Éomer completed his half turn and the smile he had held for Prince Imrahil abruptly vanished. A young woman had appeared in his vision and he watched her rise from her curtsey to King and Queen. Whatever words had rested on the tip of his tongue, they wouldn’t come out. Somebody must have brought a bucket full of freezing cold water and just thrown it in his face.

At least that was how it felt.

It was her!

The healer!

But also someone entirely different.

Large, slanted eyes; a silver iris circled by a darker ring, long thick lashes, but the deep shadows underneath them were gone. No longer was fatigue engraved around that fine nose and soft mouth. Her skin was no longer grey because of lack of sleep, but flawless and luminescent. The bruises he had put on that elegant jawline and her long neck were gone, as were the tight braids, which had forced her midnight dark hair under that ridiculous veil. Now it was held back by a silver headdress and fell down her back past her waist. Gone also was that shapeless healer’s garb, replaced by some pale blue gown, floating around her and hugging the gentle curves that he had felt when he had pulled her against him. She kept her hands at her side, in the folds of her gown, but he could remember them quite clearly: delicate hands with long slim fingers, tipped by perfectly oval nails. And just by picturing those hands, he could feel their touch again: on his chest; on his leg.

As if they were separated by a heavy panelled door, Imrahil’s voice reached him somehow muffled, introducing Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Not Mistress Lothíriel, the healer, but Princess Lothíriel! And while all he could do was stare, the Princess sank down into a curtsey before him and rose again with this unconventional grace of hers.

He had watched her walking across the lawn in the gardens of the Houses of Healing; watched her moving around in that treatment chamber. Her movements were different from other women. She held herself very upright, the shoulders set back; she was graceful, controlled. Watching her move had made him wonder; made him wonder how it would be to have her in bed, have her beneath him. And just watching her curtseying made him wonder once again . . . and that while her father was standing next to her!

What was the matter with him?

She was Imrahil’s daughter.

This healer, the one he hadn’t been able to get out of his head, turned out to be the daughter of a man whose character and integrity he greatly admired and whose friendship he cherished. One was not supposed to dally with an innocent, as the healer had quite obviously been, but one of the primary rules of friendship was that one did not dally with one’s friend’s daughter . . . or sister, if it came to that.

Somewhere in his code of honour, he was quite certain, there was that rule, a commandment, really, that stated: Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Daughter!

And that was what he had done . . . to a certain extent. Unwittingly, but nevertheless he had definitely lusted.

Aragorn’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Éomer, is something wrong?”

Éomer hesitated. He wanted to look into her eyes, to see what she was thinking, what she was feeling at this moment, but Lothíriel preferred to study the embroidery on the high collar of his tunic. Slowly he turned his head towards Aragorn. His friend looked at him; concerned, but also with a touch of amusement in his gaze.

Éomer cleared his throat before answering: “No, nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

Not a very intelligent answer, but his brain didn’t seem able to focus on anything other than the young woman before him. Imrahil’s daughter! Why didn’t she look like her brothers?

Aragorn let his eyes wander between the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth. And then there was only deep amusement in his gaze, and curiosity, but no concern at all.

“Perhaps the headache you mentioned earlier?” he inquired politely.

Éomer thought best not to reply but then a clear, cool voice said: “Willow bark tea!”

Four pairs of eyes settled on the Princess, all of them a bit bemused.

“Willow bark tree?” the Queen echoed, smiling benignly.

“For the headache,” the Princess explained, apparently unaffected by the odd stares she was receiving. “Or rather against a headache,” she clarified after a moment of reverie, and proceeded to extend the information even further: “You boil the bark in fresh water until the stock gets a greenish-brown colour. Then you drink it as hot as possible. You can put in some honey if you like.”

She definitely displayed a distinctive single-mindedness, when it came to her profession as a healer. But how could she be a healer at all, if she was Imrahil’s daughter, a high born noblewoman of the Realm of Gondor?

“My daughter often puts her assistance at the healers’ disposal and helps with tasks at the Houses of Healing.” Apparently Prince Imrahil felt it was time for some clarification on behalf of his daughter. Did he really believe what he was saying?

Éomer tried again to catch the Princess’s eyes, but Lothíriel of Dol Amroth did her best to avoid his gaze. As far as he remembered she had always looked directly at him when they met that night.

“Is that so? Her Highness assists the healers?” Éomer’s voice sounded much more friendly than he felt. “How charitable of the Princess.”

That finally did it. Her eyes flew up and locked with his, and then she gave her head the tiniest shake.

This was getting interesting! Did this hardly noticeable shake mean Imrahil had no idea what his daughter was actually doing at the Houses of Healing? And that she was afraid he would spill it? Well, it was definitely not going to be him who would tell her father the tale of that night. But he felt an urgent need to talk to the daughter. Instantly! He just had to get her alone. Not an easy task in a hall filled with about five hundred guests waiting for a feast to begin. But he was up to a challenge right now.

“I am afraid I will not be able to get some willow bark tea at the moment. But perhaps fresh air will do me some good,” he said to no-one in particular, satisfied that his voice sounded nonchalant, and then addressed the Prince of Dol Amroth: “Imrahil, would you give the Princess permission to accompany me outside onto the terraces? She might be able to recommend some more remedies.”

Imrahil wore the expression of a man who had the distinct feeling he was missing something. But, for whatever reason of his own, he chose not to inquire. He looked at his daughter.

“Of course, she may go with you. I am certain Lothíriel will be . . . ” After a short pause he went on: “. . . delighted?”

Éomer turned towards the Royal Couple.

“I hope you will not mind us taking our leave until the feast begins?”

Aragorn’s eyes were brimming with infectious good humour, the corners of his mouth struggling not to turn upwards. He exchanged a glance with his wife. Arwen just smiled and waved her consent.

“I will send a servant to summon you before I officially open the feast,” Aragorn offered. He was again looking at his wife with mirth and something else in his eyes that should have made his Rohirric friend highly suspicious. Arwen’s answering smile was rather gleeful.

Éomer had turned back towards Lothíriel. She appeared, as always, cool and composed, but a look into her eyes told him that at this moment she would rather be elsewhere. It was this very look of a startled fawn that had caused him a couple of times to cease taunting her. No woman should rightfully be allowed to own those kind of eyes.

But tonight he was not inclined to be affected by them. He had something to say to her and he wanted to ask her something. And he wanted to do it now.

He raised his right arm, a gesture that was more a demand than an invitation.

“Princess.” He lifted an eyebrow. “If you please!”

She put the tips of her fingers on the back of his hand with a graceful arch of her wrist.

“As my father said, my Lord: I am . . . delighted.”

How could he have forgotten that this fawn was in possession of a very capable tongue?

After having paid their respects to the Royal Couple of Gondor and not unaware of the looks the three people remaining behind were exchanging, Éomer attempted to lead the Princess directly out of the hall towards the terraces. It proved to be a journey full of hitches in the form of the nobles of Gondor strolling around the tables, as well as by those who were at pains to move out of the way of a king and a princess. Their progress towards privacy was slow. It was not long before Lothíriel apparently became awkward with their silence.

“I hope you left your sister in good health, my Lord?” she asked conversationally, choosing a topic certainly regarded as harmless for polite conversation.

“That would be the sister blessed to have me as her only brother?” Éomer replied, mimicking her chatty tone. “Thank you for your inquiry. I left her quite well and in fairly good spirits.”

He shot her a sideways glance and saw her wince at his tone. She was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Very good! Why should he be the only one? And he went on gleefully, “Shall we continue with this rather pleasant topic?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Well, after having just parted from Prince Imrahil who, in my opinion, is in excellent health, and having had the doubtful fortune earlier tonight of running into your youngest brother, who also appeared to be in perfect health - at least physically - that leaves me to inquire after the health of your two elder brothers.”

Getting no immediate reply, he prompted: “Well, are they in good health?”

“They are in excellent health, thank you.” Her voice had lost some of the serene tone she had used in her position as healer. Uncertainty had crept in, but also irritation.

“I am so glad to hear that,” Éomer said. “But that should not be too difficult to achieve with such a proficient healer as close kin, should it not?”

The fingers on his hand twitched and he felt her nails scratching him slightly; not painfully, but enough to remind him that this fawn might have claws as well. He had to find out what he had to do to have her draw blood.

“Shall we move on to the next topic, which should be, as I understand the common social conventions, the weather?”

They had reached the three steps to the walkway. With a quick movement of his wrist Éomer caught her hand in his, gently but without giving her the slightest chance to pull it back if she wished to avoid an embarrassing struggle. They turned towards each other and she met his gaze squarely with one of her own, displaying a mixture of utter puzzlement and barely concealed outrage. Quite a sight combined with that pink flash on her cheeks. He smiled at her discomfort.

“You do not want to talk about the weather, my Lord,” she said bluntly, obviously not willing to play games.

“No, not at all,” he admitted and urged her up the steps. At the top she balked again.

“Then what do you want . . . to talk about?” she hissed.

“For a beginning I would like to know why you neglected to mentioned that you are Prince Imrahil’s daughter.”

“My father just introduced us.”

She made an attempt to free her hand, but he easily kept hold of it.

“You know quite well that it is our initial meeting - or shall I say encounter - I am talking about.”

There was a wealth of warning in his voice and she stopped pretending to misunderstand him.

“I saw no reason to introduce myself with my title. It is of no consequence within the walls of the Houses of Healing. There I am called Mistress as are all the others. And you did not come to seek out a princess, but a healer who would treat you.”

“If I remember correctly, I came to ask for something to tend a wound. The treatment was forced upon me.”

“As if I would be able to force you to do anything you do not want, Éomer King?” she nearly spat out. “And as far as I remember, you did not care either to give me your title.”

“But when you came into this hall tonight you knew whom you were going to meet.”

“I knew who you were the moment you gave me your name. There cannot be too many Éomers out and about, and certainly not any who possess your bearing and manners.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you are quite intimidating and rude!”

Éomer shrugged his shoulders. “I have been called worse things by better people.”

Lothíriel’s chin lurched backwards slightly in surprise.

“You are insulting!”

“You feel that should be your privilege alone?”

She gave him no answer but a look so frigid Éomer was surprised he didn’t turn to ice.

“Nothing else to say, my Lady?” he taunted.

“I am trying to decide if you are just the rudest man currently inside the walls of Minas Tirith or simply angry without reason.”

“Have I no reason to be angry?” he asked, his voice clipped.

“No, not that I see. There has been no harm done in your not being aware that the healer who treated you was the daughter of a prince.”

“Not just any prince but one, I am friends with; a friend you expect me to lie to.”

“I do no such thing!”

Again she tugged at her hand, but he didn’t let her go. He felt her pulse under his thumb, which told him that she grew more and more agitated, even though she managed to display an amazingly composed countenance.

“And how am I suppose to interpret this pretty little head shake you gave me? You do not want me to tell Imrahil that we met before tonight. And you certainly do not want him to know the circumstances.”

“Your presumptions are presumptuous!”

She struggled again against his grip, trying not to be too obvious, and this time he complied.

Lothíriel clasped her hands together and let her nails bite into her skin. It looked as if she was hurting herself in an attempt not to hurt him. Quite an amusing notion.

“Why, my Lady, right now I could presume that you would like to inflict a wound . . . a deadly wound.”

Indeed, she looked as if she might disembowel him on the spot.

“I do not need to inflict a wound.”

“No? What are you contemplating then?”

“Feeding you hemlock!”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Poison! How fitting for a healer!”

For quite some time Éomer had been aware of the fact that they were drawing the attention of the other guests in the hall. Standing as they were about three feet above the main floor, everybody had a good view of them. The King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth would have attracted an audience anyway, even on their own. That they were in each other’s company and so obviously having a quarrel would be the gossip of the remaining evening and beyond that. He didn’t care about it at the moment. Later he would very likely have to explain to Imrahil, how they had managed in the short time of their just made acquaintance to be at such odds that they were creating a scene. Something the Prince was probably not accustomed to having his daughter involved in.

Lothíriel appeared to be completely oblivious of their surroundings. It would seem that her professional single-mindedness transferred neatly to her association with others. Or his harsh verbal onslaught had disconcerted her even more than he had thought possible. If he had wanted to upset her, he could claim success.

Nevertheless, it would be better if they retreated to a more secluded locality, or - sooner rather than later - Imrahil or one of her brothers, who were quite probably somewhere in the feast hall, would come to her rescue. And he still was waiting for her answer: why her father was not supposed to know that she had treated him. That he wasn’t very eager for his friend to learn about his part in that night’s encounter was beside the point. He wanted an answer to what she had to hide from her father.

“My Lady, perhaps we should proceed on our way outside,” he suggested, gesturing towards the next door.

She looked startled at this.

“I cannot go outside with you!”

“You have your father’s permission,” Éomer reminded her.

“I will not go outside with you.”

How had Elfhelm put it so vividly? She was digging in her heels.

“And why not?” he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

“It is not proper to venture with you alone into the dark garden.”

Obviously she was able to metamorphose into a prim Gondorian noblewoman if it suited her. Not that he had experienced the Gondorian noblewomen to be excessively prim.

“I am asking you to come with me onto the terrace, which is quite well lit by the light coming from the hall through the open doors. I have no intention of dragging you into the greenery.”

“It is not proper,” she repeated with some force. This word was starting to bother him.

“If it is not proper to step out into breathable air, then what do you consider spending half a night alone in a chamber with a man who is a stranger to you and who is clad only in a linen sheet?”

“That was something entirely different. You were a patient.”

“A patient you do not want your father to know about. Or is it rather the situation you want to keep from him?”

“You do not understand.”

“Obviously not! Therefore you better explain, but not here, because the number of onlookers is constantly growing!”

It took Lothíriel a moment to comprehend but then her eyes widened and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. Very slowly she turned her head towards the hall. Realizing that he had spoken the truth, she was probably mortified by the attention they were drawing. She swallowed and blinked a couple of times.

Yes, of course! She shared that habit with Faramir, her cousin. And now he could see that she bore a certain resemblance to the Steward. Not necessarily their features but their colouring was the same, and the fluid elegance of their movements. Éomer remembered that he once had thought that Faramir could be taken easily for Imrahil’s son, while the Prince’s own threefold offspring had inherited nothing obvious from their father.

He saw her straighten, forcing her breathing to keep even. He could imagine her mind working frantically. He had to admire her for the mastery of her emotions. This woman was not likely to break under fire.

Lothíriel turned back to him and her eyes met his. Their look reminded Éomer very much of that of a filly, which, after having trustingly followed you, had just endured the pain of the branding iron. But there was also a dangerous flash in there. She was a fighter after all.

“My Lord, would you be so kind to accompany me out onto the terrace.”

Éomer decided not to comment on her sudden willingness to venture out into the dark. He just offered his arm and then led her through the next door. As soon as they had reached the terrace, she withdrew her hand and stepped aside into the shadow of the open door panels, so she was out of sight of those inside the hall. Now Éomer could hardly make out her face, save for her facial expression, while he was still standing in the full gleam of light. As a warrior, the King believed strongly in not letting one’s opponent have any advantages. He used his bulk to force himself between the wall and Lothíriel. From this position her face was lit well enough. She had raised her chin in defiance.

“Why are you so angry with me, my Lord?”

A simple, direct question. The honest answer he could hardly accept himself and certainly not give to her. For months now he had deluded himself that the memory of the beguiling and, in her own aggravating way, endearing healer would soon fade, suppressed by memories of a more physical nature – including the Lady Cuillwen. When facing her tonight without any prior warning, it had hit him like a bolt from the blue. He had realized that he wanted her. More than he had ever imagined wanting any woman. And she was the one he could never have! After all, he wasn’t quite ready to give up on the concept of honour.

If he had gotten a warning in advance, had he been prepared to see her again, this would never have happened. And that was why he was angry; angry not particularly with her, but the situation – and himself.

Never let an adversary see the chink in your armour!

“Why is Prince Imrahil not supposed to know what you are doing at the Houses of Healing?” he shot back, not willing to discuss his state of mind.

“My father does know.”

“You told me – and showed me - that you are a competent healer; Imrahil mentioned you are assisting the healers. There is a considerable difference,” he pointed out.

“He does know,” Lothíriel insisted again. “He gave me his consent four years ago, and without it the healers would have never educated me. This is Gondor, my Lord. Without the acquiescence of either her father or her husband a female can do nothing.”

“Then why doesn’t he acknowledge your situation?”

“Because it is easier for him to picture his daughter rolling up bandages and spoon feeding the sick than amputating limbs and shoving bowels back into a man.” Her tone had become much sharper.

He was on the verge of asking her to repeat her last words, because he couldn’t quite believe what she just had said. His brain refused to connect this ethereal-looking creature with the bloody work she mentioned so matter-of-factly. But then, he had been at the Houses of Healing in the direct aftermath of the battle. Even though focused on Éowyn, in the back of his mind he had heard the horrible cries of the wounded, had in the periphery of his vision seen the blood-covered healers, the broken bodies brought to them. He had heard the shouts for water, for dressing materials; the demands to hold somebody down, to get a saw. And now he should imagine this beautiful vision of a woman holding such an instrument? Using it? He swallowed.

“You did amputations?”

“That is certainly not something any healer wishes to do, but if I have to do it, I do it.”

No, she was not somebody who would shy back from a necessity. Should a father not be aware of such a trait?

“Imrahil is not a man living in denial of reality. He was at the Houses of Healing just after the battle was over. He saw the healers at work. He knew you were one of them.”

“He actually saw me, but he did not recognize me. At that moment there was probably as much blood all over me as there was on the wounded. That was not something he connects his daughter with. Erchirion once said that when it comes to me, our father only sees what he wants to see. And he sees a girl who should be protected, who should have care and attention lavished upon her.”

“But that is not what you want.”

“What I want is to work as a healer.” There was passion in her voice, which he understood, but also longing for something unattainable. That he did not understand.

“That is what you do,” he reminded her. “You said so yourself: your father gave his consent.”

“Only because I caught him in an hour of weakness, after my mother died. She suffered from a disease of the lungs and died a cruel death. I had watched her dying for three years. My father hoped to ease my grief by granting me my deepest wish. But he was never content with the idea of me working as a healer. He never really understood why it is so important for me.”

“And why is it so important for you?”

Éomer’s earlier anger had faded. Those big, guileless eyes meeting his squarely had their effect on him again. How could he have thought he would stay immune? That she was deeply devoted to her art, he had learnt the night he had first met her. The compassion and empathy he had seen in her eyes, heard in her voice when she spoke about those men given into her care after the battle. From what Elfhelm had told him tonight, he gathered that her concern for her patients was not limited to their physical well-being. What had caused a Gondorian princess, who should have been content being sheltered and doted upon, to choose hard work and great strain?

“What draws you to being a healer?” he asked.

“My mother used to say, you have two hands: the first is to help yourself, the second is to help others. The healers taught me compassion and dedication. They showed me that there is joy in helping and caring for others and that there is more to life than grooming yourself and embroidering cushions. I do not want to sit around all day, trying desperately to find something to occupy an empty life. It is better to be tired at night out of exhaustion than out of boredom."

“Working as a healer is what you do,” Éomer repeated his earlier statement.

“Only for the moment. I have always known that my father considered this arrangement as temporary. There is the life that I have been bred for, waiting for me.”

“What could you have been bred for?” he asked not quite understanding what she was suggesting, and then added in Rohirric: “For Bema’s sake, you are not a horse.”

There was a tiny frown between her brows, probably trying to imagine what he had said.

“I am a pledge,” she stated, as if that would make things any clearer. She must have seen the lack of understanding in Éomer’s eyes, because she clarified her explanation further.

“I am a pledge for an alliance in favour of Gondor.”

“What alliance?” Did he miss some post-war negotiations?

“Not any specific alliance at present. But currently I am the only born Princess of the Realm. My father is the Lord of Dol Amroth; my cousin the Steward of Gondor. I will be bound to whomsoever might help to straighten out relations within the realm or be generally for the good of the land.”

She couldn’t be meaning what she was talking about! The thought of having her thrown into the bed of a man, any man, for a political agenda made him feel somehow hollow in the chest. Arranged marriages were not unknown in Rohan. But this sounded as if women were produced and kept in stock just in case they were needed for the strengthening of agreements.

“That is ludicrous,” he murmured.

“No, my Lord. That is politics. My Grandfather Adrahil was at odds with the Steward Ecthelion. The opposition between the two families did Gondor much harm, and when it was finally settled, the agreement was strengthened by a union between Ecthelion’s son Denethor and my aunt Finduilas. My own parents’ bond was arranged to settle a decade long dispute regarding the coastal island of Tolfalas.”

“And you can accept that?” Why did he feel outrage on her behalf while she appeared to be content with this fate?

“It is not a matter of acceptance, but a matter of duty. And I should have thought that you, my Lord, would understand the concept of duty.”

“This does not sound like duty to me but self-sacrifice.”

“Sometimes it feels that way, but I am trying not to pity myself. I was always destined for an arranged union. I can tolerate a bond based on a political necessity, on duty and on common sense. As I said: I have been bred for it. ”

Did she have to state something abominable like this with her voice an epitome of reason?

“I have not known Prince Imrahil for a long time, but I cannot believe I have misjudged his character so profoundly. He is a generous man, who cares deeply for his kin. I cannot imagine him forcing his daughter into a bond she may detest.”

“Do not misunderstand, my Lord. I do not say that I would be forced to wed a suitor I am deeply opposed to. Nevertheless, there will be a time when I have no other choice than to accept my father’s choice. I just hold the hope that this time will not come too soon, and that, until then, I will be allowed to keep on my work at the Houses of Healing. But if my father learns that I have committed a breach of propriety he would coerce me into leaving at once, sending me back to Dol Amroth.”

“And you committed a breach of propriety the night I came to the Houses of Healing?”

Brainless question! Even in Rohan it would have been regarded as rather improper to jump at a woman stark naked and nearly break her neck.

“In my father’s opinion I certainly did. Treating a man on my own, without another healer present, would not have his approval. But that is highly impractical. I could not impose such a restriction on the other healers. And that night I did not expect . . . When I offered to treat you, I did not expect you to become such a challenge as a patient. You were rather . . . ”

“. . . intimidating and rude?” he interrupted. “I am afraid I was not on my best behaviour that night! And earlier tonight . . . that was even worse.”

“You have the extraordinary ability to discompose me, my Lord.”

This unpretentious confession surprised Éomer and made him feel even worse for his recent demeanour.

“Tonight I wanted to discompose you,” he had to admit.

“I noticed,” she replied with a surprisingly wry tone, “but I did not quite understand. Why were you so angry?”

“I do not like being surprised and at a disadvantage.” That was not really a lie, but a rather rough evasive manoeuvre. “But that is no excuse for how I behaved and the rude way I spoke to you. I owe you another apology. - Will you accept it, my Lady?”

She looked squarely into his eyes, and then slowly, very slowly, a smile lit her face, one that finally reached her eyes.

“Your apology is accepted, Éomer King. After all, with three brothers I have lots of practice in forgiving stupidity.”

“And lots of practice in hitting back with words, I suppose?”

She nodded in agreement, and then her expression grew a bit more sober again.

“I must confess, I felt myself to be at a disadvantage, too. I was afraid that when you saw me you would . . .”

“. . . just blurt out that I have met you before and where?”

“I would not have it phrased that way, but yes! That was what I had feared.”

“I think I also have to make a confession, my Lady.”

She raised her eyebrows to indicate that she was listening with interest.

“I do not wish Prince Imrahil to know about my not so glorious part in that night’s encounter.”

“Oh?” She appeared genuinely surprised.

“Tell me, what do you think your father would do if he learnt that I bruised his daughter in the way I did?”

For a moment she seemed to consider that question rather seriously and judging her facial expression she found an answer. Suddenly her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as if she was going to say something. But then she pressed her lips together, apparently trying to keep a straight face. There was an odd mixture of mischief and embarrassment in her eyes.

“Well?” Éomer prompted, but the Princess just shook her head.

“I do not think you want to know the answer, my Lord.”

“Of course I want to know the answer,” he insisted, having the feeling he was being laughed at. “I want to be forewarned if I am going to be just whipped or broken on the wheel.”

“I doubt doing you bodily harm would be in the forefront of my father’s mind.”

“What a relief!”

Something about this harmless remark must have been utterly amusing, because Lothíriel’s lips started to twitch. Her entire neck began quivering with the exertion required to keep a laugh inside. Finally she had to surrender. She laughed out loud! It was the first time he had heard that sound. It was warm and very pleasant, alternating with short, breathless giggles.

“What are you laughing about?” Éomer asked, chuckling himself, infected by a true cheerfulness which surprised him.

The Princess just shook her head and clapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to silence herself.

“You are laughing at me!” he accused her. “Tell me at once what this is about.”

Just another headshake and a look of mirth from sparkling eyes.

Éomer circled her wrist with thumb and index finger and pulled the hand from her mouth.

“You will tell me!” he ordered, trying hard to suppress his own laughter. When Lothíriel made an attempt to bring her other hand to her mouth he caught that as well, and then kept both in a firm hold between their bodies. Some kind of barrier seemed to be advisable.

“You are aware, my Lady, that making fun of a king is a capital offence. If you do not want to be broken on a wheel, you had better tell me what I want to know.”

“I cannot tell you.” Her voice was still breathless with laughter. “You will believe me insane.”

He refrained from mentioning that after having met Amrothos the possibility of insanity running in her family had actually occurred to him. Right now he couldn’t concentrate on her sanity, because, with her head tipped backwards to be able to look at him, the sparkling eyes and a mouth caught somewhere between a laugh and a smile, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Éomer nearly forgot to breathe.

He found himself wondering how she would taste. He knew he couldn’t dally with her, not with Imrahil’s daughter. And still he found himself leaning towards her. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he suddenly felt off-balance and lurched back upright. Totally surprised by his momentary loss of control, he let her hands go and took a step back. Shaking himself mentally, he searched Lothíriel’s eyes, but she was still smiling at him, blissfully unaware of how close she had come to having been kissed utterly senseless.

Wasn’t it time for Aragorn to open the feast?

“Have you reached a truce?”

The unexpected voice came from his left side. Simultaneously both he and Lothíriel turned to watch a tall, slender figure approach. Another of her brothers!

“Erchirion! You made it!” Lothíriel exclaimed, clearly joyous to see this brother.

She walked over to him. Erchirion took her hand and placed his lips lightly on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving the Rohír.

Éomer probably should have thanked fate that he had been able to pull himself together, or he would have been caught making the greatest mistake in his life. Somehow he doubted Prince Erchirion would have taken kindly to finding his sister being ravished.

The Prince was watching him with a shrewd gaze. From the very beginning of their acquaintance Éomer had suspected that there was quite a bit of substance under Erchirion’s ever-amused surface. He had felt that he would make a good friend – or an adversary not to be underestimated.

“I have not only just made it, dear sister.” Erchirion smiled at Lothíriel tenderly. “I have been in the hall for some time. Actually,” his eyes went back to Éomer, “I have been there long enough to watch your quite noticeable exit.”

“Erchirion has just arrived back from Dol Amroth,” Lothíriel explained, happily ignoring her brother’s allusion. “We were afraid he would not make it to the feast, after his ship failed to arrive at Harlond this morning as scheduled.” She smiled at her sibling. “What was the reason?”

Erchirion looked slightly baffled.

“A damaged skiff blocking the shipping channel about forty leagues downstream,” he answered automatically.

“And now I am so glad to see you,” his sister went on, obviously not willing to give him the chance to pursue his own enquiries. “I hope you are in good health?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” he said, sounding rather dubious.

“To hear that will please the King.”

“Which King?” the Prince asked in a bewildered tone. “That King?” He jabbed a finger towards Éomer. “Why should he be pleased about it?”

“Yes, why should he?” the Rohír murmured.

“You inquired about his health earlier,” Lothíriel reminded him. “After I asked you about your sister’s. And then we established that all our families are in excellent health, except you are having your doubts about Amrothos’s state of mental well-being.”

Erchirion had listened to his sister’s prattle, watching her with a rather mystified expression. Éomer couldn’t blame him. Lothíriel seemed to him the last woman in the whole of Middle-earth who might prattle . . . except, of course when she chose to for her own reasons: diversionary tactics!

Once before he had had the opportunity to watch the three Princes of Dol Amroth interact. They had talked all over each other and rarely resisted the impulse to trade sly jibes. Perhaps because the Princess looked so different from her brothers, he wouldn’t have imagined her sharing these traits. Watching her now for the first time with one of her siblings, he had the growing suspicion that, underneath her serene and composed façade, there was a profound sense of the ridiculous. This woman had more layers than an onion, and this was not the time to give into the temptation to peel them back.

Brother and sister had looked at each other for a moment, humour creeping into Erchirion’s gaze. He understood quite well what Lothíriel was aiming to achieve.

“Éomer King wouldn’t be the first to question Amrothos’s sanity, but right now I feel I should be worried about you, dear sister. Are you sure you are well?”

“Quite well,” she answered without batting an eyelid.

“Good!” Erchirion seemed satisfied. “Then you may answer my initial question.”

“And that was what?”

“Have you reached a truce?”

“A truce?” Lothíriel echoed, obviously stalling. Éomer decided to keep out of this spat for the time being. He wasn’t quite sure he understood the rules.

“A truce is an agreement between adversaries to stop fighting,” the Prince explained patiently.

“If a requirement for a truce is previous fighting, then a truce was not necessary because there was no fighting.”

Rohan’s King couldn’t resist crossing his arms over his chest and settling his back against the open door panel behind him. This was going to be interesting.

“There was no fighting?” Erchirion asked, highly sceptical. “You could have fooled me and the rest of the crowd in there you chose to entertain.”

“There might have been a slight disagreement,” his sister yielded.

“And what was this slight disagreement about?” the Prince probed.

“The weather,” she said with a perfectly straight expression.

During this exchange Erchirion’s eyes had wandered between his sister’s and the King’s faces and at Lothíriel’s answer it had been unfortunately on Éomer’s. He saw the other man’s perplexed and then highly amused reaction.

The Prince gave an exaggerated groan.

“Lothíriel, I know this quarrel was not about the weather. And you know that I know. And I know you know that I know. And we both know that father will want to know.”

“We are a knowledgeable family,” his sister dared to throw in.

“Unfortunately sororicide is illegal in Gondor,” Erchirion muttered.

Éomer was quite certain that he was not able to keep the straight face he’d been aiming for, but the next moment he didn’t feel quite so amused because the Prince’s voice grew much more serious than he had ever heard it.

“Take my advice, both of you, because it is given with the best of intentions. Our father is going to question why you created quite a scene after having officially met only moments before. You had better think about a good answer, an answer that you should try and coordinate.”

Éomer looked at Lothíriel. All playfulness and mischief were gone from her eyes. For a moment he could see a deep worry, but then she had found her usual composure and nobody could have guessed what was going on inside her. Erchirion had watched her as well. Seeing her mask fall back into place, he nodded his agreement.

“I came here to inform you that King Elessar is about to open this feast officially and asks you to be at his side,” he addressed the King of Rohan. Éomer was surprised that there was not the slightest hint of accusation in the Prince’s tone.

Erchirion took his sister’s hand.

“I think it is better that I escort Lothíriel to her seat.” And then he added maliciously: “By the way, Éomer King, tonight you will be sitting between King Elessar and my father.”

Éomer closed his eyes. He had known from the beginning: this would be a highly unpleasant evening.