T.A. 3021

At the end of the spring of that year it was decided that the King of Rohan would make a visit to Gondor, for he desired words with King Elessar on matters concerning the wars they still waged with the remnants of their enemies North and East. In state Éomer rode out, half-company of his own éored at his side, sixty spears strong. Swift they set from the Eastfold, and crossing the Mering Stream passed into Gondor by the Great Road, making camp along the woods of Anórien or else in inns newly built for the flourishing of trade.

It was late afternoon when the King’s party came upon the outer walls of Rammas Echor, where they were greeted by the wall guards. Though some sections still lay in ruins from the War, much of the Rammas was already repaired or made better with the aid of the Dwarves sent by Gimli. The air was sweet, full of tilled earth and growing grass, and countless wildflowers blooming their last in the early summer air within the cantles left fallow. Lights from farmsteads came on in the ridges and vales, beside meandering brooks gathering into the Anduin. A blue haze lay near the banks of the River, and the dusk songs of birds sounded about. As they were hailed by the encircling wall the Rohirric heralds blew on their horns, and cold and clear their call rang out through the Fields of Pelennor.

The City had prepared for their arrival. Lampwrighters lit braziers and lanterns and a wide swath was cleared for the horsemen all through the avenue. Among the marble and stone of Minas Tirith were set bouquets of mallos from the fields of Lebennin, or stalks of lilies just come to bloom from Lossanarch’s gardens. And in welcome the women of the City cloaked the fountains in petals, and hung garlands of lavender and oleander over doors and windows, or wove into their hairs wildflowers freshly picked. So it was since the return of the King that the City was ever wreathed in flowers, and spring returned year after year in brightness and color to its streets while Elessar was on the throne.

A press of people was at the Great Gate. “The Rohirrim, the Rohirrim!” cried the children as they ran through the streets in hopes of a glimpse of the Rohirric king. As the company entered the people of Gondor sang songs of praise and welcome, or else cried “Hail! Éomer King!” remembering the sound of horns as Rohan rode to their aid in their hour of need. All who looked upon Éomer saw that he was kingly indeed, garbed in green and white heraldry worked with threads of gold. A long mane streamed from his helm.

Some of the éored drew off in the First Circle for the stabling of their horses, but the King's company rode on. Up and up they climbed, the hooves of their splendid horses clattering like a bright rain upon the cobbles. To and fro they wove through the seven circles of the City, and the folk of Gondor rejoiced to see them. At the Seventh Gate they found the doors thrown open, and the Guards of the Citadel in salute, and hailed they were by trumpet calls, and answering calls came from the Great Gate below, so that a piercing music echoed between the sloping shoulder of Mindolluin and the high walls.

It was evening when they reached the Courtyard. The summer night was still young. Menelvagor the Swordsman had not yet faded from the night sky, nor the Silver Sickle turned its handles heavenward. The Rohirric company dismounted from their horses, and under the starlight Elessar and Arwen Evenstar bid Éomer welcome before the sapling of the White Tree newly flowered. And next to him was Faramir of Ithilien, and other lords of Gondor, and not least of all Éowyn his sister, whom he desired to see above all.

A great feast was then set in Merethrond, for the harvest in the year that followed the defeat of the Enemy was uncommonly ample, the winter mild, and indeed the spring was earlier and greener than any season in living memory. The host that gathered there toasted to the meeting of the two kingdoms, now two years past since the days of Shadow. And after the feasting was done, they withdrew to a large hall adjoining, where a fire was lit and space made for dancing, and music and song went well into the night.

For a time Éomer sat with Aragorn and Arwen, in the richly made chairs set within the light of the great hearth at the center of the hall. They talked of tidings, and news of their friends, and other matters great and small. But Éomer’s mood was somber, for he was troubled by reports from Westfold of warg-riders out of the Misty Mountains, and he desired private council with Aragorn on matters of war—whether they would devise a joint venture to confront them in their mountain strongholds.

“Indeed, this is a grave thought—and other news we have heard, of fresh gathering of Easterlings in Rhûn, and the Dwarves and the Bardings grow uneasy again. Yet council will be had on the morrow, Éomer.” Aragorn said, clasping Éomer on his shoulder. “Come, it is now time for dancing, for soon the minstrel shall begin his song, and I wish at least one dance with my lady!” So saying the King and Queen bid Éomer well and went forth to dance amid their people.

Yet Éomer remained seated, content for the time to watch the merriment, the dance of Aragorn and Arwen Undómiel and their happy countrymen, and to hear the minstrel’s harp, singing in fair elven-words a song of the spring of Númenor. When Éowyn came to him, they talked for a time amongst themselves in the firelight, and reading his mood she poured for him a cup and bade him drink.

“Éomer, I know well the troubles that weigh on you, and yet they can wait the night. Tonight is for rejoicing! For I have news that I have told none, save the women of my house, and my Faramir,” she said, laughing and looking unto the revelry about them. “You shall be an uncle ere the end of the year—a child there will be of the House of Húrin and of Eorl also!”

So saying Éowyn looked at her brother, and he saw that the light of the fire was in her eyes and joy radiant in her face. “What happiness I have wished for thee, dearest sister, and truly I have now seen it.”

“Then drink this cup with me, Éomer, and be troubled no more for this night, and go forth, and be merry.”

Obliging, he raised his cup. “Here is to Éowyn, the Lady of Emyn Arnen. Be her days blessed, and her house a fount of joy.” He embraced her and kissed her on her head.

So setting aside his troubles awhile, Éomer drained his cup. He went forth and found Faramir, where long they talked of Éowyn’s news. More wine they toasted and arms embraced. A great love was fostered between them since Éowyn’s marriage, so much that other men often marvelled at them, as the two lords seemed so unlike in temperament. Yet not all, for Faramir was beloved in Gondor, and those who knew well the two sons of Denethor would say: “Here is another in Boromir’s mold, and it is not a wonder that Faramir loves him so.”

Presently Éomer asked, “Faramir, my brother. Do you know if the Prince Imrahil is here tonight? No word I have heard from him, though the Council of Gondor is to be assembled, and I did not see him at meal nor in this hall.”

“Nay, he is not here. He is away south in Hargondor, overseeing the building of new posts on the River Harnen, our southern border of old. Trade has been slowly rekindled with Umbar, as much as ever has been since the memory of the Stewards. Roads need mending and new havens constructed.”

“That is well, though I cannot deny that I desired speech with him here.”

“Aye, for my part I would also like to know his counsel on our Northern threat. But his children, my cousins, are in the City, for Erchirion was sent to take his father’s seat at the Council, to bear and convey any news, and his sister is also come.”

Even as Faramir spoke, two came to greet the King of Rohan. A lord, young and clad in a fine green tunic, his long hair bound back. And a lady beside him, dark haired and grey-eyed also. A slender carcanet she bore of two swans entwined around a rich blue jewel. Éomer and Faramir stood to meet them. Erchirion the son of Imrahil Éomer knew well from the War, and the lady Éomer had made acquaintance in the castle of Dol Amroth where he stayed briefly, holding council on whether there was any stonework to be done to open the Dimholt Pass so that trade routes could be eased between Rohan and Morthond Vale—for this was Lothíriel, Lady of Dol Amroth, said by some to be the most beautiful in Gondor save Queen Arwen Undómiel herself, elven-fair beyond the reckoning of Men.

Faramir had more wine brought and Éowyn sat to join them. The children of Imrahil told of news from the South, of new trade and ambassadorship with the Haradrim, and the labors of their father. Long they stayed in the hall, until one by one the guests retired, though the harpers continued deep into the night.

Often did Éomer’s eyes stray to Lothíriel, for so seeing her fair face amongst the gathered host, Éomer’s thoughts turned rather from danger and war. Now pressed in his mind question of his succession and the need for queen and heir in Edoras. Alas that the private matters of my house must bear on these great questions of state, he thought to himself, for when he was but the Third Marshall, when and whom he married did not trouble any council beyond his sister.

Before the fair folk of Legolas came to dwell in Gondor, the City of Minas Tirith had few gardens outside the Courtyard of the Citadel and the Houses of Healing. It was a city of stone, but on the eastern side of the Sixth Circle there was a plot of land hidden from the main street, fenced by marble and iron finely wrought, wreathed in vines. It adjoined the household of House of Húrin ere the mansions were vacated for the Steward’s apartments in the Citadel and put to use as a guesthouse, for these grounds were the ancestral home of the Stewards in the days of old when the heirs of Anarion still lived.

So it was that Éomer, on a fair day after his morning council recessed, went down to the mansions of the Stewards at the advice of his sister. And in its gardens he found the Lady Lothíriel seated on a bench overlooking the city, reading a book.

She was dressed simply. As the weather was fine and it was morning there was no need for hood or mantle. Pale blue was her dress, and long and dark her unbound hair. Slippers of silver-thread she wore, and they clinked on the coarse marble of the paving stones. A rich cloth of deep red she had about her that she laid down on the bench. Presently she found that she was watched, and stood and curtseyed in greeting.

“Éomer King! You have me at a disadvantage, for I had not heard you come. Let it not be said that the men of Rohan are not stealthy at need!”

At this Éomer laughed. “No need for stealth have I, Lady Lothíriel, not in these days of peace! I hope you do not accuse me stalking in the shadows.”

“Forgive me, my lord king, I spoke lightly and I did not mean to give offense.”

“Indeed I take no offense. I am merely curious, what book occupies you so?”

Lothíriel smiled. “An ancient tale out of the Elder Days. Of Tuor finding the armaments laid for him at Vinyamar and of his toils in the desolation of Glaurung with Voronwë, his guide to Gondolin," she said, holding the book aloft. "This version was writ in Westron, in plain prose, by the court scholar Meneldir in the waning days of Belecthor II. I have read it when I was a girl, though finding a fair copy in Faramir’s library, I could not resist reading again.”

She set the book aside, and joined him in his walk.

“Of Tuor I have heard also. My mother was daughter to Morwen Steelsheen and she was learned in the lores of Gondor. Though seldom were my desires turned to book-learning, she would often read to me. Alas, that she died when I was young, and I have forgotten much. Is it a stirring tale? From what I remember, it is long and sad.”

"Aye, stirring, and long, and sad. As are all tales of Men that pass to us from the ages long ago. For so fell Gondolin the Fair, and the like of it shall never be on earth again." Lothíriel paused, as if lost in some turn of phrase from the book she was reading. "Though the tale of Tuor has a happy end, for it is said that Tuor sailed into the Utter West with Idril, the Elven-daughter of Turgon, alone of all the kindred of mortal Men.”

These words to Éomer would seem almost legend—Gondolin, Turgon, Idril, names melted out of mist that did not hap in the waking matters of the world—but that his own eyes and ears attested otherwise. Fair faces he had seen, and fair speech he had heard, of Elven lords and ladies even upon the echoing steps of this very City. Indeed, in their countenances he knew were reflected the mighty memories of ages long ago, though he did not ask of them the tales.

“Come, my lord.” Lothíriel said. “I will show you the grounds.”

Sunlight glittered in the arbor. The air was fragrant with plant-scents unlike any that Éomer had known.

The garden was divided in three courtyards, one larger adjoined by two smaller wings. In the center of the large quad there was a handsome ash. It was not tall, for it had been pollarded of old, and though it was anciently planted in the days of Húrin I, it showed little sign of age. Its bole was smooth and hale and its limbs rustled in the breeze. Deep and dark were its leaves in the morning Sun. Slowly they walked beneath its shadow. The court was laid with the many beds circumscribing the central plot, surrounded by pedestals of rose-shrub and stone walls mantled in vine. In the side courts were set fountains and lily ponds, and beds of flowers gathered from the fiefs of Gondor, as many as could grow in the high airs of the City.

Walking among the flowers, Lothíriel named them, relaying their provenance to Éomer: marigold and narcissus from Lossanarch, and camellia and eglantine from Ithilien, and hyacinth, which had just bloomed past full, and jasmine, which the maids in Gondor call night-sweet, for their blossoms open at dusk and perfume the evening air.

“Ah, these flowers I know.” Éomer said as they passed by a sector in the grounds where grew the flowers of Anórien. “For the same ones grow also in Eastfold which was long my home. Though few names can I tell you, even in my own tongue, for I am not learned in herblore.” Then pointing to a large cistern of domed grass decked with small white blooms, he said, “But surely I know this, it is simbelmynë, that grows on the mounds of Kings outside Edoras.”

“Ah! In elven-tongue it is called alfirin, and uilos also. It grows wild in Anórien and upon all sweet grass. It grew upon the hills in Númenor that was, and in Elvenhome that is, so the legends say. And also upon the summit of Amon Anwar.”

“Amon Anwar! I have seen it once. It is a silent and bare summit—and beautiful.”

At this, Lothíriel marveled. “Aye, so it is said! You are blessed, to have seen it with your own eyes, for it is reckoned holiest amongst the mountains of Gondor, save perhaps Mindolluin that succors the White Tower.”

“It was during my early days as a Marshall, for it makes up in part the beacon houses that have defended our nations together, and men out of my éored were often sent to aid its fire-post. Halifirien, it is called in our tongue, holy mountain. Countless simbelmynës cover the mound where once lay Elendil’s tomb.”

“In Gondor the white alfirin is a flower both of mourning and of renewal, for they grow on the graves of those most beloved. In the south alfirin also grow—but the southern varietals are pale gold or blue besides, and they grow everywhere in the streets of Lebennin or the shores of Belfalas.”

They walked to the southern court of the garden, under the canopy of the culumalda that grew by the wall. Its chained flowers swayed in the morning like a rain of gold. Pointing to a row of beds in a sunny parcel, Lothíriel said, “And these are the flowers of Belfalas, that require the full light of the Sun. Here is the beach aster, whose face you can hardly avoid if you go walking on the strands. This is bee balm, that loves the salt air. And sea thrift, which clings to cliffsides and the grounds keeper found especially suited to the rocky soils tilled from Ered Nimrais, or so he told me.”

So saying she stooped. Something seemed to change in her face, like the gentle shadow of a long-remembered sadness. She plucked a single flower from the bed, and twirled it in her fingers.

“These were planted at the behest of the Lady Finduilas, wife to the Lord Denethor and mother to his sons, though she died when Faramir was but a boy.”

“She was of your people, was she not?”

“She was my father’s sister, and he loved her dearly.” Lothíriel stood again. “When Finduilas married, she was loath to leave sight of the Sea that she loved. I cannot say more of my uncle, but the lord Denethor was not an easy man to love, and perhaps a harder man to be wed to! They say that within a few years of her marriage to the late Lord Steward, she had removed herself from the Citadel, instead choosing to dwell here, in the ancient mansions of the House of Húrin.”

Lothíriel looked north, over the trellises and canopies, where a large stately house stood against the high Citadel wall, its somber marble facade peering over the sheer drop below into the northern fields.

“She ailed often within these walls. Even her most westerly rooms had no sight of the Sea, though she did her best to fill these gardens with the flowers of Dol Amroth. I wonder how many she had tried to grow, and how many fared well or ill in the mountain air.”

So saying she climbed up stairs on the ramparts where high outlooks were set. Éomer followed her. From the balustrades carved into the walls of the Sixth Circle they could see below into Pelennor outlying. Planting season had just finished. Plowmen and farmers walked the fields and cattle ranged in the distance, mere dots among the grass. Anduin glittered beyond, fed by the rushing snowmelt from Mindolluin. And green was the mound of Snowmane’s Howe, where lay Theoden’s steed.

For a while they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, for Lothíriel was tall, much as the King. She was a daughter of Dol Amroth, and the blood of Númenor ran true in her as in its proud sons.

Éomer looked at her. She did not meet his eyes, but seemed fixed to the gleaming ribbon of the Great River glittering within their vista. He knew by the manner of her asking that she had posed no question.

At last Éomer spoke. “Judging by our speech it seems you have guessed my intentions.”

“Somewhat, my lord.”

“Then doubtless you guess right. This thought has pressed on my mind, even as I met you in the house of your father by the Sea. You know my need: I am the last male of my house, and Rohan needs a queen. These seasons have been kind, though what the years may bring, who can say? I would not that by my negligence the House of Eorl be ended.

“Lothíriel, what say you, if I asked for your hand to join our Houses and Kingdoms?”

Lothíriel smiled, though it did not seem to reach her eyes. “What say I? I say that for the part of Gondor it is a good match, exceedingly good. For you are the King of the Mark, ever our stalwart ally. You are young and you have the love of your people, the love of King Elessar, my liege-lord, the love of my father, and my cousin Faramir is now your brother. And Rohan requires a queen after all its ravages, and you require a wife.”

“Aye, we require a queen. For I am king, though it came to me unlooked for on the battlefield. Yet you speak only of Gondor—and I suppose I also spoke only of Rohan, and kept myself out of my own accounts. But I would know your mind, if you would tell it, what of your part?”

At this Lothíriel faltered. She did not speak for a time. Beside them a long pennant of the House of Húrin, pale grey bearing three stars, streamed gently into the morning air, its silver threads glittering in the sunlight.

“For my part… Verily, Éomer King, this thought has passed through my mind also, seeing you upon the bridge of Dol Amroth. Happy memory it was to me, to have seen the King of the Mark on his steed of majesty. And yet my heart is unsure. Who do you wish to wed, I wonder, the woman or the lady? The kingship came to you unlooked for, you say. I ask you now, if you would think the same of me had it not come to you? If you needed not a queen but a wife, would we still be here, setting riddles among the flowers?”

Éomer was startled by her directness.

“If I were not King—Lady Lothíriel, but Éomer of old, a Marshall of the Eastfold? Were the late King not laid in his mound, and his son not dead untimely?" he said gravely. "Were I merely a captain of men, I would have no riddle for you. And none have I now! For I would fain know you as Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the dear daughter of a dear friend. And yet I would see you, as a soldier may observe the kinswoman of a comrade, and we would talk therein, and I would come to know you, much as I have come know you. Proud, I should think you, and wise of heart and learned of mind. And passing fair I would count you among the maids of Rohan and Gondor, a beautiful lady of high lineage, whose hand, were I only the sister-son of the King, I would maybe not dared ask for.

“And yet, lady. I am King. And the mound of Théoden is but freshly built. The green grass has grown on it again ere I left Edoras for here. And the stones of the barrow where my cousin Théodred sleeps have not yet gathered moss. Thence they lie!

“Lady, if we may talk plainly. You mean to ask whether you would be as Finduilas was, unrooted from your home into a strange land to wither in unhappiness, away from the Sea. You must know that I would it not be so!”

“I know you would not wish it, lord! And yet all the same. Alas for Finduilas, whose grief may still be writ on these flowers, now that we can ask neither Denethor or Boromir!” A shadow seemed to pass over her face. “Whether she was happy here in Minas Tirith, and what solace she found in her marriage, who can say? Not the flowers. And not any man. For few loremasters recount the story of the women-folk, and their memory is ever bereft in our reckoning.

“You mistook my words for grievance, which I’ve none with you or Rohan or indeed my lord father if he would broker this match. Merely I am unsure how I would fare if our houses were joined, for I will be queen in a realm that I have seen not and know not. And neither am I too sure of how we would suit, for too short have I known thee! Too often that is the fate of women, to marry and depart, as if disinherited, with no home that she did not make herself, and no tale beyond the name of her husband.”

She looked up at him with her proud glance; yet Éomer looking on her saw that she was indeed passing fair, and fairer still for the proudness of her speech. For the heart of Lothíriel was stern, and though she was but lately come to age in the reckoning of her people, she kept her own council. Long he thought of his sister Éowyn seeking death in despair while darkness festered in their house, and in his heart he rued the truth he saw in her words, and looked downward unto the City.

“It seems you find all the limits of my powers. Disinherited, you say? That may well be, if you can find no love or joy in the match. Yet in the Mark the marrying of a woman is a mighty gift that cannot be counted in words or gold, and not to be done unless she wills it so, for she is steward of the mægen of a house. It grieves me to think of Finduilas, mother to my sister's husband, sorrowing in this City. For in sooth you say, and yet I cannot change the ways of Men—not even I, king of land and people. And neither can I promise that you will come to love Rohan, or my person. For no more can I ask after the happiness of the dead as can I unmake the leagues between Rohan and the Sea.

“And yet, you have had my admiration since the day I met you by the gates of Dol Amroth, and it has only grown since. Think on it, my lady. For I seek your hand with an open heart, and ask no more than what you give willingly!” Then he bowed, though that was uncustomary for a king, and left the garden.

From her perch on the ramparts Lothíriel looked on at his retreating figure. If the sternness of my words have rebuffed him, then maybe the men of Rohan are not as fierce as they say. And if he seeks a wife less proud and less forthright, then he would like me not. And yet if the tales told in the drinking halls of Gondor were true, then Éomer was indeed fearsome, a king to a people fair and fell, laughing even at the black ships riding in the red morning Sun when hope had died upon the field, when all thought that they were the succor of the Enemy and not his rout. And was he not unscathed, though the whole host of Mordor lay between him and Heir of Elendil? So he was measured great among the champions of battle that day.

But kindly she thought he was, beneath his garbs of state and sharp speech, and fair of form, a man come to the fullness of his beauty and strength in the glory of youth. And almost she wanted to hearken to him, though she stood alone now among the unspeaking flowers.

During his stay in Gondor Éomer would ride out to fields outlying the City, as often as he could with only his esquire and a few king-guards. For he had little pleasure of the stone mansions, finding them confining, and neither did Firefoot his horse.

One such day as he was riding in the southerly reaches of the Rammas, his guard reported that near the Harlond Gate the Lady Lothíriel was also on horse, escorted by a knight of Dol Amroth.

Éomer had been hitherto riding in silence, deep in his own thoughts of warring and marshalling. Hearing this, he gripped his reins with a sudden laugh.

“Then it would be a discourtesy not to meet them,” he said in their own tongue.

Lightly and swiftly the king’s party rode forth at a canter, and presently came upon two riders, a lady on a grey horse bearing a headstall of silver and blue, and a knight beside her. Shimmering grey was her riding cloak, and her hair bound with cords. As they neared, Éomer brought Firefoot about and called in greeting. “Hail, Lady Lothíriel! Happy meeting is this, that I see you again in a field of summer flowers, on horse no less! It seems that wildflowers suit you as well as the tame blossoms of the garden.”

Lothíriel was smiling, watching the King approach, and bowed with her hand upon her breast in Gondorian fashion. And hearing him she laughed, “But they suits you so much the better, my lord!”

“Shall we ride?”

“Aye, lord, for I much desire to see the splendor of the steeds of Rohan!”

Lothíriel had not lived in the City long, though she knew well the Citadel and the Sixth Circle. In the day of shadow Imrahil did not deem it safe for her to be out, and she travelled little beyond the villages of Belfalas. Therefore ever she desired to walk in the lower circles of Minas Tirith, or ride into the Pelennor Fields among the farmsteads and inns, and mingle with the common folk as one could in days of peace. And she was glad of the company of the King, for ever since their speech in the Steward’s gardens her thoughts had turned to him, though he was often closeted in council in the Citadel and she could not seek him out.

So they rode together, at times quick and slow, through fields of rolling slopes rising and falling by turn. Newly seeded greens were sprouting in the tilth around them. Cattle ranged in crofts of sweet spring grass over the foothills of Mindolluin, grooved and lynchetted. A few folk were about in their work, bowing if they saw them pass on the road.

They passed through the Harlond gate of the Rammas, and rode to the vales of the Anduin. Their horses forded the shallow streams, and following up the shoulders of a gentle slade they dismounted on a hill overlooking the River. Large copses of old oak dotted the shore, and they rested in a lea of grass beneath an elm tree crowned with new leaves.

“So ever are the waters of Gondor gathered by Anduin,” Lothíriel said. “And ever does Anduin flow into the Sea.” She stood and looked southeast, around the wide bend of the River, shading her eyes from the Sun.

“I’ve never asked you, my lord. How did you find the Sea, when you were in Dol Amroth?”

Éomer wondered at this, remembering the crashing waves upon the crags of the promontory, and the echoing calls of mew fading on the strand. “I know not what I think of it. My thoughts seem meager next to its majesty, though I fear I shall never grow used to it. It is too large for me, and I both love and fear its largeness. Whatever Sea-longing holds the heart of Master Legolas and his Elven-folk, it comes not to me.”

“Yet you do not need to be an Elf to love the Sea,” she said, sitting down.

“Yonder it lies,” Lothíriel continued, stretching her arm towards the west and drawing a line from north to south. “Over the White Mountains. Long are its shores—longer than the knowledge of Men, they say, even in the distant days of the Noontide of Gondor. And yet, long is the Road also, that goes between Rohan and the Sea. For it is the same Road, is it not, that goes from the harbor of Pelargir where Anduin spills into Belegaer the Great to the Gap of Rohan, and beyond?”

“Learned you are in maplore, as if one who has walked much on the earth. And yet you are young and untravelled, so you say. Then long have you studied the atlas in the library! Indeed, this is the selfsame Road that goes northwest through the Mark, though beyond the Gap my knowledge fails. Aragorn knows well those lands, and you may ask it of him. For westward from the Gap will you not find the Sea also, if you walk in the emptiness where the Road is wild? But in Rohan all plains are roads for our herds, and ever the grass bends beneath their thundering feet.”

Both were then silent, and it seemed that each were thinking of their homes, walking in the memory of beloved lands.

“What of this, my lord. I would that you tell me in words the land that you love, for the tales of Rohan that we hear in Dol Amroth are scant, and I would hear from one who knows it best.”

“A daunting task you have set me. For Rohan is many lands and many things. I would need as many words to tell of it to you—yet no wordsmith am I, for I am a warrior’s son. But I say this: Rohan is above all a land of grass and plains, vast and open. But no grass in Gondor are like the grass of Rohan. In Rohan the grass is like the Sea, and not. Like, for its breast is wide, and birds fly upon it like the mew that fly over the beaches of Belfalas. Yet unlike, for it does not look toward West.”

Éomer looked at her intently. “Be comforted! If indeed our thoughts are not running counter, then know this: I shall do all in my power toward your joy, for I will not have another unhappy woman in the House of Eorl.”

But then Éomer added suddenly, as if struck by a thought unexpected, “No better words can I give you, Lothíriel, dear lady. And yet I shall give you a song, if you would have it, for that is often how we court in the Mark. It is a song of Meduseld, the throne-hall, that some among the King’s éored sing when they are far from home. It tells of the riders coming home to Edoras through the night, and the joy of seeing her golden hall in the dawnlight. I learned it when I was but a lad riding with them. I shall sing it for you, at least in part, in the Westron tongue as some scops of the King have cast, and perhaps you can glean something of Rohan from it.”

And still seated upon the lea of grass, he closed his eyes and hummed in a soft melody that presently grew louder and clearer, and after a few measures, he started to sing:

Through the night-helm, our herds like thunder,
we ride in meadows to rich Meduseld,
going among the grasséd garth
to the gardens of Eorl, golden Edoras,
her light leaming into lofty skies
under glorious eaves in the gloaming dawn.
So come we spear-friends, singing
to Meduseld, to drink the sweet mead,
and wash from weary eyes the earth-stepper’s wanderment
and unwear our arms of vigilance.
There sits Théoden in throne, mighty thewed,
giver of the feast-cup, horse-gifter,
hardy of heart, his hearth burning long,
and gleeful will sound our songs of glory
within the winsome woods of his hall.

In the morn-gleam we ride, gladly
come our company, thanes of the King
in frith and fastness forever blessed,
our horns blowing, by horse-road to home.

Against the rushing of the windy hill his song seemed almost to blend, melody and word alike, with the flowing air. Lothíriel sat amazed, first at the strange beauty of the song, whose form and mold, though doubtless learned of Elvenesse of old in ages beyond the memory of Men, survived little in the realm of Gondor. His golden hair was unbound and free, and in his face Lothíriel saw the bright joy of one whose heart ever roamed upon the land that he loved. Fair she thought his words, fair as a music fierce and wild, and vast as the open plain. Then she marveled that he, king to a people, would be so quick to song.

And suddenly she laughed, clear and mirthful. “It seems I am as a wild horse running upon your northern fields, and now mayhap I am tamed by a song.

“Éomer, my lord, hear this and think me not discourteous! My joy is not in your power but mine alone, as is your joy yours solely. So therefore as I look upon you, hearing the words of your song, swift and happy as the thundering hoof-falls of your mighty herds, I am comforted indeed.”

After that day, often did the King of Rohan and the Lady of Dol Amroth ride together. And the king-guards of Éomer, knowing their lord’s mood, knew why it was that he lingered in the Stone City.

At last came a day, ere the summer was spent, when Éomer met again the lady Lothíriel. He bade her come to the gardens of the Steward and among the southern flowers which she favored.

“Tonight I must take leave of you, Lothíriel. Our council is ended and I have tarried in the Stone City. But the season grows full, and autumn draws near, and now we must make our way home.”

“I know it, Éomer. And I know why you asked me to come. An answer of me you would have.”

“I would.”

She looked again on Éomer, long and steadily, and lo! he was looking at her, for he would depart on the morrow and yet was loath to be sundered from her.

“An answer you shall receive, but give me a while! A month’s time, I beg you, for it is a weighty decision—one I would need give freely of mind and heart, such as you said, when we first met in this garden.”

Éomer took her hand in his and kissed it. And turning from the gates of the garden he bid her farewell, and left the City in the morning.

Though she did not give her answer that day, the heart of Lothíriel thereafter was at peace. Flowers she sent with the folk of Éomer from the gardens of Finduilas. A month hence came a letter from Edoras, that the gardener in Meduseld had repotted the white sea thrift blooms, which took to the soil and seemed to flourish. Then Lothíriel wrote to Éomer:

Indeed, Éomer, I shall be as the sea thrift. Though my heart faced the Sea—no more, for I think I was ever hearkened to you, even since our first speech by the flowers of Finduilas. Be well, lord!

And with her letter she sent also a letter from Prince Imrahil her father to Éomer, giving his assent. So betrothed were Éomer, King of Rohan, and the Lothíriel, Lady of Dol Amroth.

They wed on the steps of Meduseld on the new year of the Fourth Age, with the lords and ladies of both kingdoms in attendance. The beauty of Lothíriel was unequalled that day for she was garlanded in rich flowers of Rohan and Dol Amroth entwined. And thereafter, upon the high peak of Halifirien, nigh the hallowed mound of simbelmynës where once lay Elendil the Fair, Éomer and Aragorn Elessar stood together, and with their hands clasped Éomer renewed the Oath of Eorl. It is said that King Éomer and Queen Lothíriel were blessed, and great love was fostered between them, and no less was the love her people had for the Queen.

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