It had been a wise decision not to go through with his first notion of getting drunk at last night’s feast, Éomer reflected as he lay in bed the next morning, face buried in the pillow. That not only had preserved him from definite embarrassment but also from the strong after-effects spirits were inclined to have on him.

He rolled onto his back and stretched out both arms sideways. There was still a lot of space left between his fingertips and the edge of the bed. It was huge and probably not meant to be for lying in alone.

Not again!

Being on his own in this bedchamber, which was big enough to house half an éored, Éomer permitted himself the luxury of a loud and lengthy groan. He had to get these images out of his head! He had dreamt last night; he had dreamt in vivid details. Of the healer! Or rather the Princess!

He couldn’t even understand what drew him to Imrahil’s ethereal-looking daughter. He had always sought out the more lush female forms. True, she had intrigued him from the very first moment. That odd mixture of compassion and control, of a sharp mind and innocence had been captivating. Neither her fatigue nor that awful garb had been able to veil her beauty. He had felt annoyed when she started ordering him around; when he thought she tried to patronize him. But soon he realized, with some amusement, that she was as much irritated by him as he was by her. And what were you supposed to make of a woman who simply shrugged off that you had just bodily attacked her, but who had to struggle for her composure as soon as you began to tease her in a rather harmless way?

That night had been one of many surprises. Never before had he been confronted by a female who, at one point, seemed to appreciate what she had before her and the next moment regarded him with the curiosity a child might display for a rare butterfly. And certainly never before had he had a woman drop down on her knees before him; wrap her hands around his leg with a completely dispassionate touch, concentrating on the state of his tendons! At that moment he hadn’t known if he should howl in frustration or laugh his head off. A look into her eyes had told him that she was so bloody innocent she hadn’t even understood the situation.

Later he often had asked himself what would have happened if he had given into the temptation and kissed her, scruples be damned. It had made quite an agreeable daydream over the months. But last night something had changed for reasons he couldn’t for his life understand. Instead of a faint desire, all of the sudden he felt a deep hunger.

Éomer allowed himself another groan. Éothain had been right! It was unhealthy to work from dawn until deep into the night and then sleep alone.

He tried to concentrate on something different. The canopy above him was a tapestry showing some kind of symbol he couldn’t quite figure out. Was this leaf-covered female carrying a goose? What should a goose have to do with Númenor or Gondor? No, it couldn’t be a goose! Some other bird!

A knock at the door had him sitting bolt upright, his right hand going for his sword. It was not next to him of course, but on the other side of the chamber lying on a chest. He had to find a way to control these reflexes, or one day he might hurt somebody.

He reached behind him and bunched up a couple of pillows, then sat back against them.

“Enter!” he called.

As he had expected it was Dewon, a servant who had already been assigned to be at his disposal before when he stayed in the Palace for Aragorn’s coronation. The man was in his forties and looked able-bodied and healthy. Why such a man should choose to be a domestic instead of doing something useful was beyond him.

Dewon carried a tray with a mug of some steaming liquid, and Éomer could make out a pile of honey cake and almond bread. At least the man had remembered that he liked something sweet for his first meal of the morning and preferred fruit tea to ale.

“My Lord,” the man greeted him with a bow. There were props attached to the tray and Dewon just placed it across his lap without even asking if he wouldn’t rather eat at the table. Taking a meal in bed! He wished some of his riders could see that . . . or perhaps better not! He would have to ask Elfhelm if he had gotten the same treatment.

The domestic opened the half-transparent shutters and let the early morning sun fallinto the chamber.

“Is everything to your liking, my Lord?”

“Thank you. Everything is fine.”

“Do you wish a bath to be readied, my Lord?”

“Big tub, hot water?” Éomer asked mildly, watching the man’s bewildered expression.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, I do wish to take a bath after I have eaten.”

“Very well, my Lord. Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. You may go!”

The domestic left the bedchamber, probably having found new nourishment for his prejudices against the aberrant Horselords.

Éomer applied himself to the food. He was quite hungry. Between his conversation with Aragorn and Imrahil and a constant flow of friends and acquaintances coming up to their table to greet him, he had hardly found the time to eat any of the sumptuous choice of dishes on offer. And all the time he expected Imrahil to mention his rather unfortunate behaviour towards the Princess. But his friend had remained silent on the subject, at least for the evening.

Perhaps he didn’t want to bring it up for anybody to overhear and was waiting for some quiet time today to demand an explanation. Éomer still had no concept of what to tell the Prince. He didn’t want to tell his friend an outright lie, but even less did he want Lothíriel to suffer the consequences of his - as she had more than rightly called it - stupidity. He wished he could talk to her before he had to speak to her father. Erchirion’s advice to tune their stories was nothing but sensible.

During the feast the Princess had sat with her brothers, a few seats down the table to his right. The threesome appeared to be in a good mood, obviously bantering with each other and smiling a lot. Once he had caught Lothíriel aiming her fork at Amrothos’s hand when he had been trying to steal from her plate. There was no doubt that the brothers felt very protective towards their sister. Before the feast had ended they had managed to usher her out of Merethrond and away from their father. Amrothos had come up to Imrahil to give a lengthy and highly confusing explanation why Erchirion had to accompany his sister straight back to her quarters at the Houses of Healing. Even the Prince, who must have been used to his youngest son’s rhetoric, had looked rather dumbfounded. He had not found the time to recover or respond, because the Queen had called him to her, as she wished some enlightenment regarding the history of Dol Amroth.

Before he took his leave, Imrahil’s youngest son had dropped something next to Éomer’s chair, and while he bent down to pick it up, he said in a low voice, so that only the Rohír could hear him: “It was not supposed to be an offer to swap the Lady Cuillwen for my sister.” The next moment he was gone.

Perhaps it would be a good idea if he and Lothíriel also agreed on what to tell her siblings. He had no intention of dealing with a belligerent pair of brothers on top of everything else.

Having finished the last crumb of his food – except for a piece of honey cake, which the stallion adored, for Firefoot,– Éomer set the tray aside and rolled out of the bed. From the noises he heard coming from the dressing room adjoining his bedchamber, the bath was now prepared. He and Aragorn had agreed to meet early in the High King’s study. There was much news to be traded. Not all details could always be carried by the messengers constantly going back and forth between Edoras and Minas Tirith. And as hard as he found it, he had to plead for help. Without aid from Gondor, many Rohirrim would not survive the next winter.

He was about to make his way to the dressing room, but on second thoughts he pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his hips. There were some things a man didn’t want to deal with naked, and Gondorian servants were among them. Soon it was confirmed as a sensible precaution, because beside Dewon there were two female domestics busy with the preparation of the bath. Too many willing hands in this palace! The younger one turned the colour of beetroot when she saw the half-naked King of Rohan standing in the connecting door to the bedchamber, but at least she didn’t shriek. With a wave from Dewon, both women left the room.

“Will that be all, my Lord?” the man asked with an unmoving face.

Éomer just nodded, glad to see the servant bow his head and disappear. He tugged off the sheet and tossed it aside, lowering himself into the large copper tub. If these domestics understood anything, then it was how to make water the perfect temperature. He looked around the small chamber. No, there was definitely nothing left for Dewon to do. His few items of clothing had been taken from his saddle-bags, pressed and now hung over hooks along the wall. His riding boots were polished and his armour cleaned. Leather shining, metal gleaming; it hadn’t looked this good since  . . . well, since Aragorn’s coronation when Dewon had his first go at it. Nevertheless, the last thing he needed was a personal servant. Having somebody permanently bustling around him would drive him crazy.

Just before he was about to dive under to wet his hair, he remembered his last lecture on this subject. Comb it before you wash it! He got half out of the tub, taking a comb from a nearby stand, then letting himself fall back into the water, splashing quite a bit of it over the edges. Pulling the comb through his hair, he swore flatly. This was becoming a real nuisance! He couldn’t even perform the most trivial, everyday routines without being reminded of her.

The King forced himself to concentrate on the issues he had to discuss with Aragorn. He didn’t have the slightest hint if Gondor had the means, or his friend the power, to help the Riddermark. He hated the idea of becoming a supplicant, but he couldn’t allow that to mean that his kinsmen had to suffer through another Long Winter. It may have been more than 250 years, but none of the Rohirrim had forgotten about the hardship their forefathers had to endure. This time it had to be different. They needed help; they needed it desperately.

Éomer got out of the bath, dried himself off and yanked on his breeches. He looked around to see what else Dewon had provided. That man had obviously thought about everything. He found a large tin with tooth powder and patches of wool. Making a small ball out of some of the bleached wool, he wetted it, dipped it into the powder and shoved it in his mouth to rub it over his teeth. It tasted rather flowery. It would appear the Gondorian even tried to scent their breath.

Removing the wool from his mouth, he prepared another patch when he heard a knock at the door to the bedchamber. Probably Dewon wanting to tidy the room.

“Enter!” he barked over his shoulder and put the new wool ball into his mouth, moving it around with his index finger. He didn’t hear footsteps or anything at all, until a cool, clear voice addressed him from behind.

“My Lord!”

Éomer nearly choked on the wool. Only a retching cough kept it out of his throat. His eyes watered and he had to brace himself against the chest by which he had been standing. A small hand started rapping him on the back with unexpected strength. It made clapping noises on his bare skin.

“I apologize, Éomer King. It was not my intention to startle you.”

The Rohír turned around, contemplating murder.

“Princess!” he spat out and then clenched his teeth. “What . are . you . doing . here?”

His mind spun, trying to figure out why Lothíriel would do something so ill-advised as to come to his bedchamber in the early morning. . . . Not that in the middle of the night would have been any better!

Lothíriel had taken a step back, obviously surprised by his display of anger.

“I came on Erchirion’s advice.”

“Your brother sent you here?” To say that there was doubt in his voice would have been a definite understatement.

“Of course he did not send me, but, as you remember, he advised that we should talk before my father might confront us separately,” she reminded him in that annoyingly reasonable tone of hers.

“And therefore you came to my bedchamber, in the early morning, before I even had the chance to get dressed?” he asked, his voice low and clipped.

“I admit it is not entirely prudent,” At this Éomer just couldn’t keep back a snort. “But I think we can establish that I have seen you in less!” How did she manage to achieve such a remark without a hint of sarcasm to it?

“But then I was your patient, and this is now a very different situation.” He was quite certain that she caught her own words thrown back at her. “This is my bedchamber,” he repeated, keeping his voice scrupulously even. “Do you feel this is the right place to discuss how to keep a previous breach of propriety from your father?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on his chest, or rather on the right side of his rib cage. She had this intent, distant look, which came to her eyes when she concentrated on her profession. Éomer followed her line of vision: the faint scar of the wound she had treated. He gritted his teeth, moving the soaked wool ball with his tongue behind his molars.

Lothíriel leant in closer.

“That looks good. The skin is smooth and well healed over. No malformation.”

She extended her hand as if to touch the scar, causing Éomer to take two hasty steps backwards. If she touched him, he couldn’t guarantee anything. He might even throttle her after all!

Her gaze lowered to his leg.

“Has the muscle healed well?”

“It has healed very well indeed, even without any bandaging. But this is not the place or time to examine the healing process! And this is certainly not a place where you should be at all!”

“But this is the only place where I could get you alone before you go into council with King Elessar . . . and my father.”

Éomer closed his eyes briefly and ran both hands through his still wet hair, struggling hard not to lose the rest of his composure.

“My Lady, would you mind taking yourself off to the bedchamber, so I can finish getting dressed. Then we may talk.”

“As you wish. I will wait for you.”

Lothíriel left the dressing room, closing the connecting door behind her.

Éomer pressed his fists into his eye sockets and groaned. Lately groaning seemed to have become a bad habit of his. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to send her to the bedchamber. Imrahil’s daughter and a bed in the same room were not the best of images to restore his mind to order.

He spat out the wool into the spittoon and rinsed his mouth with the mixture of water and wine from a mug left for this purpose. Yanking the freshly polished boots over his feet and shrugging on a lightweight tunic, made to be worn without a shirt to suit the hot weather, he grabbed his belt, buckled it around his waist and jerked open the door to join the Princess.

Lothíriel stood in front of a chest, her back turned towards the room. She was wearing only the long-sleeved healer’s gown; no tunic, no veil. Her dark hair had been plaited into a simple, thick braid hanging down her back, long enough for her to sit on it. She couldn’t be much shorter than Éowyn, but she was more delicately built.

Right now she was paying the same attention that she usually displayed towards her human subjects to his sword. She let two fingers glide over the length of it. When she heard him come closer, she looked at him over her shoulder. Seeing her for the first time in broad daylight, he was able to make out that there wasn’t the slightest hint of blue in her iris. The colour was a clear, silvery grey, the bright intensity emphasized by the thick fringe of dark lashes. Aragorn had the same eye colour; and Faramir, and of course Imrahil. The heritage of the Dúnedain.

Her eyes had a troubling effect of him. Whenever she turned them towards him, looking squarely into his, something inside him settled and quietened. Just now he had been tempted to shake her and throw her out, angry that he couldn’t evade the effect she had on him and angry that she had just walked into his bedchamber. Any number of the servants who were swarming round this palace, might have seen her coming in.

It would have been a good and right notion, to get her out of this room, but a look from those guileless eyes, eyes which probably didn’t even know the meaning of ulterior motive, and all his intentions flew out of the window.

Her hand was lying on the sheath of his sword.

“The blade of your sword is much shorter than the ones my father or my brothers use, or any I have seen in the hands of Gondorians. And there is no guard.”

“Is there anything you are not curious about?” he asked, still a little unnerved.

“Is there anything one should not be curious about?” she replied. It was a serious question, not just rhetorical. She turned, facing him.

Éomer shook his head, feeling at the same time frustration and amusement.

“I think you did not come here to discuss weaponry, but to tell me how I am supposed to answer your father, if he confronts me about my disproportionately bad behaviour last night?”

“I came to suggest how you may answer, but I wouldn’t want you to lie on my behalf. At least it is your decision what you will say.”

“My Lady, I already said that I do not want you to suffer the ill consequences of my . . . “

“. . . disproportionately bad behaviour?” She smiled. “Erchirion used the same phrase.”

How could he have forgotten her brothers? Probably he should be grateful that there were only two out of three present at Minas Tirith.

“What did you tell your brothers last night?” he asked carefully. “They must have asked you some questions. At least that is what I gathered from a comment Amrothos made.”

“What did he say to you?”

Éomer swore softly under his breath. He shouldn’t have mentioned Amrothos’s remark. He could hardly repeat the words the Prince had aimed at him.

“I fear, I cannot repeat what he said. I am certain that he did not intend you to hear it or for me to tell you.”

“It is a real nuisance with Amrothos. Whenever he says something not ridiculous, it is not for my ears to hear.”

“He was upset on your behalf. What did you tell him - and Erchirion?”

“The truth, of course,” she answered, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

Éomer wasn’t quite certain he had heard her correctly. Perhaps there was still some water in his ears from the bath.

“The truth?” he echoed and then added on second thought: “The entire truth?”

“The basic truth!” Lothíriel had to cut down.

“Ahh!” Éomer gave her a faintly amused glance. “Would you mind defining basic?”

“I told them that you came to the Houses of Healing and that I treated your wound. And that I neglected to introduce myself, therefore you were taken by surprise when we met again last night.”

“Your brothers accepted this summarized tale?” he asked dubiously.

“They usually accept my tales, because they usually do not have any reason to doubt them.” Could it be that her brothers, too, were not immune to these large candid eyes? “Unfortunately, in this case they demanded additional details,” she added, sounding a little bit miffed at the scepticism of her siblings.

“Somehow I have the feeling I am going to regret asking this, but what kind of details did you give them?” he inquired carefully.

“I did not mention the bath, or your attire, of course.”

“Of course!”

“Or that there was no other healer or even a domestic in attendance.”

“Of course!”

“But I had to give them something; therefore I admitted that I punched you.” He should have been forewarned by the gleam in her eyes that she had aimed to baffle him. 

“What? You did what?” His expression settled into a frown. “Did I miss something that night?”

“I punched you on your wound when you were reluctant to have it treated,” she elucidated.

“You mean you gave me a slap!”

“Your own words were I threw a punch,” Lothíriel pointed out.

“I must not have been myself that night; otherwise I would not have exaggerated in such a way.”

“It did hurt.”

“It usually hurts when you touch a wound rather roughly,” he saw fit to clarify.

“Especially when it is infected.”

“I do not feel we have to go back to that argument.”

Lothíriel raised both hands, palms turned towards him. She had used this gesture before to appease him. He mirrored it, earning himself a smile.

“Have we reached a truce?” she asked.

“Have we been fighting?” he asked back.

She appeared to think about it in earnest and then gave him an impish smile, one that, for the moment, eliminated all traces of sophistication from her face, reminding him how young she really must be. The little sister of too many overbearing elder brothers!

“And beside the tale of your bodily assaulting me, what other details did you pass on?”

“I mentioned that I was not very careful when disinfecting your wound.”

“Indeed?” His lips twitched ever so lightly

“I could have been more gentle.”

“So I had gathered,” Éomer said dryly.

“Anyway,” she went on quickly, “that is everything I thought they should know. I guess it makes sense in regard to the ill-temper you displayed.”

“It makes perfect sense, my Lady. Especially considering my reputation of being quite ill-tempered . . . at times.”

She cocked her head. “I wonder how you got that reputation, my Lord.”

Éomer bit his lip to contain his smile. “Careful, Princess! Never insult a man in his own bedchamber.”

She seemed to consider his words, and there was a faint hint of suspicion in her gaze. Then she must have caught the smile in his eyes and realizing he was teasing her. A tiny frown appeared just above the bridge of her nose. Éomer hastened to take the opportunity on offer.

“And while we are speaking of this chamber, now that we have established what to tell whom, we had better think about a change of location.”

Éomer gestured towards the door, but the Princess made no move to follow the request. She shook her head.

“Not yet!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There is something else I have to talk to you about.”

“My Lady, whatever it is, I do not think we should talk about it right now and certainly not here. You have been in this chamber far too long already.”

“It will not take long, and I feel it is important.” That she could be stubborn he knew: nevertheless, the obstinacy in her tone took him by surprise.

“After we have just found a way to explain our last mishap, I do not feel we should provoke the next one. And right at this moment I should be at a meeting of great importance with King Elessar and Prince Imrahil.”

“But this is about your kinsmen and should be of great importance to you as well.”

Éomer had been already on his way to the door when her words brought him to an abrupt halt.

“What about my kinsmen?”

“Currently there are sixty one of your kinsmen left at the Houses of Healing. They are due to leave with you for Rohan in a couple of day’s time.”

“That I know,” he said curtly.

“Twenty three of these men barely survived the battle of Pelennor. Their bones were smashed; their shoulders, their hips, their spine. Four lost an arm, seven part of a leg. They can move only with pain and with great difficulties. Two will never walk a single step again.”

“So I was told by Marshal Elfhelm. They are maimed for life. He had a meeting with your Warden yesterday, and I understood the healer present at this meeting was you.”

“Indeed, I was there. These men are in my care.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to speak to them.”

“I will do so on our journey to Edoras.”

“Because then you cannot avoid it?”

He looked at her with disbelief. “What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, my Lord. But you never came to the Houses of Healing to see the wounded. Your Marshal came, and your Captains.” He detested this even voice, stating facts as she saw them.

“Are you implying I do not care about my kinsmen?” His own voice had become a dangerously low growl.

“No, I am not, because I know otherwise. You do care, but I do not think you know what these men need.”

“And, in your opinion, what is their need?”

“To have you come to them. Not necessarily as their king, but as the man who was their Marshal. Whom they trusted through all those years of darkness; whom they followed when he called them. They need to see Éomer Éomundson, not Éomer King.”

A part of him yelled that he was being unjust, but at this moment he saw only a member of the Gondorian nobility presuming to pass judgement on him and his people. How dare she!

“You seemed to know a great deal about my kinsmen.”

Lothíriel seemed unflustered by his chilly tone.

“I listen, my Lord. If, after four months, I knew nothing about these men, I would not only be a bad healer, but a shallow person.”

“And what do you want me to tell them, my Lady,” he asked through clenched teeth. He felt his temper threatening to flare up and had to struggle to keep it in check. “That I am going to take them back to a land that is as devastated as their bodies? That our herds are neglected, because so many of the herdsmen who had lavished care and attention on our horses have died. Slaughtered by raiding Orcs from Mordor, trampled into the ground by mûmakil on Pelennor Fields? I do not have to tell them, my Lady. They know!”

“They do know, and in you they see the man who will make it right!”

Éomer laughed. It was not a nice sound. It was low and bitter.

“I will make it right, my Lady? At present I do not even know how to feed my people.”

“They have trust in you and this trust is their hope. And for the years to come you will need their trust and their hope for the rebuilding of Rohan.”

He sat heavily on the foot of his bed.

“Do you have any idea what this council with Aragorn and your father is about? I am going to beg for Gondor’s aid!”

He saw her move her lips as if she were repeating his words. And then she surprised him by taking some swift steps across the room and squatting down in front of him. As if that weren’t inappropriate enough, she put her hands on his knees and made his muscles twitch. But her words came as an even greater surprise.

“You feel you come as a beggar to Gondor? Éomer of Rohan, you are a fool! It was Gondor that called for Rohan’s aid. Do you have the slightest inkling how it was when the forces or Mordor approached and everybody knew it was only a matter of time before the walls of the city would be breached? It was then that one question was repeated again and again: will Théoden come? Will the Rohirrim come? And you came. You turned the tide. You held them up. Without you and the sacrifices of your kinsmen, Minas Tirith would had fallen before Elessar could have arrived leading the Dead Men of Dunharrow. It is Gondor that owes Rohan. You can ask us for anything!”

“But can I get anything?”  He could hardly believe he had spoken out aloud.

“If you cannot trust those who love you as their friend and brother, then you are a fool indeed, my Lord Éomer.”

What a audacious statement! "You do have very decided opinions on everything and everyone, do you not?" he hissed.

Éomer looked into the face tilted up towards him, her eyes angry and hurt. She was the most irritating and disconcerting woman he had ever had the debatable fortune of running into. If it were just her lovely face and those enchanting eyes, if she were just a beautiful, desirable female, he could deal with her. If she were just the single-minded, compassionate healer, who took everything to her heart and made everything her concern, he could deal with her. If she were just an innocent, who made one want to protect her, he could deal with her. If she were just the sharp-minded, sophisticated Princess of Gondor, sometimes patronizing and always outspoken, he could deal with her. But she was all of these in one. Too much for him to deal with in his present state of mind, and he actually didn’t know if he ever wanted to deal with it at all.

And what was really hard to handle was this urge to kiss her. Not only to kiss her, but to taste her and touch her, pull her with him onto the bed, explore that svelte body and make love to her.

What was the matter with him?

If it were possible, Éomer would have kicked some part of him where it would really hurt. He had his people to care for, his land to rebuild. He had a council waiting for him with a king and a prince, that would be decisive for the future of Rohan. And he was thinking about bedding this woman. Perhaps the strain of the last month was finally showing. Something must be wrong with his brain. Or rather his groin. Probably he just needed a woman; any woman! But certainly not this one!

Gently he took her hands and removed them from his knees. Standing up from the bed he urged her back onto her feet. He guarded his expression carefully before he looked at her.

“My Lady, this audience is over!”

Lothíriel’s eyes narrowed at his tight, chilly tone, his curt words. Her chin went up slightly.

“Did I say something you did not want to hear, or did I say something you did not want to hear from somebody else?” When she didn’t get an immediate answer, she went on, her voice getting sharper: “Are you irritated by me or by yourself?”

As strikes went, this was perfectly aimed and Éomer nearly flinched. She was much too perceptive, even though she couldn’t possibly comprehend the cause of his discomfort.

Right now he felt any more words from him would lead down a straight path to a place he certainly didn’t want to go. Interaction with Lothíriel had proved always to lead to places too close to disaster. Until now they had only been narrowly avoided.

“You better take your leave now,” he said in a measured tone.

Before she was able to reply -  and she was intending to, that was for sure – Éomer heard the outer door of the dressing room open. Dewon had returned to remove the remains of his bath and early meal. Any moment the domestic could come into the bedchamber. The Rohír displayed the quick reflexes of a warrior. He clamped his hand on Lothíriel’s shoulder and spun her around. Surprised, she allowed him to push her towards the door, not that she could have done anything against it. Reaching from behind her, he grasped the door bolt, opened the door rather forcefully and shoved her out of the room . . . and nearly into the arms of Elfhelm.

The Marshal stood directly in front of them, his fist raised ready to knock at the door. One had to consider that a point in his favour, that the seasoned warrior kept an absolutely straight face when suddenly finding the daughter of Prince Imrahil stumbling without her usual grace out of his King’s bedchamber. Only with a slight delay, but without as much as batting an eyelid he bowed his head in greeting before the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth.

“My Lady! My Lord! Good day.”

A suppressed groan escaped Éomer. Whatever entities, named or unnamed, there might be, they had definitely decided against him. Nevertheless, he had to admire how the Princess kept her composure. With only the delay of her customary double-blink, she managed to produce a polite smile to answer the Marshal of the Mark.

“Good day, my Lord Elfhelm.”

Éomer not knowing what to say and Elfhelm knowing better than to say anything, there was a long uncomfortable silence. Finally Lothíriel decided to take her leave.

“I must make my farewell. If you will excuse me.” Her silver eyes met the darker ones of the King, her gaze intense and with a gleam of warning in it.

“I will see you at the Houses of Healing after your council with the King, my Lord?” That it was pronounced as a question was only polite rhetoric.

A rather irritable scowl darkened Éomer’s features, but his tone showed more than just a hint of resignation.

“I suppose you are aware of the saying about the dog and the bone, my Lady?”

“I do not mind being the dog as long as the bone is worth it. Until later, my Lord. My Lord Elfhelm.”

She executed a brisk, but elegant half-turn on her heels. Having had no time to bid her farewell, the two Rohirrim watched her move down the hallway. After a few steps she disappeared behind a curtain hiding a staircase. They turned and walked in the other direction.

“Did I mishear, or have you just received an order?” The Marshal glanced sideways at his King, who grimaced.

“If I do not go to the Houses of Healing later to see our kinsmen as she wishes, she will be back again, I am afraid.”

“Besides feeling that it is a good notion to speak to the men, doing whatever she asks you to do in order to avoid her returning to your bedchamber appears to be an even better notion.”

“Who was complaining about speech not being plain enough?” Éomer tried a light tone. “Just yesterday?”

“It could have been Prince Imrahil instead of me catching you in what is commonly called a compromising situation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Before I came here I met the Prince who was on his way to see if you were awake. I offered to call upon you instead. Therefore it was me and not the father of the Lady who stood in front of your door.”

Elfhelm was one of the few who wouldn’t be intimidated by one of Éomer’s glares.

“As a friend, my King, let me give you a well-meant piece of advice: be careful around the Princess or you might leave Gondor betrothed.”

Éomer ran into the next corner.

“What?”

“If it had been Prince Imrahil instead of me, Rohan would soon be welcoming its new Queen.”

“Are you insane?” Éomer rubbed his hurting shoulder. If the tone of his voice was an indicator, he indeed believed his Marshal suddenly to have metamorphosed into a madman.

“I am just a man who knows what he is talking about!”

“I wish I knew what you are talking about.”

“I,” explained Elfhelm laconically, “married my wife after we were caught in a compromising position by her father.”

Rohan’s King just stared, fortunately not hitting another wall.

“Have you never wondered why I married so young?” Elfhelm asked.

Had he ever wasted a thought on why the twenty six year old Captain of his first éored had already had a wife and three small children?

“Ahh,”  Éomer began, slightly put off, “I assumed you love your wife.”

“Oh, but I do,” Elfhelm replied matter-of-factly. “Nevertheless, we were bonded about a day after I first laid eyes upon her.”

His initial irritation not withstanding, Éomer was actually beginning to enjoy the situation.

“What had you done, my Lord Marshal?”

“There are certain things it is better a man keeps to himself,” Elfhelm replied with a crooked half-smile. “But I assure you, everything was quite harmless. It just did not look that way!”

“And you were not given the chance of an explanation?”

“Oh, we were given the opportunity to explain, the explanation was cordially noted, and as I said, the next day we were bonded.”

The Marshal watched his King trying to fight back a grin and added straight-faced,  “Prince Imrahil is a reasonable man. I am certain he will grant you at least half of the usual betrothal period.”

Éomer was ambushed by a sour feeling in his stomach.

“Do not even dare to think about it. And by the way,” he pointed out, “I put the blame entirely on you.”

“Well, I suppose that also is what marshals do: take the blame.”

“You insisted upon me going to the Houses of Healing to have a minor wound treated,” the King growled.

“When did I do such thing?”

“After we returned from the Black Gate.”

“So you met her that long ago.”

“Yes, and you could have warned me that she was Imrahil’s daughter. You told me you had dealings with her before.”

“But it was only yesterday I learnt that she was the Princess of Dol Amroth,” Elfhelm defended himself, and then saw fit to add, “When you had that quarrel with a rather large crowd watching.”

Éomer started swearing under his breath. His Marshal had to admire his originality. Suddenly he stopped abruptly and stared just blankly at the floor, certainly not seeing the beautiful pattern of the multicoloured marble tiles.

Elfhelm watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement.

“My Lord?”

Rohan’s King spat out a curse bad enough to cause his Marshal to look around to see if anybody might have heard it, even though it was spoken in Rohirric.

“She knew it! She bloody well knew it! Yesterday she said I would not want to know the answer. But she knew it. And she came in spite of it.”

Elfhelm wished his King would stop talking in riddles, but before he could ask, Éomer went on, “I should have broken her neck when I had the chance. And I am going to break her neck as soon as this council is over.”

With that rather violent threat still hanging in the air, he stormed off, flung open the door to Aragorn’s study without knocking, burst into the room and slammed the door behind him.

Elfhelm listened to the echo of the bang dying away in the depths of the Palace. Now at least King Elessar would have discovered that his Rohirric counterpart knew how to make an entrance. He wondered if Éomer would have to explain his explosive appearance, and if so, what he would say.

The Marshal resumed his way, thinking about what just had happened. He had known his King for nearly twelve years, had been his captain and his friend. He had watched him having his first experience with women, having his fair share of liaisons over the years. Éomer didn’t need to take a lot of trouble with the opposite gender. He had the same appeal to a woman as a honey-pot to a fly.

For some reason he had never had to struggle with his well-known temper when it came to females; with them self-control had never been an issue.  Today was the first time Elfhelm had seen his King losing his composure because of a woman.

He chuckled. Perhaps he would be at the Houses of Healing later today. After all, a marshal had to be at his King’s side in times of trouble.