Most of Éomer’s fits of temper usually vaporized as quickly as they erupted. Therefore he had the grace to look faintly embarrassed at the consequences of his forceful entrance into the High King’s study.

Prince Imrahil had jumped up so quickly from behind the large table where he had been sitting, that he had smacked both his thighs on the edge of it and was now rubbing the resulting painful bruises. Faramir, who had been indulging in the habit of tipping his chair onto the two back legs, had fallen over and landed on his back at his King’s feet. Aragorn let the indignity pass without comment. The former Ranger from the North hadn’t even flinched at the sudden appearance of the Rohír or at the accompanying chaos. Fighting Orcs and chasing Uruk-hai gave a man a certain imperturbability.

“Good day, Éomer,” he said mildly. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything is just fine,” Rohan’s King mumbled and extended his hand towards the Steward of Gondor to help his soon-to-be brother back on his feet. “Are you well, Faramir?”

“Quite well,” the dark-haired man answered, brushing some dust off his tunic. “Is he still alive?”

“Who?”

“Whoever caused this outburst?”

“Oh, yes,” Éomer answered, in what he hoped sounded a casual tone, not bothering to rectify the gender in question. “Alive and likely to stay that way after all.”

“That is a great relief,” Aragorn stated dryly. “I am uncertain how the law of Gondor treats murder, perpetrated by outside rulers, within the boundaries of the city.”

“I am much obliged you said outside and not outlandish,” the younger man replied with a lopsided grin.

Faramir had retrieved his chair and the four men settled around the beautiful inlaid walnut table in the centre of the room. Éomer had been to Aragorn’s den before and he understood why his friend had chosen this to be his study. Tall windows facing southeast provided light the whole day. Two walls were lined with books, a third dominated by a huge fireplace with a carved mantelpiece. In front of it stood a massive desk. Papers lay on top in not exactly neat piles, and a quill and inkpot still sat on the blotter. It couldn’t have been much easier for the Ranger to confine himself to the day-to-day administrative work the position of a king required than it had been for his Rohirric friend. But at least he was able to do it in this warm and welcoming room, while Éomer sat in his uncle’s chair, behind his uncle’s desk. Every piece of furniture, every shadow on the walls reminded him that two men he loved had to die to bring him to this position.

Prince Imrahil had taken a seat closest to a silver tea brewer and didn’t feel it to be beneath his dignity to fill mugs with the sweet, steaming liquid and hand them to the other men.

“Pray tell, Éomer, are those in your close vicinity used to the way you enter a room or do they just have strong and healthy hearts?”

“Both, I suppose.” Éomer took a sip from his mug, relieved that his friends had decided just to mock him and not inquire any further about the person who might have enraged him so early in the morning.

“It is the lack of armour,” Faramir speculated. “He is so used to its weight that without it he simply has too much momentum in his forward movement.”

“You had better get used to that kind of momentum,” the Rohír warned, “because it is a trait I share with a certain Lady, one of whom I have heard you are quite fond.”

“Then let us hope, nephew, that your heart is strong.”

The men chuckled at this comment by Prince Imrahil, keeping silent for the moment and sipping their tea. Aragorn eyed his younger friend thoughtfully. He put down his mug and laid a hand on Éomer’s forearm.

“We are all glad to have you with us once more, brother. But I can see it in your eyes; your own strong heart has not come with you.”

“No,” Éomer confirmed in a sombre voice. “My heart stayed behind in the Mark, with my kinsmen. To my shame I must admit that it even refuses to be touched by Théoden King’s last journey.”

“So things are that bad in Rohan?” Aragorn asked.

“Worse. They are worse than I could have ever imagined.”

“Your letters over the past month have been rather vague.”

“My knowledge has been rather vague. After the victory at Helm’s Deep and the celebration at Edoras we failed to inquire at once what this triumph had cost us.”

“There was hardly any time,” his brother-in-arms called to mind. “The muster of the éoreds and the ride to Minas Tirith, . . . you had just five days, and they were filled with many deeds.”

“But on our way to Isengard, we should have looked . . . I should have looked to the left and to the right, then I would have seen.” There was more than just a hint of self-loathing in Éomer’s voice.

“Seen what?” Imrahil interjected.

“What Saruman’s plans had really been.”

The three other men exchanged quick glances.

“To destroy the people of Rohan,” Imrahil said, obviously not liking to have to give expression to this outrageous scheme.

“Yes, but his plan was not simply to send his Orcs and Uruks and the Dunlendings to slaughter whoever they could find. In a land where the people do not live in large cities but where they are scattered all over the land in small hamlets and villages, you can attack the first settlement, perhaps the second but the third will be warned. Rohan is the land of fast horses and therefore warnings travel at speed. Most people were able to flee and save their lives. They fled to Helm’s Deep and Glaemscrafu, to Dunharrow and into the high-lying valleys of the Ered Nimrais and across the Adorn into Drúwaith Iaur. But when you flee in haste you cannot take much with you. Just the bare necessities. So they left virtually everything behind: most provisions remaining from the winter, seed corn not yet sown, the animals, farm implements and their houses with whatever was in them. When Isengard came, they destroyed everything, burnt it and slaughtered the livestock down to the last chicken. The carcasses were thrown into the wells and springs to poison the water. The land between the Isen and Adorn and between Isengard and Helm’s Deep, a strip about 50 miles wide, is scorched soil; systematically despoiled.”

“And your kinsmen?” Aragorn inquired, caught by the dread in his friend’s recollections.

“They have survived and they are still surviving, but I do not know how long I can keep them alive. We have scraped together every single grain, every last dried bean we were able to find, every piece of fruit we could shake from the trees. Whatever people in the Eastmark could spare was taken West. But the Westfold is the farmland of the Mark: on the plains of the East we have our herds grazing. The Eastmark depends on the Westmark for crops. Now the men hunt and fish, but it appears Saruman thought even about that. There is hardly any game to be found. Everything the Uruks and the Orcs could reach was hunted down and destroyed. And the water of the Isen is contaminated by the filth swept into it when the Ents flooded Orthanc.”

Éomer absently took another sip from his mug, not noticing that the tea was rapidly cooling.

“The Wizard wanted to make sure that every one of the Rohirrim, woman or man, old or young, he could not strike dead, would starve to death sooner or later.”

“How about shelter for the women and children?” Faramir wanted to know.

“Right after the éoreds left Dunharrow Erkenbrand took all the tents and huts left behind and distributed them to the people returning from their sanctuaries. At the moment they provide protection against rain and sun, but they are not suited to protect against the elements during the winter. With the help of Gamling, Marshal Erkenbrand oversees the reconstruction of the villages. But I do not have to tell you that we are rather short of woods in Rohan. We have to fell the trees on the western slopes of the Ered Nimrais and then transport the trunks over land to wherever they are needed. It is a slow and arduous process. Any sawmills we had were destroyed as well. We were only able to get a few working again. And as we have no harvest this autumn there will be no straw for thatching, so we collect reeds along the river banks and dry them.”

“You certainly do not stand idly by,” Imrahil remarked, nodding his appreciation. But Éomer wasn’t content with this assessment.

“I cannot shed the feeling that we are not doing enough, that we have lost too much time already and that I should be with my kinsmen. Now!”

“With Erkenbrand and Gamling you left two men with great experience in charge.” Aragorn assured him. “They know what they have to do, and they will do it without delay.”

“Gamling was not happy with being left behind. He wanted to escort his King on his last journey.” Éomer didn’t like to be reminded about the clash he had with his uncle’s devoted captain. “But he is from the Westfold; he knows the land and the people. Erkenbrand cannot do without him.”

“He is a man who has always done his duty. He will understand.” Aragorn had learnt to appreciate Théoden’s right-hand-man. He would be as loyal to Éomer had he had been to his old King.

“I hope so. I had to give him a direct order and make it clear that his first duty is with the living. But he is Gamling. He will come around.”

“You do not have a problem with the acceptance of your kingship?” Faramir asked hesitantly, from his expression not quite sure if he should have asked it at all.

“Certainly not!” said Éomer, with poorly concealed indignation. His voice dripped with all the lack of understanding at what he considered to be an absurd question. His glare was fixed on Faramir; therefore he missed the look Aragorn and Imrahil exchanged. Self-confidence was something Rohan’s young King had never been short of. “We Rohirrim are not a people to question the leadership of our ruling House. We are, as experience has shown, loyal to a fault. But we are also headstrong. If one of us has an opinion, he or she will give it to you freely. And that is everybody’s right . . . as long as in the end everybody will follow orders.”

“I suppose you do not mind giving orders, even though they are not always well received.” Imrahil stated with a decidedly amused look.

Éomer’s lips twisted into a dismissive expression.

“Leadership is not a popularity contest. In the middle of a battle you cannot start discussing the broader meaning of an order. And right now we do not have the time for disputes about the rights or the wrongs of measures taken. If I give a command I expect it to be executed.”

“Then let us not waste time. Tell us what Rohan needs from Gondor,” Aragorn requested.

So the time had come. He had to beg. Éomer sighed. Best to get it over with.

“Provisions. My kinsmen are a hard and unshakeable people. As long as I can fill their stomachs, they will survive any hardship. We need food.”

There! It was out. Perhaps too much as a demand where it should have been an appeal. But Gondor’s King didn’t seem to mind.

“Then food you shall have!”

That was all? Just so? Food you shall have? No question? No objections? No reservations? So easy? Not a hint of humiliation?

His utter bafflement must have shown very clearly on his face, because Aragorn shook his head with an indulgent grin.

“Éomer, honestly, what answer did you expect from me?”

Having totally lost his thread, the Rohír caught himself blinking. - Was the habit contagious? - Finally he gathered his wits.

“Well, at least I thought first you might ask food for how many.”

“Not that it makes any difference,” Imrahil cut in, “but how many of your kinsmen are there?”

“Somewhere between 55,000 and 60,000.” The answer came promptly and that seemed to surprise at least Imrahil and Faramir.

“I had not expected the Rohirrim to execute censuses,” Faramir remarked.

“Well, we are not in the habit counting our people like sheep,” Éomer replied. “Therefore I did make some calculations.”

“And they are valid?” the Steward of Gondor asked without thinking. He was assaulted by a glare from the Rohír that led him to swallow heavily, averting his eyes, trying desperately to find something else to look at instead. Prince Imrahil watched this interaction with interest.

“Well,” he said wryly. “I will have to learn how to glare like Éomer King. I would have my sons in line in no time.”

Éomer frowned at him. And your daughter? He wanted to ask, but knew it was better for him to hold his tongue. Never bring up a subject on your own that you would rather avoid.

Aragorn got back to the heart of their discussion.

“I think we may assume that Éomer’s calculations are faultless.” He registered his Steward’s embarrassment over his slip with a grin. “Now we have to find out the amount of provisions Gondor has available to send. We must ensure that the Rohirrim are properly fed over the winter months.”

“And you think you have the means to provide for an entire people?” The next moment Éomer wished he hadn’t sounded quite so sceptical.

“Oh yes! I do not think quantity will be a problem,” Faramir had recovered and joined the debate again. “Gondorians share some traits with hamsters. They always hoard. They like to have more than they actually need.”

“Thank you, nephew,” Imrahil said prosaically. “This is the first time ever I have been compared to a rodent.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Ah, my Lord Steward. Not your day, is it? Your foot in your mouth with every other sentence?”

“Have you been spending much time with Amrothos lately?” Imrahil pumped his nephew.

Curling his large hands around the mug, Éomer concentrated on drinking his by now cold tea. He still felt the supplicant in this council, the outsider, even though the three other men didn’t appear overly concerned about the extent of his need. As long as he could remember people had turned to him for help. He himself had always tried to avoid asking for support from others. To say he didn’t like the feeling of being dependent on anybody’s good graces would be an understatement. He couldn’t bear feeling under an obligation to anybody. And even though he hadn’t asked for himself, but for his people, it had been even harder than he had expected it to be.

Wrapped in his own thoughts, it took him a while before he became aware that Aragorn had him under intense scrutiny. The sharp grey eyes seemed to look right into his mind and made him uncomfortable. The Ranger saw his unease and smiled.

“We are brothers, Éomer,” he said, using the language of the Horselords, which the two Princes of Gondor couldn’t understand. “Your needs are my needs. Your worries are my worries. What is mine is yours. And I know you would tear the world apart if I needed anything from you.”

Seeing the younger man’s awkwardness over his words, he wrested the mug from his fingers.

“Some more hot tea?” he asked conversationally.

While Prince Imrahil took the mug from his Liege and filled it once more, he went on with their earlier topic without showing any curiosity over what had been spoken between the two kings.

“Now that we have established what Rohan basically needs and that Gondor has the means to provide it, we just have to find a way to convince the southern vassals to contribute their share.”

Éomer’s blond head swung around. “What do you mean by convince? Do you expect a problem?”

“It is never trouble-free to remove something from under the control of somebody.” Imrahil handed the mug back to Éomer and began to refill the others as well. “The river valleys south of the Ered Nimrais are fertile beyond measure. The soil has always given us much more than we needed. Therefore you will find granaries and store halls all over the land, minded and held in trust by the lords of the vales. But what is in store is rightfully Gondor’s and therefore the King or his Steward alone has the right of disposal.”

“But even through the war against Mordor, there has not been a crop failure or any other shortage,” Faramir continued. “For many years the Steward never had to push through his rights, and so quite a few of the Lords have conveniently forgotten that they do not own the provisions of Gondor.”

“It is time, anyway, to remind the very last vassal, that the King has not only returned to do his duty towards his Land, to free and protect it, but to call in all his Rights of Old,” Imrahil stated matter-of-factly.

The Rohír took a sip of his tea, watching Aragorn over the rim of his mug. The High King shrugged his shoulders.

“Domestic affairs. They shall not be of any concern to you. You have my word that the Riddermark will get everything it may need as long as it needs it.” He gestured towards the two Princes. “How it will be conducted is up to you, my Lords.” He smiled at them and then leant over to Éomer, whispering conspiratorially: “I am just discovering the merits of delegation.”

“And as Faramir and I will accompany Théoden King to Edoras, I will instruct Erchirion and Amrothos to take the necessary measures,” Imrahil explained.

Caught mid-sip, Éomer nearly spat his tea across the table.

“Both can be very proficient when they choose to,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth mildly. “Erchirion has remarkable organizational abilities and knows how to push through with his intentions.”

“And if that should not be enough with some of the southern vassals, Amrothos can talk them into the ground,” Faramir added. “They will give him whatever he demands just to get rid of him.”

That was a notion Éomer could easily comprehend.

Having successfully found a solution to the most pressing problem, the two kings and two princes had many other issues to discuss. Having defeated the enemy in battle didn’t mean the threats along the different border regions had just vanished. After they had licked their wounds Umbar and Harad would be back in the picture. Centuries had proven that long lasting peace with those two was just wishful thinking. Constant vigilance was imperative.

The same went for the Dunlendings. Fragmented as they were into many tribes, negotiations with them had always been fruitless. You made a truce with one group and another would raid some remote area of Rohan. And whatever misery came over them they would blame the Horselords anyway. One could only hope that they had gotten away with enough pillage while under the command of Isengard to leave the Rohirrim alone for at least this coming winter.

Believing in the age-old cognition that to be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace, Aragorn had already decided on different measures to strengthen Gondor’s stand. The Swan Fleet would be reinforced, as would be the harbour of Dol Amroth and the fords at Linhir. The delta of the Anduin had to be fortified, so that in future no enemy fleet would be able to sail upstream and endanger the heartland of Gondor.

It had also been decided to build up Gondor’s own mounted companies; not necessarily warriors fighting from the back of their steeds, but rather knights, travelling swiftly by horse and fighting on foot. Éomer promised to provide as many horses as needed as soon as possible after the great losses through the war. In the autumn the herds would return to graze on the plains of the East-Emnet. Before that they had to be counted. And they had to be guarded closely, because the Rohirrim feared that during the winter months hungry Orcs would leave their hideouts in the Emyn Muil and the Hithaeglir and try to slaughter the horses in their attempt to get food. For a Rohír the sheer thought was sickening. He wouldn’t eat the flesh of a horse as he wouldn’t eat the flesh of a human.

Deep into their discussion, into an exchange of opinions and the weighing up of possibilities, none of the four men paid any attention to the time passing by. Éomer was just explaining the necessity of altering the usual Gondorian weaponry for the mounted knights, when a long-stretched, canine-like growl interrupted him. First he looked under the table, then at Aragorn.

“Did you get yourself a dog?”

Three pairs of eyes settled on the Steward of Gondor. Faramir grinned sheepishly.

“My apologies. I only had a hasty and frugal meal this morning.”

His uncle took a look out of the window to check the position of the sun.

“It is well into the afternoon,” Imrahil discovered, his voice showing some surprise. “Perhaps we should take a break here and find us all something to eat.”

“You are right,” Aragorn agreed and got up to stretch himself. “I imagine you all are hungry, and if we tarry much longer, the Hobbits are sure to have eaten me out of house and home.”

Imrahil laughed out loud, something the dignified Lord of Dol Amroth did not often do.

“Those little men never cease to amaze me: be it for the amount of food they are able to take in, or for their courage and strength. And most of the time I forget that they are men and view them rather as children. One tends to forgive whatever mischief they are up to.”

The mention of children reminded Éomer that there was something else he had to bring up in this council.

He signed resignedly.

“Aragorn, yesterday Elfhelm spoke to the Warden of the Houses of Healing and was informed that my riders have left behind a . . . certain legacy.”

“That is what I heard, too. Your riders were rather popular with the womenfolk of Gondor.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“You to do? Right now? Nothing!” Aragorn shook his head. “Éomer, you are not answerable for everything and certainly not for what happens between a grown woman and a grown man.”

“But what about the children?”

“Time will tell if these children and their mothers need support: if so they are going to get the support. It is certainly not the most desirable consequence, but every army of men leaves behind this kind of legacy.”

Rohan’s King was not exactly satisfied with this decision, but right now he couldn’t offer any better idea.

“I had gathered that not only the Riders of Rohan were popular with the ladies, but their King also.”

This time Faramir had prepared himself for the fierce glare of the Rohír and did not give way. He just smirked and Éomer asked himself seriously if Éowyn would mind very much being bonded to a man with a multiple broken nose.

“So, nothing new there? Still favoured by the ladies, Éomer?” The King of Gondor leant against his desk, quite obviously enjoying his mockery of his younger friend. “Enviable. I remember a lovely lady at Dunharrow; and a not less lovely one at Cormallen and then here at Minas Tirith . . .”

“I think I had better take my leave before this gets bloody.” Éomer got up from his chair with some haste and retreated towards the door. There he turned to face the other men.

“As you are newly wed,” he jabbed his index finger in Aragorn’s direction, “you are the very last who should talk about envy in connection with this. And you,” he went on, his finger taking a new direction towards Faramir, “are betrothed to my sister. Therefore the same goes for you.”

He had his hand already on the door bolt, when, accompanied by the laughter of Gondor’s King and his Steward, Imrahil’s voice reached him.

“Then all we have to do is find you a wife.”

Éomer froze. Slowly he turned his head towards the Prince of Dol Amroth, staring at him in disbelief, searching his eyes for some ambiguity. But Imrahil’s expression had settled into a deliberate look of innocence, so similar to Amrothos’s that Éomer’s insides cringed in horror.

“The last thing I need at the moment, in addition to all my other problems, is a wife,” he announced firmly, and for a second time that day the door to the King’s study was slammed shut forcefully.

Outside Éomer lingered for a moment, taking a deep breath. It was probably good he was leaving the day after tomorrow, or some repairs to the mounting of the doors here at the Royal Palace might be necessary.

The entire family of Dol Amroth constantly caused his brain to become highly confused. Why had Imrahil mentioned him needing a wife? And why hadn’t he confronted him – as everybody had assumed he would – regarding his calamitous behaviour towards his daughter? Bema, he could just hope that the Elven blood running in his veins, no matter how thin, didn’t enable the Prince to read other’s minds. That would be his doom!

Éomer set off for the outside, not quite sure where he should be heading. He knew that Lothíriel was expecting him at the Houses of Healing, and she and Elfhelm were right. It would be good for morale of the maimed men to be paid a visit by their Marshal . . . former Marshal . . . their King. But with them would be most likely the Princess of Dol Amroth and seeing her again may mean provoking another misfortune in their hapless dealings with each other.

On the other hand: he had a bone to pick with her!

TBC