot and had to lean away so the juice didn’t dribble on his clothes. ‘Hmm.... I must admit that is one of the best fruits I have ever tasted. We don’t get these at home.’

‘Good aren’t they,’ the girl mumbled, her mouth full of apricot. Wiping her sleeve across her mouth she looked at him intently. ‘Where is home?’

‘My home is a long way from here; I come from a country called The Riddermark.’

Her eyes travelled over him.  ‘I suppose that’s why you look so different,’ she said after giving him a thorough assessment.  ‘I look like everyone else here, although my home’s a long way away too. I come from Belfalas and I am here with my aunt and uncle to buy things. Why have you come here?’ She bit into another apricot, juice dripping down her chin as she waited for his answer.

Éomer smiled to himself, wondering how many she had already eaten. ‘I came here to bring horses for Steward Denethor.’

Her eyes widened, bigger than ever. ‘Did you, that’s interesting. You must be important then.’

Éomer laughed. It would be a long time before he considered himself important. ‘I am not important at all,’ he said with an indulgent smile. ‘Just the youngest and lowliest rider in Captain Elfhelm’s éored. But we brought numerous horses, so it took many of us to keep them safe on the journey. Horses figure very highly in the way of life of us Rohirrim.’

She nodded, looking intently at him.  ‘I would like that. I’ve got a pony at home, she’s called Moonbeam.’

‘A very nice name for a pony,’ Éomer agreed. ‘I have a horse called Fleetfoot.’

‘Is that because she’s fast?’ She looked around the grass and found another apricot, handing it to him.

‘Fleetfoot’s a gelding,’ Éomer corrected her.  ‘And yes he is fast. Most of our horses are, which is why the Steward likes to buy them.’

She picked up an apricot for herself and took a big bite from it, the juice dropping onto her dress. She scowled at the stain, and put the rest of the apricot in her mouth, fishing out the stone after a moment and flicking it away.  ‘I like riding, and I was doing really well because my brother Erchirion was teaching me. But now he’s gone to sea, and Amrothos isn’t good enough to teach me yet, and Elphir is always out on patrol.’

So she had brothers, no wonder she was used to getting her own way. ‘Isn’t there anyone else to teach you?’

She shrugged. ‘There’s the stable-master, but he’s a bit grumpy. I don’t think he likes girls. I wish Erchirion would come back. I thought he was too young to go to sea, but Father says boys go at sixteen. ’

Éomer wasn’t quite sure what going to sea meant, but not liking to show his ignorance he merely asked. ‘Your brother won’t be at sea forever, will he?’

‘He’ll be back in a few months, I suppose.’

‘Oh, is he trading goods?’

‘Of course not,’ she scoffed. ‘He’s fighting the corsairs. They’re horrible and have to be kept away from the towns and villages.’ She dropped her voice, whispering as though someone other than him might hear. ‘They are really nasty men and they steal people, you know’

Éomer absorbed that, always keen to find out things he knew little about. ‘That is nasty; it’s a good job your brother is trying to help stop them. But how do they actually fight at sea? Do they send warriors onto the corsair ships?’ He wasn’t quite sure of the use of asking a child, but she answered readily enough.

‘Sometimes, but the ships have big catapults on them and they launch rocks and burning brands at the corsair’s ships. Don’t you know anything about fighting?’

 ‘I know about fighting from horseback,’ he answered a bit piqued.  ‘It’s what I will be doing for the rest of my life. I have been practising for years, and as soon as I am sixteen I will be able to go out on patrol.’

‘Do you have corsairs in your country?’

‘No, we do not have to worry about being attacked by enemies on ships. Instead we have orcs.’

‘Orcs!’ She stared at him with an expression of pure horror. ‘But they are awful evil creatures, aren’t they, even worse than corsairs. That’s what Amrothos told me anyway, but he could have just been trying to frighten me.’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Éomer let out before he could stop himself. ‘Orcs are ugly looking, filthy smelling spawn of Sauron.’

Shocked for a moment, she never commented, but then she said, her face taut and serious. ‘You must be very careful. I think you look too young to fight horrible, evil things. You might die and that would be a shame.’

‘I’ll do my best not to.’

She stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. Fool, he should not have made such an offhand quip, or said anything about orcs or fighting. She was just a child after all. 

Too late! Her pretty little face had gone quite white and she sniffed and swallowed down a sob. ‘Erchirion said exactly that when I didn’t want him to go. But people die all the time. My mother died, you know.’

That was something he did know about and Éomer’s heart contracted with pity, no wonder his flippancy had upset her. ‘That must have been awful for you.’

She blinked rapidly. ‘I try not to cry, but it’s hard.’

‘I understand that. When my mother died my sister was only seven. She cried for a long time.’

She wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘I am nearly eight, and I don’t cry much now. But when it happened I cried a lot.’

‘How long ago did your mother die?’ Éomer asked as gently as he could.

‘I was five. My father cried as well although he tried not to.’ She dropped her head and went silent for a moment, when she looked up she was blinking back tears.  ‘Did your father cry when your mother died?’

The familiar pain hit him. It had lessened over the years, but however deeply he had buried it, it was still there. ‘My father died first, so he didn’t know.’

Her eyes opened wide and she stared at him with that intense silver gaze. ‘You haven’t got a mother or a father?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘That is sad,’ she said, pulling a sympathetic face. ‘How old are you?’

‘I am fifteen, my sister is twelve. But my uncle has acted as a father to us.’

She nodded, still looking a bit wan. ‘My Aunt Ivriniel looks after me. Of course I still have a father so it’s not quite as bad as for you, but he is always busy fighting the corsairs. He could die as well, I suppose.’

It sounded as if all her family were involved in fighting corsairs, no wonder she was bothered by it. ‘So your father is at sea like your brother?’ Éomer asked.

‘No.’ She frowned at his non-comprehension. ‘He’s a great warrior and he and his men patrol the coast in case of any raids.’

Éomer wanted to change the subject before she got any more upset. ‘Tell me about your pony,’ he asked to distract her.

It worked because her face brightened immediately. ‘She is the best pony in the world. My father gave her to me when I was seven. She’s grey and has little black spots on her back. And she comes when I call her, but that might be because I always take a piece of apple or a carrot when I go to the stable or the paddock.’

‘That’s a good thing to do,’ Éomer agreed. ‘I always take a treat when I go to see Fleetfoot.’

Looking a bit brighter, she selected another apricot from the grass and bit into it, spitting out the stone. It landed on Éomer’s boot. ‘Sorry.’ 

She didn’t look sorry, and giggled when he scowled at her. ‘I expect you would have the patience to teach me to ride.’

‘Possibly,’ he said, as he wiped away the mess on his boot. ‘If there were no apricots about, that is. But I am only here for one more day so I don’t think there would be time.’

‘And Moonbeam is at home anyway,’ she said, looking a bit disappointed. ‘How about your sister, does she ride?’

‘She rides very well.’

‘Did you teach her?’ she wanted to know next.

He laughed. ‘Are you always so full of questions?’

‘Yes.’  Head on one side, she smiled at him winningly. ‘Well, did you?’

She was certainly an engaging child, and determined. Much like Éowyn really. ‘No,’ he answered after a moment, ‘our cousin taught her mostly. Him and others in my uncle’s household.’

‘Did your cousin teach you?’

More questions. He had better go as he still wanted to see Fleetfoot. ‘Not really,’ he answered, standing up. ‘My father started me off. But my cousin taught me to fight.’

‘Do you like fighting?’

 She obviously wasn’t ready to stop grilling him, but he answered honestly. ‘It’s been mostly practise so far, they haven’t let me loose on orcs yet.’ His jaw hardened. ‘But that time is coming soon.’

‘I am sure you will be good at it; everyone says my brother Elphir will be as good as our father when he’s older.’

‘I’m glad, now we must get you out of here. It’s getting late.’

‘But we haven’t picked any more apricots.’ She scrambled to her feet, looking at the tree behind her. ‘There are some lovely ones just out of my reach but they will be easy for you.’

Éomer sighed, somehow knowing he had no chance of deflecting her. ‘Just a few then, or I will be late for the daymeal.’

‘Oh, the warning bell hasn’t even rung yet. You’ve plenty of time.’

He didn’t bother telling her he wished to visit his horse first, quicker to just do what she wanted. ‘Let’s have your bag before I change my mind.’

She passed it to him and he filled it as quickly as he could, obeying her instructions of not picking any with brown on them. The bag full, he just had to get them back over the wall. ‘Come on...’ he smiled. ‘I have to get us out of here.’

‘You could lift me up the wall and I can put my foot in a crack and climb over,’ she suggested. ’That’s what I was trying to do, but I slipped.’

‘Right.’ He scanned the wall looking for a suitable place. ‘Here, I think. There are some holes in the mortar you can put your feet in. I will lift you and if you can sit on top of the wall I can hand you the bag and then climb up myself.’

She had soft leather slippers on; goodness knew what climbing walls would do to them. But her feet were small enough to fit in the cracks and she was agile and light enough that he had no trouble lifting her onto his shoulders, which allowed her to reach the top of the wall quite easily. It was going to be a bit harder for him. He managed to stand on a stone a few feet up that had been set a bit proud of the others. From there, with him reaching up and her reaching down, he was able to pass the bag to her. Now he just had to get over himself.  Using another couple of footholds he jammed his fingers into a crack near the top, hoisting himself by strength alone. He found another crack for his foot and got an arm over the wall.

‘I thought my arms were going to come out of their sockets,’ he muttered as he joined his companion on top of the wall.

‘I knew you would be able to do it,’ she said, smiling at him confidently. She scrambled down onto the road and Éomer jumped down beside her. She looked up and down the street. ‘And we are lucky because there is no one about.’

That was a relief. He had no wish to be found encouraging a child to get up to things she obviously should not be doing. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, hoping it was somewhere close.

‘Just along there.’ She pointed to one of the large houses he had passed. The gate was closed.

‘Can you get back in?’

She nodded, grinning at him. ‘I’ll knock. And the gatekeeper will be so embarrassed I was able to distract him and get out without him seeing me that he’ll let me back in without telling my aunt. She thinks I’m reading in my room.’

It sounded as if a new gatekeeper was needed, but that was none of his business. ‘You obviously have everything under control. It’s been nice meeting you, but now you had better get home before your aunt checks on you.’

‘I will.’ A secret little smile crossed her face. ‘But I want to give you something first.’ 

He didn’t want any more apricots, but before he could say anything she had put the bag down and reached behind her neck to unclasp the necklet she was wearing. ‘I want you to have this to guard you from those terrible orcs. I was going to give it to Erchirion to keep him safe, but the tide was just before dawn. I thought I would wake up in time.’ Tears glistened in her big eyes. ‘But I didn’t.’

 Éomer looked down at the small pendant that hung on the silver chain, some kind of ship in the shape of a swan. ‘That’s very kind of you, but perhaps you should give it to your brother when he comes home, before he goes to sea again.’

She shook her head vehemently, sniffing, and closed his fingers over it with her small hand. ‘No, I want you to have it. If you carry it, I know that you will keep safe and my brother will be protected as well. Please,’ she pleaded when he hesitated. ‘It will make me feel better.’

Éomer nodded, not wanting the tears to get worse, and he doubted it was very valuable. ‘All right, that’s kind of you.  But you must have this in return.’ He fished in the inner pocket of his tunic and pulled out a wooden carving of a horse. Small, but accurately sculpted from cherry wood. ‘If you carry it I will know you will turn into a good rider.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, tears drying up. ‘Did you carve it?’

‘No, my cousin did when I first lost my mother. So I hope it will help to comfort you as well.’ Quite why he was giving it to her he didn’t really know, already his pocket felt empty. Théodred had given him others since, but this one was special and he had carried it ever since. He experienced a moment’s pang, Théodred’s gift had always been dear to him, but perhaps it would help her more than him now. Anyway, he told himself, what use was a thing if you could not let it go at need.

‘Thank you,’ she said, rubbing her finger along the back of the little horse. I shall keep it safe.’ She looked up at him, her sweet little face all serious. ‘I am certain you will be a great warrior like my father and my brother Elphir, and that you will kill lots of orcs without getting hurt  yourself.’

Not much likelihood of that! But Éomer smiled and ruffled her hair. ‘I am sure your little pendant will keep me protected.’ She watched him intently, her new treasure clutched in her hand, as he tucked the pendant into the pocket which had held the little horse, right next to his heart. ‘There, that is safe there, but now I think you had better wake up that gatekeeper of yours.’

She nodded. ‘But I wish you could come home with me and teach me to ride.’

‘I am afraid that’s not possible.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She sighed a little despondently. ‘But I hope I will see you again sometime.’

Éomer thought it highly unlikely, but he smiled. ‘Perhaps you will, but if we do meet again I am sure I will find you are just as unruly.’

She giggled. ‘They will try to turn me into lady, but I think they are wasting their time.’

No doubt about that, Éomer thought as she skipped off, turning once to wave at him before she knocked on the gate to her house. Éomer waited in the shadow of the wall until the gate opened and he saw her slip inside. He put his hand on his heart where the little pendant lay hidden, praying for her sake that all her brothers would keep safe.

The door had closed tight when Éomer walked past it and belatedly he realised he had not enquired after her name. But they would be unlikely to ever meet again, so he had to consider his little horse lost for all time. Looking up he studied the devices on the stone arch – a ship and a swan like the pendant – and wondered to whom the house belonged. A bell started ringing, breaking his thought, the sound coming from the Citadel above. That meant half an hour until the meal would be served. He just had time for a quick check on Fleetfoot, it would only take him a few minutes to run up through the tunnel to the mess hall afterwards.

The stables were quiet, the horses settled for the night with full haynets, and most likely the stable-hands had already gone for their meal. He walked fast but quietly to the end of the passage and out into an open court. But he stopped when he saw a young man brushing down one of the horses they had brought with them. Tall, with straight black hair, around twenty-two or three, and Éomer thought he had a noble look about him. He certainly wasn’t a stable-hand, easy to tell that by the rich clothing.

The Gondorian put down the brush and ran his hands down the horse’s strong neck before he took hold of the halter and looked straight into its face. ‘You will do for me, my friend. I think we will make a good team.’

‘You have made a good choice there, lord,’ Éomer said stepping forward and giving a quick bow in the manner of the Rohirrim. ‘He is the best of those we brought.’

The Gondorian turned around smiling; he kept hold of the horse with one hand and put the other on his heart bowing as did all the stone-dwellers. ‘Welcome, young man, and especially welcome to one of the Rohirrim who speaks our tongue.’

Éomer laughed and went back to the common tongue. ‘I am out of practice and if we are going to have more than a few words I will find the common speech easier.’

‘Ah,’ said the Gondorian, ‘but the easy way is not always the best.’

‘I suppose not,’ Éomer agreed. ‘But there is scant contact between our realms now, so speaking Sindarin does not seem so important as when my mother made me learn it.’

‘It is a pity,’ the Gondorian said, smiling at him. ‘But I am remiss, we have not introduced ourselves. I am Faramir, son of Denethor.’ He bowed again.

The Steward’s son. He might have guessed. Éomer inclined his head. ‘I am Éomer, son of Éomund.’

Faramir’s brows drew together in thought. ‘That makes you King Théoden’s nephew.’

‘It does. You are very well informed, lord.’

‘I try to know as much as possible about the world around me,’ Faramir answered. ‘But now you must excuse me, I had better take this fine fellow back to his stall or I shall be late for the meal and my father abhors tardiness.’ He led the horse across the court to an open stall. Éomer hurried to where he knew Fleetfoot was housed and of course his horse was waiting expectantly, having heard his voice. He petted his friend, feeding him a piece of apple he had saved. When he turned away he saw that Faramir was waiting for him.

‘Shall we walk up together?’ Faramir asked.

‘I am going to eat in the mess-hall,’ Éomer told him.

Faramir frowned. ‘But I am sure you will be welcome at my father’s table.’

‘So I have been told, lord. But I am here only as a rider in Captain Elfhelm’s éored, and a very junior one at that. I need to establish myself, not show how different I am.’

‘A wise head on young shoulders indeed,’ Faramir said with a smile. ‘I applaud you. But come, we can still walk a ways together.’

They went out into the street where the shadows were longer, the sun sinking over the shoulders of Mount Mindolluin. ‘I assume that the noble families live on this level,’ Éomer remarked. ‘It is very quiet, so different from the lower areas of the city.’

‘Yes, there are only a few houses, mostly belonging to those whose lineage goes back to the founding of Gondor. And farther on,’ Faramir pointed down the street past the Healing Houses, ‘is the closed door which leads to the Hallows where the past Kings and Stewards of Gondor are interred. That alone makes it quite quiet,’ he said with a wry smile.

‘Iimagineso,’ Éomer agreed with a laugh. ‘I walked along some way in that direction. Mostly to enjoy the view and the greenery. On my walk I noticed a large dwelling with a device over the door, it was a ship and a swan. Who does that belong to?’

‘Ahh... that house belongs to my uncle, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. He is the lord of Belfalas, the largest of our Southern Fiefs.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Éomer said, feeling a bit stupid. ‘I should have known that, but somehow it had slipped my mind.’

Faramir laughed. ‘I imagine a young Rohir has more important things to learn about than the devices of far-away princes.’

So was the mischievous child a princess? He smiled.  ‘Aside from anything else I should have remembered because I am sure Théoden King once mentioned something about my grandmother being distantly connected to the House of Dol Amroth.’

Faramir nodded.’ I believe that might be right, although it would be a tenuous connection only. But anyway, you have something in common perhaps more dear to your heart, as Imrahil has always favoured cavalry warfare and leads a highly trained company of Swan-knights.’

‘So I understand; and I now recall that my uncle also told me that the Prince bought some of our horses many years ago. The men of Belfalas must fight the corsairs by land and sea.’

‘That is true. Imrahil’s eldest son is a fair way to following his father in his preference for fighting from horseback, but his second son, Erchirion, has the sea in his blood and recently joined his first ship. But with your shared love of horses,’ Faramir went on, ‘you would no doubt enjoy talking to my uncle. Unfortunately though, he is back in Dol Amroth and only his young daughter, my cousin Lothíriel, together with my Aunt Ivriniel and her husband, are in residence at the moment.’ His face broke into a fond smile. ‘Lothíriel is sweet child, but she is a bit of a handful and leads my aunt a merry dance.’

Lothíriel? A pretty name, and one he would remember. He touched his heart where the pendant lay hidden, hoping again for her sake that her brothers stayed safe. Faramir told him a bit more about Dol Amroth and the Prince’s cavalry, but by this time they had reached the lamp-lit tunnel and they hurried up, neither wanting to be late. Faramir acknowledged the salute of the guards, and stopped a few feet past them. ‘This is where we part for the present, unless you have changed your mind and would like to come with me.’

Éomer shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. My place is with my fellow Riders.’

‘Then I hope we meet again, but in the morning I will be off on that new horse of mine to the outposts, so it will not be for a while.’

Éomer bowed. ‘I will be gone soon, lord. But tell me, what are you going to name your new horse?’

‘I will think on it overnight,’ Faramir said. ‘Perhaps something akin to Rohan’s Pride.’

Éomer laughed. He liked this serious, grey-eyed, young man and he liked Faramir’s boisterous little cousin. He wondered if he would feel the same about the rest of the family and if he would ever have the chance to meet them.

To be continued.

Well, thank you for all the positive response I received for the first chapter.  There are only four in all – it’s just a short, fun scenario to get me back into writing. So I hope you enjoy.

And special thanks to Lia for her beta and continued support. LBJ

Morgengifu 2

Edoras – Last year of the Third Age.

Éomer removed a few strands of hair from his mouth, and moved away slightly so that he could look down on Lothíriel’s face. The lamp had finally gone out, but a thin shaft of sunlight cut across the bed from between the heavy curtains, enough for him to see that her eyes were still tightly closed. As much as he wanted her to wake, he did nothing to hasten the process, acknowledging to himself that she very much needed to sleep. The arduous journey she had made to get here, the three hectic days before the wedding when she had struggled to familiarise herself with a new culture, a new people and a new language, and the lengthy wedding feast would have tired the toughest constitution. And then of course there had been the wedding night itself...

Éomer allowed himself a sigh of pure satisfaction. The last few hours had set the foundation of what he sincerely hoped – and expected – to be a successful and fulfilling marriage. Which could be considered incredible because he could count on two hands the number of days they had spent together beforehand. To occupy himself he started to tick off the times they had actually met – true, there was that first time, although he could discount that as she had been a child and had so far shown no remembrance of the occasion anyway.  But since then he had certainly become acquainted with her family, all of them, and each were in their own way rather a strong willed, unforgettable bunch. Her father was the best of men, one worthy of great respect – the only problem with Imrahil was that he had a knack of getting his own way, wielding words to combat any objections to his plans with the same ease and expertise with which he hefted his illustrious sword.

ooo

In three days, as the King had said, Éomer of Rohan came riding to the City, and with him came an éored of the fairest knights of the Mark. (From the Return of the King by JRR Tolkien.)

Minas Tirith July 18^th 3019

‘I’ll say one thing for these Gondorians, they don’t hold back when there is something to be done.’ Éothain swept his arm around in a wide arc, a gesture intended to encompass most of the Pelennor.

Éomer nodded, impressed by the activity he saw around him. When they had left after Aragorn’s crowning  the land around Minas Tirith had still been showing the ravishes of the desperate battle that had been fought there, but now, not much more than two months later the trenches had been filled in and a great deal of the area put to the plough. Men were rebuilding the homesteads, women casting seed beans over the newly tilled earth and he saw some children laughing together as they erected a scarecrow on one of the planted fields. Éomer doubted that the structure of wood and a few scraps of red cloth, topped by what looked to be a battered Haradrim helmet, would keep many birds away from the feast of seed, but the children were certainly enjoying making the hated effigy. He sighed to himself, thinking of the problems he had left behind in the Riddermark – the children of the Westfold hardly had time to play, every small hand was needed to try and recover from the wanton destruction wrought by a malevolent wizard.

‘Give yourself a break and enjoy some respite from the worry, Éomer. It will do no good. Everyone is doing their best.’

Éomer threw his friend a wry look. ‘Read minds now, do you, Éothain?’

His warrior friend shrugged. ‘It’s not difficult, it’s written all over you. But we shall come through it, we have Gondor’s help.’

‘Yes, you’re right. And more promised.’ Éomer smiled suddenly. ‘Which is a good job, as we’d be hard pressed to feed everyone in any style over the days of Théoden’s funeral feast otherwise.’

Éothain laughed and rubbed his hand across his stomach. ‘Pity we are only here for a few days; I for one am looking forward to the welcome feast tonight. I got quite a taste for Gondorian delicacies after the war.’

‘Which delicacy was that?’ A voice came from behind. ‘One of those things with spicy shrimps on top, or one of those pretties with long black hair?’

Éothain swivelled round glaring. ‘Don’t you start any false rumours!’

‘Too near the bone, Éothain?’ Amusement at the uncomfortable expression on his captain’s face made Éomer chuckle. ‘I am sure I saw you surrounded by a bevy of beauties a few times.’

‘I was only telling them of the ride through the Drúadan Forest and about the wild-men,’ Éothain said quickly, his cheeks reddening.

‘Oh, Éothain would much rather feed his face,’ another rider called out. ‘He’s too scared of his wife to take an interest in anything else.’

A general guffaw of laughter greeted that remark. Éothain didn’t deny it, joining in with the merriment.  ‘It’s true, my Æffe would have my hide if she thought I’d got up to any of those tricks.’

 ‘I don’t blame you being wary,’ Éomer remarked deadpan. ‘I’m always a bit worried about upsetting Æffe myself.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Éothain shot back with a big grin on his face. ‘You know darned well you can do no wrong in her eyes since I took that arrow and you hauled me out of the Entwash before I could be swept away. But,’ he said with a lift of his brows, ‘you watch you don’t upset your friend Aragorn, I’ve never seen you so taken with a woman as you were with his intended.’

Éomer laughed out loud at that. ‘Lady Arwen is an elf, and way above any pretensions of mine. One can admire beauty without wishing to possess it, you know.’ In fact as much as he thought all the elf maidens who came with Arwen and her grandmother were lovely, he felt happier dealing with solid flesh and blood.

‘Never thought I’d see it,’ one the riders remarked. ‘A whole party of the First-born walking up the steps to Meduseld.’

‘Very true,’ Éomer agreed. ‘And we will see it again when we take Théoden’s body home. And what’s more, we will have the pleasure of their company for about three sennights on the road home.’

‘Five days to get here, fifteen to get back,’ Éothain mused. ‘It will be a slow laborious journey.’

‘But think of all those tempting edibles our Gondorian friends will bring with them,’ Éomer reminded him. ‘They are always well organised and provision themselves handsomely. It won’t be just dried meat and oats on the way home.’

‘There is that,’ Éothain agreed, smiling at the thought.

By this time they had nearly reached the gap in the wall where the great gates had been. As his standard bearer approached the entrance, a couple of dozen soldiers marched out forming up to make a guard of honour for the Rohirrim to ride between as they entered the city of stone.

Passing under the broken arch, Éomer stretched out his arm and flexed his fingers, trying to banish the slight stiffness he felt after the long hard ride. He would be glad to get to his quarters and become intimately acquainted with a large tub of hot water. Funny, during the years that had led up to the war cleanliness had never bothered him much, used as he was to riding for days in the same clothes with his hair greasy and lank from its infrequent washing. Now though, he enjoyed being clean and welcomed the feel of newly pressed garments and sheets. Not that he felt himself overly vain but he undoubtedly took pleasure in wearing clothes that were not always torn and blooded as they mostly were during the days before Sauron fell.  How much of that change he owed to his newly obtained Gondorian friends he was not sure, but he certainly did not wish them to think he, or indeed the Rohirrim in general, could not hold themselves proudly. He looked down at his boots; a day or two of rain on the journey had not contributed to them looking their best.

‘Someone to meet us,’ Éothain murmured from beside him.

Éomer jerked his head up from the contemplation of his footwear to see Faramir, astride a well- muscled bay, waiting for him in the middle of the square.  Wearing his favoured dark grey raiment with his long black hair brushing his shoulders, Faramir looked as neat and noble as he always did.

‘Éomer!’ Faramir bowed his head as Éomer urged Firefoot forward.   Pleased to see his future brother, Éomer held out his arm as he came level with the Steward. ‘You are here right on time,’ Faramir observed as he grasped Éomer’s outstretched hand.

‘It was without a doubt an easier journey than last time.’ But instead of saying any more, not wanting to follow that particular line of thought, Éomer ran his eyes over Faramir’s gelding. ‘I see you are as good a judge of horseflesh as ever, my friend.’

Faramir smiled, and smoothed a well-manicured hand down his horse’s neck. ‘The best of those you left us, I think.’

Éomer nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, and he looks to have recovered well.’ Just as they’d had to leave injured Riders in the Healing Houses, many wounded horses had remained in Minas Tirith, some more severely affected than others. Most would hopefully make the journey back to the Mark, but Éomer had gifted a number to Gondor’s captains. Idly he wondered if he would be as keen on having Faramir wed his sister had the man not been such a natural horseman. It was an intriguing thought. But he had liked Denethor’s second-born  since their first meeting many years before, and after the war, in spite of Faramir’s injuries, he had recognised the expert warrior under the covering of a man heavy with wisdom and lore. Besides that, eyes told you a lot about a person, and Faramir’s grey eyes had always held truth and astute perception. He knew he could trust Éowyn to this fine son of Gondor.

‘I hope your sister is well,’ Faramir said as though he was picking up his thoughts.

Éomer could see the light of expectation in Faramir’s normally cool expression and for a moment was tempted to keep him waiting, but taking pity he reached inside his tunic, struggling to extract the bulky package. ‘I have a letter for you.’ He passed it over to a waiting hand. Faramir glanced at it for a moment, a faint smile quirking his lips, before he tucked it carefully into the folds of his own tunic.

‘If I needed any proof that my sister’s affections were truly engaged then that letter would easily suffice. I have never known her write anything other than a short scrawl before.’

Faramir laughed but made no comment, signalling his escort to move. ‘Let us ride up to the citadel, Éomer. You will wish for refreshment, I think.’

After a word with Éothain to make sure the men were well-quartered, Éomer pulled off his gauntlets and eased himself in the saddle; he could let Firefoot take himself up the hill without too much attention, the capricious war-horse too weary to make mischief.  He flashed a grin to Faramir. ‘Never mind the refreshment, I need a bath.’

‘Really?’ Faramir raised one dark brow. ‘My uncle told me that you and Aragon neither washed nor changed your clothes for the whole journey to the Black Gate, whilst he...’

‘I know...’ Éomer broke into a chuckle... ‘Imrahil managed to look clean and tidy all the way through. How he did it I will never know.’

‘Determination, I imagine. My uncle has plenty of it.  Which reminds me, he has asked me to extend an invitation for you to take the noon meal at his house. He said he will give you time to clean up and refresh yourself, and then come to escort you. Aragorn is tied up with some matter of government at present, but plans to meet you before the feast tonight.’

‘I will gladly eat with Imrahil. But there is no need for him to escort me, I know my way to his house well enough.’

‘Of course, but it seems that my uncle wishes to talk to you privately about something.’

‘Fine.  Whatever he wishes,’ Éomer responded amiably. Imrahil had become a good friend to himself and the Riddermark. Much of the aid that had already been given had come from Belfalas and the prince had promised a great deal more over the next few months, even to sending sheep once the Dimholt was open, but since any details could be thrashed out during the long ride back to Edoras, Éomer could think of nothing that immediately needed his attention. However, Imrahil would soon enlighten him, so he wasted no time surmising and instead enjoyed an interesting conversation with Faramir as to the steps made to return prisoners to their homelands and start negotiations for long- term peace with the lands to the east. A forlorn hope in his opinion, but it had to be tried.

Faramir accompanied him to the stables and after Éomer had insured that Firefoot was housed comfortably, they walked up to the citadel together, parting at the open door of one of the lavish guest chambers in the King’s House. Outside a Gondorian guard stood on duty, inside the manservant assigned to him had already unpacked his saddlebags, laying out the spare clothes Éomer had brought with him on top of an ornate chest.

The man bowed. ‘I will have these brushed and pressed while you bathe, lord.’ His eyes dropped to Éomer’s feet.  ‘And clean your boots.’

With an inward chuckle to himself, Éomer assented to this and set about unbuckling his sword, allowing the servant to help him with his hauberk and boots.  Once his soiled garments had been taken away, he sank thankfully into a tubful of warm water.

A while later, clean, refreshed and sipping from a goblet of dark red wine, Éomer looked around the chamber taking in the rich hangings surrounding the bed and the moulded relief on the ceiling. Both, as far as he could tell, depicted scenes from the Battle of Dagorlad. Perhaps someone had thought he would appreciate a battle-themed room, which said a lot for his reputation around here. He never got a chance to think more about that as he heard voices outside, immediately recognising that one belonged to Imrahil. From the conversation he guessed a couple of men from his éored had replaced the Gondorian guard – Éothain left nothing to chance. Chuckling to himself, he stood up from the armchair in which he had been relaxing just as there was a rap on the door. Instead of calling out to enter, Éomer strode to the door and flung it wide, smiling as he encountered the imposing figure of the Prince of Dol Amroth.  As always Imrahil looked immaculate in dark blue; he stood straight-backed, only a few streaks of grey in his black hair giving witness to his age, otherwise he could easily be mistaken for one of his sons.

The prince told his guards to wait and stepped inside. ‘It is good to see you again, my young friend.’

The two warriors embraced, celebrating a friendship formed on the battlefield but which had deepened during the time they spent at Cormallen, as Éomer had sought to learn from a leader of men whose  age and experience far exceeded his own. He always enjoyed Imrahil’s company and this early meeting pleased him. ‘You have impeccable timing as always. I have just finished getting dressed and was waiting for you.’  Éomer indicated the pitcher of wine and the goblet waiting to be filled. Imrahil smiled his agreement, sitting down in the second chair whilst Éomer poured him a drink.

‘Here’s to peace,’ Imrahil said, raising his goblet once Éomer had taken up his place and his wine.

‘May it last till the world ends.’ Éomer responded.

A sardonic look met that remark and for a while they talked of things pertaining to the aftermath of a ruinous war. Éomer had no qualms about telling Imrahil about his worries and concerns.

The prince listened intently, an expression of sympathy on his face, but his words were positive and designed to encourage hope. ‘The aid is there for you, Éomer. Get through this winter and things will improve; once your people are fed and housed you will be able to give your mind to the enjoyment of life. Rohan will recover; new ties with Gondor will mean opportunities to trade, which will provide a more comfortable existence for all your folk

Éomer sighed, not liking to be so beholden, but knowing he had no choice but to accept help. ‘My people are working as hard as they can, but it is mostly thanks to your efforts that we will survive the winter, Imrahil. Aragorn, I know, will give us anything in his power, but the majority of the food we require has to come from Belfalas. I can only thank you that you are providing this before we can send you enough horses to repay the debt.’

Imrahil shook his head. ‘The debt is ours, Éomer. And the coffers of Gondor will pay any dues. When you have horses to trade then we shall be pleased to barter with you. Until then you must not be too proud to accept the help you need.’

‘You have given me help from almost the moment we met, my friend. Your wise counsel has been invaluable to one inexperienced in the ways of kingship.’ Éomer stood up and reached for the wine-jug, refilling Imrahil’s goblet.

‘Thank you.’ The prince took a sip and looked up, hesitating a little before he said.  ‘Éomer, you tread a steady and straight path. I have no doubt you will lead your people well, but if you will allow me, there is one issue I would like to bring up. A different matter I may be able to help you with.’

‘And that is?’ Éomer filled his own goblet and went to put the jug back on the table just as Imrahil said.

‘Have you given thought to taking a wife?’

What! Éomer turned slowly, staring hard at the prince, tempted to tell him to go to Mordor. Only his deep respect and gratitude for Imrahil’s support stopped him.  He sat back down, which gave him time to temper his displeasure.  A moment later he found himself able to answer in a controlled voice. ‘Are you going to tell me it is my duty to do so without delay, Imrahil?  If so, I have heard that many times these last weeks. And I promise you I am well aware of the necessity of marriage, but a suitable wife does not appear at the very time one decides it might be a good idea to wed. Be assured that once the present problems are behind us, I will make an effort in that direction.’

Imrahil’s lips twitched as he observed the annoyance in Éomer’s expression, but he didn’t draw back. ‘Ahh... as I suspected, your heart is not engaged and it sounds like there is no particular woman you have in mind for the role of wife and queen. Or am I wrong in that?’

Suddenly Éomer wanted to laugh, wondering why anyone, even such a good friend, should think he would give an account of any amorous affairs he might be enjoying. He said, with more than a chuckle in his voice, ‘I have had no time these past few years to fix my interest in a suitable lady if that is what you mean.’

Probably guessing his thoughts, Imrahil lips quirked into an amused smile.  ‘In that case, Éomer, I have a proposal for you.’

‘You have?’ Éomer waited, wondering what noble lady the Gondorians had picked out for him. Not that it would do any good, for he would wed at no one’s command.

The prince regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Yes, I am sure I am right. I think you could do no better than to consider wedding my daughter Lothíriel. She would make you a fine wife and queen.’

‘Your daughter!’ Éomer nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise. ‘But she’s no more than a child!’

Imrahil’s brows drew together in a bemused frown. ‘Lothíriel is twenty; I would hardly call her a child.’

Almost unconsciously Éomer’s hand went to the area of his tunic over his heart; he could just feel the small silver pendant that lay tucked in the hidden pocket. He had carried it ever since she had given it to him. Not that he was overly superstitious, but not long after that visit to Minas Tirith his patrol had been attacked by orcs with him being the only one not to sustain a wound. Fight had followed fight over the years and the longer he escaped any serious injury, the more he treasured his little lucky charm. Twenty! He couldn’t imagine it.  If ever he thought of Imrahil’s daughter, a picture of a mischievous child with huge, silver-grey eyes came into his mind.

‘I am sure I mentioned that she was a bit younger than Amrothos,’ Imrahil went on when Éomer was stunned to silence.

‘I don’t remember that,’ Éomer said at last. He took a gulp of wine taking the time to collect his thoughts.  For no particular reason he had never mentioned to Imrahil that long ago meeting with his daughter. Perhaps, he reflected, because it had taken place when he was young, in a different, more carefree time untouched by war. That had soon changed, but he had held on to that memory, and others, such as racing his pony through the long grass around Aldburg with his friends, keeping the innocent past  safe from the blemish of reality. Realising the prince must think he was behaving oddly in not answering, he smiled. ‘Somehow I imagined her younger than twenty. But twenty is still young in comparison to me. And very young to be made a queen.’

‘I doubt any wedding would take place until next year, Éomer. Lothiriel would then be nearing twenty-two. And I can assure you that she has the sense, confidence and understanding of someone much older. But you will see that, I am sure, when you meet. Besides,’ Imrahil said, smiling as he went on, ‘the age-gap is nothing. Faramir is twelve years older than Éowyn and that bothers no one.’

‘And before you point it out to me’, Éomer quipped, ‘I very well know that Arwen is three thousand years older than Aragorn!’ Imrahil chuckled at that and Éomer continued with his real objection. ‘The big difference is not the disparity in age, more that Faramir and my sister wanted to marry each other. At home we call it falling in love.’

‘You need to meet before you have any hope of falling in love with anyone, Éomer. And don’t tell me that the sons and daughters of Rohan’s nobility are not sometimes put in the way of one another, because I wouldn’t believe you.’

Éomer was just going to deny this when he remembered how one year Elfhelm had deliberately taken his daughter to the Hornburg to join in the Yule celebrations, admitting that he hoped she would look kindly on Erkenbrand’s eldest son. And Théoden himself had suggested Dúnhere of Harrowdale as a match for Hama’s daughter.  Acknowledging that Imrahil’s words held truth he said, ‘So if you just want us to see how we get on, why are we having this conversation? You could have introduced her and said nothing.’

The prince studied him over the top of his goblet, a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘I could, and therefore not have risked putting your back up!’

Éomer shrugged. ‘I should know by now that you are ever reluctant to withdraw from any conflict.  So you might as well say whatever is in your mind and have done with it.’

‘I agree that it would have been a better way, and had there been many opportunities for you to spend time getting to know each other I would have allowed that to happen. But circumstances dictate our actions and in a few days you will be leagues apart and by the time you have fully prepared Rohan for the lean days ahead, winter will have thrust its icy grip between you. I thought it better to tell you of my proposal so that you could spend some productive time together today to help you come to a decision.’

 Éomer took a gulp of his wine, mostly to collect his thoughts. Were marriages so arranged in Gondor that feelings didn’t come into it? And he doubted if he would be interested anyway. Especially if she had changed from the cheeky urchin he remembered, to the confident, overly mature, princess Imrahil described.

 ‘It’s impossible, Imrahil.  I am only here for a few days, not enough time to decide on so important a matter.’

The prince let a small smile flicker across his face, as if he did not want to give away how amused he was. ‘It’s worse than that, Éomer: Lothíriel intends to return to Dol Amroth tomorrow.’

Did he hear that right!  Staggered by the very idea, Éomer stopped lounging in the chair and sat up straight, staring at the prince. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I decide by the end of today if I wish to marry your daughter?’

Imrahil nonchalantly flicked a piece of fluff from his doeskin breeches before he answered. ‘As I said, I doubt you will be able to visit Gondor for a while, so yes, I suppose I am expecting you to come to a decision.’ He looked straight at Éomer, his enigmatic eyes fixed on him. ‘Believe me, Éomer, I would not be so forceful did I not think it the right thing for you to do. With all the changes coming to Middle-earth, you need a wife that will be able to support you in every way. I have confidence that Lothíriel could do that and will help ease the burdens you will face in the coming years. Besides, you must see that there could be no better way to strengthen the friendship between us.’

‘Us?’

‘Gondor and Rohan.’ The prince favoured him with a disarming smile. ‘Our personal friendship, Éomer, will not be affected, whatever you decide.’

Éomer let out a long sigh; he didn’t want to be rude to the prince and could perhaps see some merit in being united more closely with him. But many doubts assailed him, even if when they met he and the princess got on well.  ‘The last Gondorian to be Queen of the Riddermark did not appreciate the culture our people thrive on. She did many good things, but insisting on Sindarin or Westron being spoken in the Golden Hall was not one of them.  And I understand that she went back to Gondor with unseemly haste when Thengel died. Even if I agreed to this, how do you know that your daughter would be happy living in the Mark?’

‘The difference is that it would be her choice, Éomer.’  I spoke to your grandmother some years ago and she explained to me that when she married Thengel there was no talk of going to Rohan. He had fallen out with his father so badly that he really thought the crown would go to,’ the prince hesitated, trawling his memory ‘...some relation of yours with an ounce or two of Eorl’s blood...

‘Eoforwine,’ Éomer supplied. ‘Son of my great-aunt.’

‘Yes, that’s right.  But Morwen told me that he died fighting Dunlendings, and so after Fengel’s death the council called Thengel home.  She did not want to leave Gondor, but loyally followed her husband. It is different with Lothíriel, for whoever she marries she would be likely to leave Dol Amroth. True, living in Rohan will different for her. But so would it be if she married into the nobility of one of the Southern Fiefs, as she would be a stranger there too.  And believe me there are only a few men to whom I would entrust my daughter and even less places where she would find an outlet for her talents. I do not wish to see her rusticating in some out of the way castle where nothing happens. ’

‘Let me think a moment.’ Éomer dropped his head in his hands as thoughts whirled around his head. Had it been any other than Imrahil suggesting such a thing, he would have shown him the door. Aye, and probably kicked him through it. But he couldn’t treat his noble friend like that, and what was more, he knew the prince believed in what he was suggesting. But to make such an important decision after not even a day to get to know a woman was ridiculous. He was not such a fool that he expected to wed anyone he took a fancy too, his duty to the Mark would not countenance such a course, but he did expect to have strong feelings for his future wife and to be sure they would deal well together. If Imrahil’s daughter, young though he thought her to be, was capable of stirring his heart, then he had to agree she might be a sensible choice. But on one meeting... Éomer suddenly became aware of a question to be asked.  There lay an obvious answer to this madness...

‘Why is your daughter returning to Dol Amroth, Imrahil? If you are set on this plan, surely the best course of action is to bring her with you when we ride for Edoras. Many wagons are going...’

Imrahil held up his hand, stopping him from going on. ‘It is not the journey that prevents her coming with us, and she would not need a wagon, as she rides well. No, it is my anxious son who has obtained a promise from Lothíriel that she will return home within a few days.’

‘Anxious son?’ Éomer had met all three and not to one of them would he assign that label.

‘Elphir,’ Imrahil made clear, in a voice tinged with more than a little irritation. ‘You have met him and are aware that in battle there is none better, he is fearless and even a little reckless. But when it comes to the slightest danger to his family, then he is as nervous as an unarmed man in a lion pit. His wife, Míril, is near her time. It will be her second child and Míril’s mother will not be able to attend the birth owing to succumbing to the ague this last year.  Elphir wants Lothíriel there to support Míril and she wants Lothíriel at home to keep Elphir sane. Unfortunately she gave her word before I...’

‘Hatched your plans?’ Éomer provided, his voice sharp with suppressed anger.

The prince shrugged, the gleam in his eye showing he felt no embarrassment or fear of the royal temper.  ‘My daughter made a promise and whatever other considerations there are, she will stick to it.’

Imrahil said no more, waiting for a response. Éomer sighed, letting go his annoyance, and deep in thought he picked at the braiding on the arm of the chair, not wanting to commit to anything he might later regret. But he would have to meet her, no getting away from that. As for anything else –he still couldn’t imagine coming to any agreement with Imrahil by the end of today, and what about Lothíriel herself? What did she think of her father’s plans? Surprising himself by how calm he felt, he said with a touch of humour in his voice, ‘And what of your daughter, Imrahil, is she willing to fall in with this scheme of yours, or have you not told her?’

‘If it wasn’t for the need to meet you, Éomer, she would already be on her way home.  Be assured, there is no way I would coerce Lothíriel to marry or indeed do anything else against her will. To be honest even if I wished to I would likely stand no chance.’ His eyes sparkled with some inner merriment, which probably spoke well of Lothíriel’s character.  ‘But she is mindful of her duty,’ the prince carried on, ‘as well as the responsibilities her privileged position gives her. As I said, there are only a few men I would happily betroth her to, and most are in Minas Tirith at this time. Lothíriel has been here since before Arwen arrived and she has met none that have claimed her heart. When I put this suggestion to her she looked thoughtful but not dismayed. She asked me many questions about you and also listened intently to anything not only her brothers had to say but Aragorn and Arwen also. A few days ago she told me she would be happy to meet you with a view to a betrothal.’ Imrahil stared at him, only a quirk of an eyebrow giving away his amusement. ‘But of course if she finds you repulsive, I will not hold her to anything.’

‘Thank you,’ Éomer said with a resigned edge to his voice, not feeling at all humorous. ‘I can imagine little that is more awkward than a meeting under the circumstances you describe.’

‘Your position makes this kind of thing necessary, Éomer. I am sure you are capable of rising above any perceived embarrassment.’

To be continued.

Chapter 3

Edoras – Last year of the Third Age

The room was light enough now to make out the shapes of the furniture and the placement of the wall hangings. Éomer could hear sounds filtering in through the open window – voices calling as the men made their way down to the stables. He heard one of the stallions sounding off and remembered that the stable-master had said that one of his favourite mares was likely to reach her sweet-time today.  Normally that would have had him leaping out of bed eager to witness the Mark’s robust breeding plans in action. They needed all the good horses they could get, as Imrahil would buy as many as he could provide. Imrahil – a quirk of a smile turned up Éomer’s lips as he cast his eyes over his still sleeping wife – the Prince of Dol Amroth had been extremely eager to contribute to a very different breeding scheme that had started to take place in The Riddermark, hopefully that one would be successful too.

Minas Tirith July 18^th 3019

The first thing that struck Éomer when he walked through the open gate into the courtyard of Imrahil’s house was the quiet. During the few days between the Battle of the Pelennor and his departure for the march to Mordor he had stayed here, along with many of his senior men and numerous of Imrahil’s Swan-knights.  After they had returned to the city, he had lodged in the citadel with Aragorn, but still the house had been overflowing with warriors, and the courtyard with horses, every time he had visited.

Today, only the soft drone of bees disturbed the peace. The place smelt different too, not that back then the odour of horse, dung and unwashed men had disturbed him, but he infinitely preferred the heady scent of a deep pink rose that wantonly scrambled over the inner archway and provided a colourful entrance to the house.

A guard stepped forward to open the heavy, studded door and Éomer followed Imrahil inside the cool hallway. He remembered that he had last seen it choked with weapons and armour, but now only flowers welcomed them – a great bunch of sweet-smelling lilies stood on an ornate coffer.  ‘Very different than last time I was here,’ Éomer remarked, sniffing appreciatively.

Imrahil flashed him a speculative look. ‘There is nothing like a woman’s touch to make life more pleasant, Éomer.’

Éomer didn’t deign to reply to that. Which made Imrahil chuckle, even more so when he witnessed the angry scowl thrown at him.  But saying no more, he led them up the wide stone stairs and through to the dining hall that ran along the side of the house, its windows facing towards the west.   Liveried servants were loading the table with platters of food and two men lounged in chairs at one end of the long table, drinking from silver goblets. Both jumped to their feet as Imrahil and Éomer entered. Erchirion, being the nearest, reached him first. The prince quickly set down his wine, honoured him with a scanty but respectful bow and held out his hand, which Éomer grasped willingly.  All three of Imrahil’s sons bore considerable likeness to their father, but Erchirion stood out from the other two owing to his deeply tanned complexion and the gold ring he wore in one ear. Éomer had met him when he had commanded the dromond bringing Aragorn to the Harlond, Erchirion’s own ship having been run aground on one of the sandbanks in the great river after he had set her against three great black-sailed war-ships from Umbar, trying desperately to protect Pelargir from being overrun.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Éomer said. ‘I never thought to find you in the city; you couldn’t wait to get back to sea last time we met. And I remember you were keen to refloat your ship, have you managed it?’

‘Yes.’ A look of pleasure and satisfaction crossed Erchirion’s face. ‘Luckily they had not fired her, and she was not too badly damaged. Meant to keep her for themselves, I imagine. But The Lady Mithrellas has been repaired and lies in the Harlond, waiting to transport my sister home tomorrow.’

Éomer offered no more than a smile at that. Thinking that if they were definitely sending her back to Dol Amroth, it put an end to any thought of him agreeing to Imrahil’s wishes.

Erchirion did not seem to notice his reticence and carried on talking about his ship and his plans. ‘Our navy will be the best for many years, as we have salvaged several of the war-ships that came out of Umbar and are refitting them to serve Gondor.’

‘Never mind the talk of ships; Éomer is unlikely to be interested unless they are carrying something useful like food or wine.’ Pushing his brother out of the way, Amrothos held out his hand, a big welcoming smile on his handsome face.

‘Or horses,’ Erchirion added with a grin.  He stepped back to allow room for his brother. ‘I have yet to convince our Horse-lord that his equine friends actually travel well on board ship.’

Éomer shook his head, chuckling. ‘I believe you, although it seems unnatural to me. But then many of my beliefs have been turned on their heads these last months. After I witnessed trees walking across our land, I ceased to be surprised by anything. ’

Amrothos rolled his eyes. ‘What about the net-weavers of the golden woods. I had a long talk to Éothain before you went back to Rohan; he was very wary of your plan to offer the Lórien elves hospitality, thinking they might put a spell on you all.’

‘Sour the ale, you mean? Or turn us into toads?’  Éomer laughed. ‘I think you will find he has changed his mind.’

‘I can believe that, having met them.’ Amrothos shook his head in wonder. ‘The elves have certainly livened up this city. And put a lot of high-bred noses out of joint; beauty having taken on a new meaning since the elf-maidens arrived.’ He let out an awed sigh which made his brother laugh.

‘You keep hoping they will notice you, but they see you as no more than an infant.  And a fractious one at that.’

‘Well, they certainly won’t be interested in you,’ Amrothos shot back. ‘You have no social graces and brine for blood. All you can talk about is ships...’

‘And elves are very interested in ships,’ Erchirion interrupted with a smirk on his face.

‘Éomer, tell those two to shut up! They haven’t even offered you a drink.’ Imrahil waved his sons out of the way and indicated a chair at the near end of the table. ‘Do sit down, the food is all prepared, but we will have to wait for Lothíriel to join us.’

Bowing ironically to his father, Erchirion filled a goblet and passed it over. Éomer thanked him and sat down, letting his gaze flicker over the vast array of food on the table. Erchirion took a seat beside him and Amrothos leant against the table so he could join in their talk. Seeing his sons were now properly playing host, Imrahil turned away to converse with his steward.  As soon as his father was engrossed in conversation, Erchirion leant close and said with a low laugh, ‘We are surprised our esteemed father managed to get you here. Amrothos and I were wagering as to whether you would turn tail and run for it when you heard what he had planned for you.’

Erchirion hadn’t spoken quietly enough and behind him, Imrahil let out an irritated sigh. But Éomer didn’t react,  after all no one could actually force him to marry, and he had always enjoyed the way Imrahil’s sons tended to mock their father whilst at the same time giving him utmost respect. He took a big gulp of his wine and carefully put the goblet down, looking straight at Erchirion with a steely stare. ‘All sorts of plans can be made, Erchirion, but no objective can be reached until they are actually executed.’

‘How true!’ Amrothos’ eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘But if you don’t mind, Éomer, don’t scupper them quite yet, or father will not get out any more of this excellent wine. I think he intends to get you under the influence of Gondor’s finest, so that you will agree to anything.’

‘Amrothos...!’ Imrahil’s voice cut in like a whiplash, but his youngest son only snorted in amusement. ‘Oh, I’m only joking, we all know that Éomer could drink a barrel dry and not fall under the table. Which makes me think we’ve got no chance of splicing him to my sister.  Still,’ he murmured reflectively, ‘stranger things have happened.’

‘Éomer,’ Imrahil dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I apologise. If I had thought that this would happen I would never have taken these two rogues into my confidence. And had time not been so short, I assure you that I would never have done so!’

‘Oh, come on, Father,’ Amrothos rebuked him with a disarming smile. ‘Lothy would have told us anyway, you know that. She would have wanted our advice...’ He threw a grin towards Erchirion who was busying himself with the wine jug, probably to hide his amusement from his father. ‘In fact she did ask our advice, being that we spent considerable time in your company, Éomer. ’

Éomer was not sure what to reply; if these two thought the deal was done they were sadly mistaken. Erchirion topped up his goblet and he picked it up, taking a slow sip of the rich wine to give himself time to think. But a moment’s reflection told him that the truth always worked best.  ‘I feel that I had better make clear that I have no intention of offering for your sister, or in fact any other woman, on a day’s acquaintance. However suitable Princess Lothíriel might appear to be, I am looking for more in a wife than compliance and civility. And the fact that she agreed to this without meeting me worries me greatly.’

Amrothos let out a hearty chuckle. ‘Oh don’t worry, Éomer,’ Lothy will probably manage to be compliant for no more than an hour at most. After that she turns into a veritable arch-wife.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Éomer. My sister is generally even tempered and suitable in every way.’ Erchirion for one had obviously decided to stop fooling around as he had a serious look on his face. He carried on in an even, conciliatory tone, obviously prepared to give his support to this folly.  ‘I was surprised when she showed no disinclination to fall in with Father’s plans, but on reflection I have decided that you and Rohan would be good for her. Her choices are limited here.’

‘That’s as may be, my friend,’ Éomer growled, struggling with his temper. ‘But I have no intention of marrying to suit anyone’s convenience, be it your father’s or yours and certainly not your sister’s. You will not force me into this.’

‘I am sure they won’t, my lord. I imagine that no one has ever forced you into doing anything you do not wish to do. It would be stupid to change that now, don’t you think?’

Éomer froze, closing his eyes as the full force of embarrassment hit him. The voice that had come from behind him was melodious and refined, with not a hint of censure or displeasure. But he still felt like a naughty child caught out in some misdemeanour. Slowly he stood up and started to turn around, wondering what the hell he was going to say. But Amrothos beat him to it anyway

‘That’s what comes of gliding about in that silent way you have, Lothy, you hear things you are not meant to hear.’

Amrothos’ interruption gave him the chance to take in the elegantly gowned lady. Lady! That didn’t fit in with his memories. She looked the epitome of a Gondorian noblewoman, her fine eyebrows arching in mockery as she fenced with her brother.

‘I am not at all silent, brother dear, it is just that you make an incredible amount of noise.’

‘That’s unjust; I wasn’t even talking at that moment,’ Amrothos shot back.

Erchirion let out an appreciative chuckle. ‘No, but Lothy’s right, you usually are shouting about something.’

‘Éomer...’ Imrahil took his arm and quelled his sons with a look. ‘Allow me to present my daughter, Lothíriel.’

Not seeming to be a bit put out by his rude outburst, the princess gave him a gracious smile and bowed. Lifting her head, she met his stare boldly,  causing him to stammer out a hurried apology.

‘My lady, I am sorry ...but…’ he hesitated, unusually inarticulate and not having had time to make up any real excuse.

However, Lady Lothíriel interrupted with a slight inclination of her head and another polite smile. ‘But you were under pressure from my forceful family, believe me I can understand that. And why apologise for speaking the truth, my lord? As I understand it, plain speaking is something the Rohirrim pride themselves on.’

‘True, but not at the expense of good manners, I hope.’ He had been trying to see if he could recognise any of the child in her, but had it not been for her big sliver-grey eyes, he would have thought he was looking at a different person entirely. All Imrahil’s family were good to look at and she was no exception – smooth pale skin, well-shaped red lips and fine delicate bone structure.  He supposed it helped, but he determined not be seduced by a pretty face. And Imrahil had been right when he said she had confidence, as with a pleasant nod to him she turned to give orders to the servants for the serving of the meal, not showing any discomfiture at the awkward situation.

Éomer had rarely sat through a more bizarre meal.  Erchirion and Amrothos laughed and joked, telling stories, reminiscing on the evenings they had enjoyed at Cormallen, and asking about various Rohirrim with whom they were acquainted, jumping in even when he tried to make remarks to their sister. Lothíriel herself remained studiously polite. It was almost as if she had been warned by a strict tutor on the correct way to behave when in the presence of a king.  Not for one moment could he see the mischievous child he remembered in this accomplished and gracious hostess. She helped him to food from the various dishes, enquired into his sister’s health and passed knowledgeable comments on the problems of rebuilding homes and ensuring supplies reached those most in need. Was she really content to leave negotiations regarding her marriage to her father?  Imrahil had refuted the idea that he would be forcing her into something she did not wish to do, and nothing in her manner or bearing showed Éomer that she was in any way discomposed by the situation, but neither did he detect any enthusiasm on her part. 

A dull, courteous marriage was not what he wanted at all and he had decided that he would tell Imrahil a definite no – right after the feast that night. It was only when he looked up suddenly and caught her unawares that he realised there was a gleam of amusement lurking in those big eyes.  A suspicion entered his mind that he was not seeing the whole person here and for the first time he felt intrigued. That did not mean he would fall in with Imrahil’s plans and he certainly had no intention of committing himself that very day, but it did make him think it would be worth talking to her alone. Anyway it would be more polite to tell her his reasons for refusal himself rather than pass cold words on through her father.

By the time he had to leave to meet up with Aragorn, he had formed the intention of talking to the princess that night. Presumably if Imrahil was keen to promote this match, then he would raise no objection to Éomer taking his daughter for a stroll around the gardens later. He stood up, bowing slightly to her. ‘My Lady, perhaps you would spare me some time tonight, I think we need to talk.’ All eyes were on him, expectation showing on three different faces. Only hers remained unreadable, just the slight wariness in her silver eyes giving away the possibility that she was not quite as unaffected by the situation as she was trying to make out.  He dropped his voice so only she could hear, ‘I will endeavour to have my men pour some strong drink down your brothers’ throats, that way we may even be able to talk uninterrupted for a few moments.’

That at least made her smile. ‘A cudgel over the head might have better effect!’

So she did have a sense of humour. Perhaps if he had time to get to know her a little more, then he might feel better about Imrahil’s proposal. But as it was, he couldn’t see himself agreeing to it. After a few words of farewell to his host, Éomer headed back out into the sunshine. He had been looking forward to this visit and meeting up with his friends, now he thought he would have been better off staying in the Mark.

ooo

The feast dragged on and on with typical Gondorian tedium – no raucous songs, no arguments between men in their cups and the ladies generally kept a respectable distance between themselves and any male they were sitting next to.  In the Mark it was more usual for couples to cuddle close, not sit with their noses in the air talking politely.  But Gondorian manners didn’t stop many hopefuls eying him as if he were the main course with not enough to go round, which might have amused him had not Imrahil already threatened his equanimity that day.  Sitting on the raised platform next to Aragorn, Éomer couldn’t help but enjoy himself as he always appreciated Aragorn’s conversation and dry wit, but even so he’d be quite glad when the evening ended and he could retire in peace. Before that however he had to give an answer to Gimli – the dwarf had reminded him earlier that he expected a response on the question of Lady Galadriel’s beauty. Also he had to talk to Imrahil’s daughter and make it clear that however high-born, attractive and suitable she might be, if she intended to return to Dol Amroth the next day then he had no intention of committing himself.

At last – the food was being cleared away. All he had to do now was sit through a few speeches, and he’d already told Aragorn to keep it short and to the point! Pity he hadn’t told Faramir the same, he mused as his mind wandered after a few minutes of rhetoric– Gondor’s Steward never being at a loss for things to say. Éomer suddenly started as he belatedly realized everyone was standing up to toast him – damnation now he had to respond.

Having dredged up a few suitable words from somewhere, he could only be thankful when the formal part of the evening was over and the guests could mingle and talk informally – at least with the hall so full no dancing had been planned, which saved him being targeted by determined parents. It would take a lot of nerve for anyone to push their daughter forward when he was engrossed in talking to Master Elrond and his sons and he made sure he kept himself fully engaged. But after a while out of the corner of his eye he noticed Imrahil a few feet away speaking with his daughter and Faramir. Excusing himself he joined them and in a few minutes was steering Lady Lothíriel through the press of people towards one of the open doors.

‘We seem to be attracting an inordinate amount of attention,’ he murmured as he saw heads turn and remarks made behind raised hands.

‘I am afraid many are interested in your doings, it gives them something to gossip about.’

Damn. Had he set her up to be the centre of speculation? Now he realised that singling her out had been a stupid thing to have done and probably raised false hopes. He should have given his refusal to Imrahil right at the beginning. He had to make his position clear at once.  Not quite yet though as they were not the only ones to have sought respite from the heat of the hall and enjoy the beautiful evening.  The sun had recently set, but red fire still blazed across the western sky and many were taking in the dramatic spectacle.  Acknowledging numerous bows with a few polite words, Éomer gradually led his companion towards a place on the wall that looked reasonably unpopulated.

‘Those crass words you overheard at the midday meal must have told you that I am not in favour of your father’s plan for us, Lady Lothíriel,’ he said as soon as they were in no danger of being eavesdropped. ‘But I feel it’s only polite that I offer you an explanation of my reasons.  One day is not enough time to make up one’s mind on such an important issue.’

‘Certainly it isn’t,’ she agreed in a level voice. ‘My father, I am sure, has been considering the matter for quite some time.’

‘Well, I haven’t!’ he shot back before he could stop himself. Did she really think that only her father’s wishes counted? ‘And I am surprised you are acquiescent to this.’ He stared down at her, ready to make his refusal to cooperate even more blunt, but realised her lips were twitching.  So she found it funny?

‘Sometimes when faced with an irrepressible force, it is better to be seen to comply,’ she said with a ghost of a laugh. ‘I considered all the facts, gained information from all I could and decided I would cooperate. But I am not at all offended that you are not agreeable, as my brothers told me you were unlikely be coerced into doing anything against your will, no matter how persuasive my father.’

Did that mean she expected – even wanted – him to refuse?  It seemed a risky strategy if she was not totally in agreement with this.  ‘But what if I had agreed straightaway to your father’s suggestion?’

She shrugged. ‘Be assured, my father would not have forced me, had I met you and taken against the idea, so it seemed better to concur and see what happened. I could not imagine you would consent without talking to me first and would want a willing bride. A Gondorian might not, one who wished only to better himself. But you have no need of that and I surmised you would actually want to know who you were being asked to wed and be sure of my compliance.’

 ‘Undoubtedly  it is the right way to proceed,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps if you could see your way to coming to Edoras when we leave...’

‘It’s impossible,’ she interrupted. ‘I gave my word before I knew my father had hatched this plan. Already I have stayed here longer than I intended.’

Éomer nodded, he could hardly blame her for that. But it was a pity, as in all other respects than her too correct manner she would be suitable to be Queen of Rohan.  He was definitely attracted to her appearance, but unfortunately the promising independence and liveliness he had witnessed all those years ago had obviously been knocked out of her by the demands of her station. No point in putting his decision off. ‘Well, in that case...’ He was just going to finally quash the idea when a burst of cheering came from below and some lively music wafted up. Lothíriel hurried the few steps to the wall, looking over eagerly.

A moment later she turned back to him, her huge eyes alight with excitement. ‘They are dancing down in the streets and there are bound to be firecrackers later. If we climb over onto the stable roof we can get down from there and will be able to join in. No one will miss us for a while.’

Éomer nearly laughed out loud. In the blink of an eye the cultured noblewoman had been replaced by the roguish child he remembered. But she was not a child now; the heaving of a very shapely bosom bore witness to the fact. Somehow the knowledge that she would be prepared to do such a thing altered everything. But it still didn’t change the reality of her leaving the following morning.

‘Are you coming?’ she persisted. ‘I would have thought a little while away from all the pomp would suit you. It must be awful to have people hanging around you all the time. At least I can get away when I want.’

Yes, by fooling the gatekeeper, no doubt.   Surely this was the time for him to admit they had met all those years ago, but something held him back. She seemed totally unaware of their previous meeting and he didn’t want to embarrass her. He’d already concluded that she had been too young for the day to stick in her mind, recalling that Éowyn had been of a similar age when they had moved to Edoras, and she had forgotten many things that happened in Aldburg before that time.  But still there was a slight disappointment that he had made little impression on her and his little horse probably lay forlorn and abandoned somewhere. Surely he hadn’t changed that much? Then his hand went naturally to his beard, as it always did when he was thinking.   Of course! His beard! At fifteen he had only sported a covering of bum fluff, no wonder she did not recognise him. He gave her one more memory prompt. ‘You make a habit of absenting yourself from your home do you? I would have thought you were carefully watched.’

‘Oh, there’s always a way. At home the castle has many secret passages. And here I often manage to get out into the city without being noticed.’ No recollection showed on her face, so he gave up expecting to share any reminiscences.

‘It’s very temping, but I am afraid we would not be able to leave my escort behind, even if we climbed over the stable roof.’ He glanced over his shoulder to where two members of Rohan’s Royal Guard were standing against the wall of the hall. She followed his gaze, scowling when she realised they were under observation.

‘Did you order them to follow you outside?’

He laughed. ‘No, but my captain is very good at his job. I would have to be pretty resourceful to get away from them.’

‘And it’s always like this? It seems a little excessive here, where surely you are safe.’

Éomer didn’t answer for a moment, struck by the incongruity of the situation. When she continued to look intently into his face, waiting for an answer, he took a deep breath. ‘They are afraid something will happen to me before I produce an heir,’ he said at last.

‘Ah...’ An impish grin spread across her face. ‘And for that you need a wife.’

‘Exactly,’ he admitted with a raised brow. ‘And suitable candidates are not thick on the ground.’

Her enormous silver eyes sparkled with her suppressed laughter. ‘Poor you, it must have been tempting to take up my father’s offer and get everyone off your back.’

It was getting more tempting by the minute! Thoughts of her suitability and attractiveness whirled around in his mind; should he allow the opportunity to slip by without making some effort?  He had spent an hour before the feast going over the ladies he knew and one by one dismissing them all, a fruitless exercise which caused him to make one of his instant decisions. ‘Lothíriel, if you are willing, I would like to get to know you a bit more to see if we might suit. As much as I might wish to, I cannot accompany you down into the city tonight as I have a tryst with Gimli that I must keep. But in the dead days, after the turn of the year, I would ride to Dol Amroth and hope that you would be pleased to lead me through the castle’s secret ways so that we can spend some time without an escort and an audience.’

A little gasp of surprise left her lips. ‘You can spare the time? My father thought you would not be able to leave Rohan.’

He smiled. ‘I am hoping the Dimholt road will be open, which will make the journey much shorter. Aragorn and I were discussing it tonight and he is very hopeful. But anyway, if my people are so keen for me to take a wife, then they will not begrudge me the chance to seek for one. If I have to take the long way through Anórien, then so be it.’

‘If you do, you can take ship from Minas Tirith.’

Éomer nodded. ‘So I understand. Erchirion says our horses will travel well, and I have no reason to doubt him.

 ‘Then I shall see you in Dol Amroth, my lord.’ She hesitated and then said almost apologetically, ‘It would be better if you let it be known that you were coming to inspect our defences or some such thing. Conjecture would otherwise be rife and if we do not reach agreement between us then it could cause embarrassment.’

Of course, she would not like everyone to think he had come and looked her over and then found her lacking. But that worked both ways. ‘I will do that, but if you would rather forget the whole idea then say now and I will inform your father. That will be the end of it.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I would like to get to know you better and unless I find you are very different than I believe you to be, then I would not be unhappy with the match.’

Éomer raised a brow. ‘Do I take that as a compliment, my lady?’

A mischievous smile crossed her face. ‘You could, but then you are probably unaware of some of the other choices that have been mooted for me.’

‘Serves me right for fishing!’  Giving her a mock look of contriteness, Éomer took her arm to escort her back to the hall. ‘I hope they have dismantled some of the tables by now and made a bit of space. I rather felt like one of those silver fish they sent us in Cormallen – packed tight in a barrel with my bones all crushed.’

She laughed. ‘They are called sardines and the comparison is very apt.’ As they neared the doors sweet strains of music floated out into the night air. Lothíriel gave an appreciative sigh.  ‘Ah, the elves are playing. It has been wonderful since they have been here, but I must not stay long as I have to be away early tomorrow.’ She started to pull away from him. ‘So I will say goodbye now, my lord, and make my excuses to return home as soon as we get inside.’

She didn’t look tired and Éomer was immediately suspicious, detaining her with a firm grip on her arm. ‘Lothíriel, you will not go down to the city on your own, will you? I cannot think it will be safe.’

Her eyes widened when she realised he was mistrustful of her. It obviously amused her greatly and she rested her fingers over his for a moment, squeezing gently. ‘No, I will forgo such delights tonight unless I persuade one of my brothers to come with me. But I assure you that the harbour at Dol Amroth is much less salubrious.’ She let out a wicked little laugh. ‘I am sure you will enjoy it.’

A moment later she was the essence of a Gondorian noblewoman, head held high with her hand resting lightly on his arm, and acknowledging the obeisance of those they passed with a practised smile.

Watching her retreating back after she had excused herself to Aragorn and her father, he decided that some sleep would not be amiss for himself. But first he had to decide what to tell Gimli. A moment’s reflection told him that black hair had definitely found favour with him that night, so now he had to face the wrath of a belligerent dwarf.

To be continued.

Thanks to those who took the trouble to review Chapter 3. I appreciate your comments very much. I always try to answer individually, but Xmas and family commitments took their toll this time, I’m afraid. LBJ

Chapter 4

Edoras – Last year of the Third Age

Éomer wanted her to wake up, in fact he felt very tempted to give her a gentle shake. His hand reached out, but conscience pricked just in time and he quickly pulled it back – that would be really unfair, as she must need the sleep. He was just getting impatient, he admitted to himself, both because he very much wanted to make love to her again, but also because he wanted to give her his morning gift. Not the beautiful black mare he had chosen for her, but the small package that rested on the bedside chest.

It was his only disappointment really, even though he told himself time and time again that she had been too young to remember their first meeting, he would like to think he’d made a deeper impression on her young mind than he obviously had. But with any luck she had agreed to marry him from more than duty and the fact that she knew her choices were limited. He had a feeling Lothíriel was going to worm her way into his heart, so hopefully she felt more than just affection for him. Anyway, if she had failed to remember their long ago meeting in Minas Tirith, she would certainly remember their relatively recent sojourn in Dol Amroth – that had not gone entirely to plan, but hopefully neither of them would have any regrets.

Early spring 3020

Éomer reined in Firefoot and sat back in his saddle gazing out at the lands below him and the strip of misty blue in the far distance that stretched the length of the horizon. Sky or sea, he did not know.

Éothain pulled up alongside him. ‘You won’t see the sea from this far away, if that’s what you’re expecting.’

‘Possibly not, but I am eager for a first glimpse of its vastness.’

‘Something new, I suppose. But I just hope it’s worth all the effort.’ Éothain shivered and turned around in his saddle looking back up at the mountains. ‘If it gets any worse up there we might be stuck on the coast for longer than we intended.’

Éomer pulled the woollen kerchief down from around his chin and grinned at his friend. ‘It’s already warmer now we are lower and this time of the year I doubt the snow will last long. Anyway, I imagine you will enjoy Imrahil’s hospitality. Think of all that fruit and fish. Not to mention the wine.’

‘Maybe, but we still have couple of days’ ride and at the moment a good stew would go down well.’

‘You’ll have to wait; I want to cover some more ground before dark.’ Éomer nudged Firefoot to get him moving again; hopefully, as they got farther down the mountain they would be able to make better progress.

Éothain kept his horse in pace, still looking a bit disgruntled. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to turn around and go home, there must be plenty willing to share your bed without coming all this way.’

Éomer sighed, wondering if Éothain had the right of it. ‘If it was just sharing my bed there would be no problem, but it’s not just that, is it?’

Éothain flashed him a sideways grin, humour restored. ‘I suppose not. But what bothers me – and you know I always have your best interests at heart.’ Éomer quirked a disbelieving brow at that which caused a big smirk to cross Éothain’s face, but he carried on. ‘You’ve only met her the once and now you’re committing yourself by accepting her father’s hospitality. What if you decide you won’t be able to stand some prim Gondorian princess for the rest of your life? It’s going to be a bit awkward to get out of it.’

He hoped not!  And anyway he had come to the conclusion that she was not at all prim. ‘I did talk to the princess about that and we decided there would be no commitment on either side. Which is why it’s been put about that I’m visiting to discuss Imrahil’s need to increase his mounted forces.’

‘Well, you and the lady might have reached an agreement, but I doubt her father, or her brothers come to that, will want you tasting the goods and then rejecting them.’

Tasting the...! Éomer stared blankly at his friend. ‘We are talking about Imrahil’s daughter here, Éothain. Nothing would make me compromise her in any way.’

Éothain shrugged, ignoring the look of exasperation thrown at him. ‘Then how are you going to know that she’ll make you a good wife? It struck me that all those high-up noblewomen had prissy ideas.  She might be frigid. It would be better if you found out first.’

Éomer bit back a laugh. ‘And Æffe let you try the goods before you made your vows, did she?’

‘No, but a few kisses and a bit of slap and tickle tell you a lot about a woman. Shuffling around the dance floor enjoying refined conversation tells you nothing.’

Éomer could agree with that, he just hoped Lothíriel stuck to her intention of making sure they spent some time together without their escorts hanging around.  He couldn’t imagine indulging in slap and tickle as Éothain so crudely put it, but he agreed that a kiss could tell you a lot about a woman. With any luck he would get the chance to try it.

The farther they progressed south, the milder the weather became; it seemed that they had left winter clinging to the slopes behind them.  A day out from Dol Amroth and even Éothain was smiling, pushing his cloak back and breathing in soft air fragranced with thyme and rosemary. Éomer, having at last got his view of the Bay of Belfalas and the endless waters beyond, spent his time looking for a glimpse of the castle; Imrahil had told him it stood on a rocky promontory that was visible from a great distance, but during the past days cloud had often obscured the view.  Around noon however they emerged from a belt of pine and there it was – still a way off, but unmistakeable: turrets rising into a clear blue sky.

Wanting to look, Éomer came to a halt, just as one of his scouts appeared. He waited to see what the man had to say. ‘A party coming this way, lord. They’re flying the Ship and Swan, so I imagine it’s an escort.’

Éomer nodded. Good. He had maps and there was no mistaking the way so far, but a guide into the castle would be welcome. Minutes later a group of Swan-knights swept into view and Éomer had no trouble recognising the man in the lead as Imrahil’s youngest son.

Amrothos cantered up, wheeled his horse around and slotted in between Éomer and Éothain, leaving his men to fall in behind.

‘Right on time,’ he remarked after a scanty bow. ‘A good journey?’

‘Except for the cold it was fine,’ Éothain mumbled.

Amrothos laughed. ‘Well it’s not cold here. In fact the weather has been unseasonably warm. We might even get you in the sea. After the icy rivers you are used to, the bay will probably feel like a bath.’

‘I think I’d prefer my water in a tub if you don’t mind, ‘Éomer said with a grin. ‘I can regulate the water temperature to suit myself.’

‘It depends what my sweet sister has planned for you, she’s difficult to say no to. But I did overrule her today, she wanted to come with me, but I said that that would set tongues wagging, which you don’t want if the pair of you haven’t made up your mind.’

Éomer huffed. ‘I am surprised your father didn’t suggest it, since he’s so keen on this.’

‘Oh, I think he’s reasonably confident,’ Amrothos replied with a laugh. ‘He reads people pretty well, you know, and for some reason thinks you will suit each other.’

That remained to be seen. Éomer put the thought from his mind for the moment concentrating on the scenery and the sight of the imposing edifice of stone looming large before him. The huge gate was reached by a causeway that spanned wicked looking rocks, the sea crashing white spume over them.  The breeze smelled wild and vast and Éomer licked salt from his lips, breathing in the unfamiliar tang of the shoreline. ‘Is this the only way in?’ he asked Amrothos. He looked up at the massive walls rising high above him. ‘Easy to defend.’

‘It’s the only way an army can enter, but there are secret doors let into the cliff below.’ A lift of a black brow accompanied the next remark. ‘Once one has descended to beach level, it’s an easy walk along the sand to the port...and the taverns.’

Éomer laughed. ‘A way you are familiar with, I imagine.’

‘Erchirion introduced me when I was about fourteen. Our father pretended he didn’t know that we used to escape.’ Amrothos grinned hugely. ‘I imagine he did just the same when he was young.’

Éomer wondered if Imrahil knew that his daughter was apt to leave the castle by other than the front gates. Probably, he decided, the prince was nothing if not astute.

***

Later, sitting next to Imrahil a the head of a huge table in the great hall of the castle, Éomer wondered if he had imagined the twinkle of mischief he had caught in Lothíriel’s eyes back in Minas Tirith. So far she had behaved like a real princess, just as Éothain had feared. But when the welcome feast came to an end and she made her polite goodnights, she surreptitiously shoved a note in his hand.  Éomer could hardly read it with Imrahil and her brothers nearby but hoped he could guess the contents. Counting on his conjecture being right, he made the excuse of the long journey to pretend fatigue and made his way to his quarters. He would see Imrahil plenty the next day anyway – that they needed discussions on the supply of horses was not totally untrue.

Yes! As soon as he read the note his confidence in his decision to come all this way took an almighty lift – she would tap on his door within the hour and he just had to change into plainer clothes fitting for a minor noble. Good, at least he could keep his sword – he’d worried he would have to dress like a peasant. And Éothain would have had  an apoplexy if he’d ever found out his king had gone out unarmed. In fact he would probably have a seizure if he discovered Éomer was going out at all.  Having insisted that under Imrahil’s protection he did not need a guard on the door, Éomer had finally managed to get rid of his tenacious protector and his squire. After a quick change of clothes he tied his hair back so as to be less distinctive. Nothing he could do about the colour though, so as ready as he could be, he waited impatiently for Lothíriel to arrive, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. It was still reasonably early although darkness had fallen a while ago, but he guessed the environs of the port would be seething with light and life. The tap, when it came, was so quiet he wondered if it had happened at all, but he leapt up and quickly opened the door. She stood there – a finger to her lips and huge silver eyes sparking with pent up excitement.

‘Follow me, but do not talk,’ she whispered. Wrapping her dark cloak around her Lothíriel flitted down the long passage, coming to a corner she stopped, peering cautiously round before she beckoned him on.  A few steps on she halted at a small door set into the thick stone of the castle wall.  After warily looking right and left she fitted a key in the lock and the door opened soundlessly inwards.

Éomer realised that the walls must be double here because a narrow staircase wound down, lit only by moonlight shafting in from small slits in the outer wall.

‘We are lucky the moon is up now,’ she remarked as he followed her downwards. ‘It won’t be so easy on the way back up.’ Éomer grimaced, not looking forward to the steep climb. But there would be some respite as every now and then the steps stopped, giving way to rough stone passages before the stairs started again. Éomer saw at least two other doors, but Lothíriel hurried past them explaining they led to other parts of the castle and were intended for escaping any siege inflicted on Dol Amroth.

All the way down Éomer had been aware of the rumble of what he deduced was the sea, but turning a corner he jumped as a loud crash almost seemed to set the stone vibrating.

‘The tide’s coming in,’ Lothíriel explained, ‘but we should be able to get along the beach.’

Moments later they reached a blank wall. Éomer could see no door, but after flashing him a grin Lothíriel reached up to pull on a metal handle buried in the roof of the passage. To his amazement a huge block of stone swung effortlessly outwards, leaving enough of an opening for two people to pass through. They were in a sea cave, and beyond the entrance he could see silver crested waves rolling towards them. Moonbeams flooded in, sparkling on glittering crystal veins that ran through the rock.  Her skin seemed to shimmer as the light fell on her face, her eyes glowed and her lips looked dark and inviting. Éomer reached out – one kiss wouldn’t do any harm – but before he could follow through with his thought she had moved out of his reach, placing her hand on some part of the door.  It closed silently behind them. 

‘Come,’ she grabbed his arm, ‘we don’t have much time. We must take the path just above the sand if we don’t want to drown.’

He certainly had no intention of drowning – there would be time for a kiss later.  He followed her out of the cave, scrambling after her up a few rocks to reach the path. One misstep and he would be in for a ducking. Lothíriel however was lithe and surefooted, confidently following the narrow path that clung to the cliff just above the beach.  A furlong or so on and the path got easier, the cliffs dropping in height and sheerness. Suddenly, as the rocks in front of him flattened, he saw the lights of the port.  Twinkling enticingly, they beckoned him to fun and pleasure. At least that was what he hoped awaited him.

The path soon turned into a cobbled way, leading down towards the sea between simple stone dwellings. Nets, wicker creels and floats were piled up outside many of the doors and the air held an overriding aroma of fish and goodness knew what else.

‘A bit of a stink,’ Éomer remarked, screwing up his face.

Lothíriel chuckled. ’You get used to it. But this way takes us through the poorer part of the town. Come down the main road from the castle and the air is a bit more wholesome.   But we will be at the harbour soon, you’ll like that more.’

She was right, already he could smell the aroma of baking mixed with cooked fish rather than raw and the air started to hang heavy with the fragrance of exotic spices. Exotic music too, unfamiliar melodies that evoked a different culture. ‘It sounds very lively down there, and very different.’

Lothíriel laughed. ‘Of course, Dol Amroth always was meeting place for East and West, traders have no time for war. It’s even better now with the threat of the Corsairs removed. There are many ships in tonight.’ She pointed to the forest of masts Éomer could now see above the houses. ‘The bazaars, stalls and drinking houses will keep open as long as there are customers to part with their coin. It’s necessary for them to make their living...’ She stopped, a frown creasing her forehead.  ‘Bother! I was not expecting that.’

‘What?’ Éomer could see nothing that he thought could cause her worried look. She nibbled at her bottom lip before she answered him.

‘That’s The Lady Mithrellas.’ She nodded towards a tall mast.‘My brother was not due in until tomorrow morning, which is why I thought it safe to bring you down here tonight. He won’t be pleased if he finds us alone together.’

No, Éomer could understand that and he immediately felt guilty. The idea of private time in her company had been too alluring, but he really should have come down with a guard and probably, to be correct, with her brothers in tow. But he did so want to kiss her. Should have done it in the cave, but then they might have got their feet wet. ‘We are likely to bump into him, are we?’

She shrugged. ‘He usually will spend an hour or two in one of the taverns when he gets in. But I suppose that knowing you would be here he is more likely to have gone straight to the castle.’ She grinned up at him. ‘Won’t he be surprised to learn you have retired early?’

Éomer smiled. ‘As long as he doesn’t go looking for me!’ He sighed; this was not going to plan. ‘If you don’t wish to take the chance and go back...’

‘No.’ She shook her head and grabbed his arm. ‘We couldn’t get into the cave until the tide recedes a bit anyway.  I know which tavern his crew use, so as long as we keep away from there we’ll be fine.’

Éomer couldn’t imagine taking her into a tavern anyway. ‘If you are sure?’

‘Yes, come on. It will be best before the night gets any older.’

The slight worry he’d had that he would stand out as different proved unfounded, every hair colour imaginable was on show and he heard snatches of conversation uttered in a variety of accents. And a mixture of common people interspersed with those obviously more affluent. The waterfront, when they reached it, was ablaze with the light from a dozen braziers, music – from an assortment of instruments- vied with the harsh voices of the traders as they called out their wares. Fish, spices, sweetmeats, fabrics, pottery – one could probably buy anything here. ‘Is it always like this, don’t they have set market days?’

Lothíriel smiled. ‘The farmers bring in produce from the country twice a week, but anything that arrives in the port gets sold as soon as it’s unloaded. There are quite a few ships in tonight which tends to attract many people from the surrounding area to enjoy the lively atmosphere.’

Éomer took her arm and they strolled along past stalls piled high with goods. He marvelled at the spice sacks that spilled bright fiery powders onto the wooden boards, filling the air with hot dust that stung his eyes.  No wonder the food was so different in Gondor.  ‘ Your father brought some of this stuff with him when he visited, but I imagine I will have to buy more if you decide to come and live in Edoras.’

She grinned. ‘I am sure I will be able to influence your cooks. Father said he enjoyed many of your dishes, but it’s true that we are used to more zesty fare.’

Éomer soon realised that he enjoyed having her by his side. They talked easily, Lothíriel pointing out many unfamiliar things and persuading him to try the different foodstuffs on offer. The spicy vegetable balls and meat filled pastries he liked enormously – not so sure about the spiny sea creatures one opened like an egg and ate with a spoon.   Laughing, she popped a creamy coloured sweetmeat into his mouth. ‘This will take the taste away.’

He licked his lips. ‘Oh, that better. What is it?’

‘Halwa, it comes from Harad.  Made from almonds, sesame seeds and honey.’

‘It’s very different from the sweetmeats at home, I’ll buy some more to take back with me.’ Éomer drew out his purse from the pouch on his belt, negotiating with the stallholder to pack a small basket he could pick up later.

The crowd thickened in front of the stalls and farther along the quay Éomer could see that some impromptu dancing – women in brightly coloured costumes weaved around to outlandish music.   ‘They come off the trading ships,’ Lothíriel said to his query as to the origin of the dancers.  ‘Shall we go that way?’

He nodded and took her arm, drawing her closer as they reached the dancers and stood to watch. Making sure she was safe in the crowd, he told himself. Although he couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy the feel of her womanly body next to his or not appreciate her sweet fragrance amongst the riper smells of the port. The thought of her as his wife was becoming more and more appealing. He hoped she might feel the same way, and was not just going to respond to her father’s wishes. He would hate that. A kiss would help him to judge her mindset – perhaps there was somewhere a little less crowded.

He was just contemplating how to achieve his aim when someone jostled him from behind. He turned to remonstrate and felt a hand slide towards his pouch. Dropping Lothíriel’s arm Éomer swung around, instinctively elbowing the thief in the throat. The man fell to the floor, choking.

‘What have you done to my brother?’  Another man snarled, drawing out a knife.

He didn’t need this! Pushing Lothíriel behind his back, Éomer‘s hand went to his sword. ‘Thieves get their comeuppance. Disappear and take your brother with you unless you wish to face the consequences.’

‘He’s no thief, he just bumped into you.’

‘Go now, my last warning!’ The man hesitated only a moment before sheathing his knife and grabbing hold of his brother’s hand, hoisting him up. With a malevolent glare in Éomer’s direction he, and the would-be thief, disappeared into the crowd.

Éomer immediately swung round. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to floor anyone in front of you.’ But Lothíriel looked excited rather than worried.

She laughed. ‘No more reaction than I would have expected. You were hardly going to let him get away with trying to pickpocket you. And he didn’t seem to be very good at it.’

‘No.’ Éomer chuckled. ‘Rather an amateur. Perhaps he thought I would be so taken up with the lovely lady at my side I would be easy prey.’

Her face tinged with colour, Lothíriel placed her fingers on his arm and moved closer to his side. ‘But a warrior never relaxes, I have seen it in my brothers.’

The crowd, drawn by the ruckus, had started to disperse. Éomer imagined such goings on were commonplace. ‘You don’t come down here totally on your own, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Amrothos can usually be persuaded to accompany me. Or sometimes I come with a friend and her brother.’

Well, that was a relief. He liked the thought of her being adventurous, but foolhardy? No!  Suddenly he felt good, he had a pretty lady at his side and he should certainly be taking advantage of that. Seeing the swirl of skirts further down the street, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. ‘Come, let’s find a drink and move nearer to the music.  I haven’t danced since the Yule celebrations.’

‘Do the Rohirrim like to dance a lot?’

‘They do. Music, song and dance are important to us. And from what I see, the dances here would be more to my kinsmen’s taste than those in the courts of Minas Tirith.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, far more lively. Where cultures clash, we can only benefit.’

They watched for a while, Éomer enjoying some fragrant red wine, Lothíriel sipping at a cup of rose petal tea. Everyone to their own, he supposed, idly wondering how many roses were grown in the Riddermark.

‘Have you finished?’  When she nodded, Éomer took their cups back to the stall. He couldn’t keep her out here all night and had yet to even hold her. The dancing beckoned.

Éomer threw a coin into the fiddler’s hat and drew Lothíriel into the midst of the dancers. The music, a strange mixture of East and West, was inspiring couples to dance together in a lively jig, arms around each other’s waist. No fault to be found there. Then the tempo changed – the music sped up, a popular trick in the Mark especially when the ale flowed freely. Faster and faster they went, the ring of bodies whirling around the open space. He really ought to get her out of there, knowing what was likely to transpire. But her heightened colour and laughing eyes showed clearly she was enjoying the fun. Then the inevitable happened and the circle collapsed, the dancers falling to the ground in an ungainly heap. Éomer stayed on his feet, his solid weight aiding him, Lothíriel slipped but clung to his arm, laughing up at him and pushing back her escaping hair. Quickly he pulled her up before she got crushed in the fracas. He must have tugged too hard because she virtually slammed against his chest, the impact causing her to stumble. His arm went round her to steady her.

‘Sorry, are you all right?’ She didn’t try to move, staying encircled in his arm.

‘Of course that was such fun.’

Her lips looked so inviting that with no more thought Éomer kissed her. She tasted of roses, halwa and desirable woman, igniting his blood like a firestorm. For a moment she stiffened, but then relaxed, melting into him.  With no more encouragement needed, Éomer plundered her sweet mouth, his senses singing with the pure joy of it…

‘Well, well, Father will be pleased. We can make the announcement tomorrow night.’

Erchirion! Just his luck! Éomer took his lips from Lothíriel’s but didn’t release her. Now neither of them had any choice. Their fate sealed by a kiss.

To be continued.

Just a short epilogue to go – I will try and post it shortly.

The short epilogue I promised. Sorry to have been so long, so thanks to everyone who kept with me. LBJ

Epilogue

Edoras – Last year of the Third Age

Dawn, at last. Surely she would wake in a moment. This time, when Éomer shifted in the bed, he made sure the change of weight rocked the mattress. Nothing. He tried again.  Still no movement from his new wife other than the gentle flicker of her breath on the pillow.  He bit back the urge to shake her awake, instead deliberately returning his thoughts back to his visit to Dol Amroth to pass the time.

Fate had certainly taken a hand in his life, because if he hadn’t confronted the pickpocket and drawn a crowd, then they would probably not have been noticed. But he supposed Erchirion’s first mate, having seen the princess, would have had no choice but to report to his captain that Lothíriel was in the company of some roughish looking stranger. 

The triumphant smirk on Erchirion’s face had been maddening, as had the enigmatic smile that had crossed Imrahil’s mien when they arrived back at the castle – using the front gates this time.  But by then Éomer had accepted the consequences of their illicit jaunt with no show of reluctance. Resigned, and perhaps a little relieved that the decision had been taken out of his hands. Lothíriel had said nothing, which worried him slightly. She had however agreed to all the arrangements being made for a wedding at Meduseld in the early summer.  Although to be fair, she had not seemed displeased. Though he wished he were really sure, really knew what she felt about the whole outcome.

True, she had shown great enthusiasm when preparing for her new role as Queen of the Mark in the hectic days since arriving at Edoras. And she had responded to his lovemaking with an eagerness tempered by a delightful innocence – which was as it should be, of course. But then she had been trained from an early age for the sort of position she was now embracing.  Duty and responsibly had no doubt been hammered into her since her early years. As they had been with him.

Marriage however, was about more than duty. That was what he had always believed anyway – having witnessed the tangible love his parents shared. And then there was Théoden; he had never shown any inclination to take another wife after his beloved Elfhild had died. If he had, then likely Éomer would not be lying here in the king’s bed now, as there probably would have been other heirs. Heirs! He certainly hoped they would produce more than one; the Mark needed strong sons to take them forward into a new age… that thought drew him from his reverie, and he sighed again. That was when he became aware of the slight change of atmosphere. Turning his head he saw he was being regarded thoughtfully.

‘Good morning, my lord. You looked to be deep in thought.’

Unable to hide his jubilant smile, Éomer leaned over and brushed a kiss over those enticing lips, at the same time telling himself that it would be crass to expect to do anything else when her body would need time to recover from last night’s invasion. ‘You appear to have slept well, my lady. I have been waiting for you to wake up.’

‘Oh.’ Shapely eyebrows rose. ‘Is it late? I am afraid I was quite exhausted after all the celebrations.’

‘You had every right to be, and every right to sleep your fill.’ He ran the back of one finger down her cheek, loving the soft feel of her unblemished skin and the drowsy look in her eyes. ‘And it is not late at all. I was just…eager for your company.’

‘Ah,’ her lips quirked knowingly. ‘Well, I am awake now and would not wish to deprive you of my…company for a moment longer.’

Did she mean what he thought she meant? She did, because his wife moved closer, snuggling against him. All the invitation he had been waiting for.

The sun had risen well above the horizon when he next became aware of the room around him. They would have to get up soon as they were expected in the stables. But first: ‘Lothíriel, you have heard of the custom of ‘morgengifu’?

She smiled. ‘The morning gift. Yes. We have something similar in Gondor.’

‘Well, I have something to gift you later, which I am sure you will like. But there will be many to witness that gift. Before that I have something very personal to give you, a gift that I think will come as a surprise.’ He went to lean over to reach the small package that rested on the side table, but her hand stopped him.

‘Wait. Indulge me, Éomer.  First I would like to give you something.’  She scrabbled under the pillow for a moment and drew out a small item wrapped in a piece of blue silk.

‘I would like you to have this…back. For it was very kind of you to part with it all those years ago.’

Éomer stared at her for a moment, but could not make out the thoughts behind her inscrutable expression.

‘Go on, open it.’

Éomer pulled carefully at the silver ribbon.  The silk fell aside to reveal the little carved wooden horse he had thought he would never see again. Stunned, he had to remember to shut his mouth. ‘You kept it all this time.’

‘It is one of my most treasured possessions and has been with me constantly.’

‘You knew it was me who gave it to you?’

She laughed. ‘Of course. My cousin Faramir mentioned he had met you that day, so I have always known. And I avidly soaked up any of news of you over the years.’

‘Then why did you not say? I have been waiting for you to recognise me, but you seemed oblivious to our previous meeting.’

‘So, you recognised me? You never said either.’

Éomer frowned. It seemed they had both been waiting for a sign from the other. ‘Well, I might not have recognised you, but I found out from Faramir who you were too. So I have known since that day in Minas Tirith.  It’s just that at first I could not reconcile the sophisticated princess with the imp I met filching apricots.‘ And then, of course, he’d been a bit peeved that she had not recognised him and so did not say.

‘I suppose I have changed more than you, because I was younger.’ A big grin crossed her face. ‘Whoever would have thought we would end up married.’

Who indeed? ‘I had better give you this now.’ He passed his own package, the pendant he had wrapped up in a piece of linen. ‘I have carried it ever since, in the pocket of my tunic. I know it couldn’t really have kept me safe, but… well you were so insistent and so upset that you had not had the chance to give it to Erchirion that I felt for you. And I have come through all the troubles relatively unscathed.’ He shrugged. ‘So who knows the ways of the Valar.’

She turned the little pendant over in her hands, studying it, before she passed it back. ‘Would you continue carrying it, Éomer? If it has worked so far then why take a chance. I want my husband by my side for many long years.’

‘You do?’ A warm feeling crept over him.

‘Of course.’ She hesitated a moment and then said. ‘I was an impressionable child when we first met. You were my hero. I carried the little horse, hoping against hope that one day we would meet again. I have carried your image in my heart all that time; calf love, I think it is called. But it spoiled me for anyone else. My father ensured we met, fate decreed we would marry. I know you were averse to the idea at the start, and I so wanted you to be as keen as I.’

Éomer grabbed her, hugging her against him. ‘What fools we are. I was so worried you had no real feelings for me and I did not want you to marry me from duty alone.  Marriages in the Mark are not like that.’

‘And this one won’t be either,’ she murmured into his chest.

The End

My thanks to Lia, for her beta.

I have started another story, but am unlikely to get back to it until the autumn.  In the mean time I hope you all have a good summer. LBJ