Somewhere on his way through the halls Éomer took a wrong turn and ended up outside the southern gate of the Palace. The two guards on duty there recognized him and saluted him after the manner of Gondor with an outstretched hand and a bowing of the head. He acknowledged them and headed left towards the great court of the citadel, passing the White Tower of Ecthelion. The shining stone of the place around the fountain and the newly planted sapling was gleaming in the afternoon sun, reflecting the heat and causing the air to shimmer. There was not the slightest breeze, and after just 400 feet, when he reached the tunnel leading down to the sixth level, Éomer felt thoroughly cooked. The tunnel itself provided shade, but the great number of torches lighting it, converted it into a long narrow oven. Not even three days in Minas Tirith and he was longing for the rain and the winds of Edoras.

Emerging from the tunnel next to the royal stables, he was welcomed by the familiar and, to his nose, most agreeable odour of horses. He was tempted to visit Firefoot. He hadn’t seen his mount since arriving at the White City and hoped his from time to time not quite sensible horse hadn’t maimed any of the stable-lads. He knew that there was a general belief that the huge grey was part warg, something he couldn’t quite understand. He found his stallion perfectly amiable. He remembered with regret that he had forgotten to pocket the piece of honey cake he saved for the horse when he shoved the Princess out of his chamber. Now he had to find another treat before he could visit his companion.

From his position in front of the gate to the stables he could see the high walls that ensured the Houses of Healing seclusion and quietness. The building complex could have been as white and lifeless as everything in Minas Tirith had it not been for the lush green of the tall old trees towering above the wall coping and interlocking ridges of the roofs. Once before he had made his way from the stables to the Healers’ domain, seeking only some dressing materials but finding a constant disturbance to his mind.

Éomer walked slowly along the flagstone-paved street, making use of the shade cast by the seventh level wall above him. When he arrived at the ornamental portal he recognized the same gatekeeper who had received him with some reluctance that night all those months ago.

And the old man recognized him. Not as the injured warrior he would have rather sent away, but as the King of Rohan. Éomer wished he hadn’t gained the prominence he now enjoyed since Aragorn had announced him publicly as his friend and brother-in-arms. It was a real nuisance being recognised everywhere. Even here the grumpy gatekeeper jumped up from his bench and bowed low. Hang these Gondorians and their affectations!

“Greetings my Lord. What may I do for you?”

“Good day, . . . Arom, is it not?”

The man stared at him, wondering why the King of the Horselords knew his name. Éomer had surprised himself by remembering it.

“Where can I find the Rohirrim who are still in the keeping of the healers?”

“At this time of the day most of them should be in the gardens, my Lord. Do you wish me to guide you to them?”

“No, I will find my way if you tell me how to get there.”

The old man pointed across the paved yard towards an archway, which, as Éomer recalled, led to the extensive gardens of the Houses of Healing.

“Walk across the lawn, my Lord, and under the arcades turn right. That leads you to the patio where you should find your kinsmen.”

Éomer thanked the man with a nod, taking the way he had gone once before, but then of course he had been led by the gatekeeper.  He remembered that Lothíriel had stepped out of the shadow of the arcade. He had been surprised by the youth of the healer. When he followed her to the treatment chamber, he had wondered how she managed to walk so overly-erect but smoothly at the same time.  And he couldn’t help but think that from the moment he had stepped over the threshold into the chamber he had started to lose control of the situation.

Following the path the old man had shown him, he could hear voices getting louder, conversing and laughing. It sounded rather cheerful. Making his way around some hanging plants he was presented by a sight he hadn’t quite expected.

A group of men, some sitting on stone benches surrounding a well-kept lawn, others in chairs spread out over the grass, seemed to have gathered for a light meal. Baskets with fruits were being passed around and on a low table sat a large tea-brewer and a not quite matching set of earthen mugs.

All the men wore a more or less similar kind of loose pants and simple linen shirt. Their beards and long hair in different shades of blond made it easy to identify them as Rohirrim.

It took at least a second look to realize that the men of this laidback group all were marked by war. Lothíriel had given him the actual numbers, which he couldn’t now remember, but what he could recall were the kind of injuries she had specified: smashed bones, broken spines and the loss of limbs. On closer scrutiny he made out the empty sleeves and trouser legs and that two of the men were held up by leather straps against the back of their chairs.

These men had been riders. They had lost their lives as they had known them since they were born. What was he supposed to tell them? He hadn’t really thought about it. He had come here with his thoughts elsewhere, certainly not with these men. Lothíriel and Elfhelm had insisted that they needed to see him, that it would be good for their morale if their king spoke to them. Not that they looked as if they needed a lot of cheering up at the moment. They appeared well looked after and quite content. Whatever he was able to tell them about their forthcoming journey home and of what would await them in the Riddermark could trample their morale as the mûmakil had trampled their éoreds.

Éomer glanced at the men with apprehension. He would have preferred to confront a tenth of their number, armed and hostile, than meet them like this. While he was contemplating how to announce himself without having to make a big fuss, he saw Elfhelm among the convalescents. Usually hard to miss, his Marshal had been squatting in front of one of the seated men and was just now getting up, stretching himself. He spoke to somebody kneeling next to him; somebody in a plain, grey gown with a thick braid hanging down her back. Before he was able to make out what the Princess was doing there, he was spotted by one of the Rohirrim.

“Éomer King!”

So much for making no fuss about his visit. Suddenly everybody seemed to be shouting his name and hailing the new king. Whoever was able to get to his feet did so. Now there was nothing else to do but to walk over to the men. He tried to catch Elfhelm’s gaze and received an approving grin from his Marshal.

The decision how to greet them was taken from him by the first Rohír who approached him. Éomer recognized the gaunt man. Every year in spring he had delivered the yearlings chosen from the herds grazing on the East-Emnet for training to Aldburg. Never had he made a mistake. All his choices had proven to become solid battle horses.

“Ealric!”

“Ay, my Lord Éomer.”

The man grinned and extended his left hand. Éomer was quick enough in his reaction and clasped Ealric’s forearm with his left. The right sleeve was empty from the shoulder down, and the man obviously had problems standing upright. Éomer waited for him to pull his arm back first, not to throw him off balance.

“Ready to go back to your yearlings?”

“Can hardly wait, my Lord. Stone piled on stone is not meant for me.”

Éomer went from man to man greeting everyone with an arm clasp. Some of the faces looked familiar, but even as the Third Marshal responsible for the Eastmark, he had met most of the herdsmen hardly more than once a year. But he knew what a great loss the death of so many of them on the Pelennor Fields meant for the Mark.

Finally the men settled back into their seats, still showing excitement at having their king in their midst. Said King couldn’t quite comprehend why his sheer presence seemed to cause such enthusiasm. He walked over to Elfhelm, who had helped Lothíriel back to her feet. Behind the folds of her gown he saw another man sitting somehow slumped in his chair. When Éomer extended his arm in greeting he raised his own with obvious difficulty.

“I am named Hleogar, Ilfridsson, my Lord.”

“I remember your name: the Princess mentioned it once before.”

The lack of understanding in the man’s expression reminded Éomer that his kinsmen weren’t aware of the true identity of their healer and keeper.

“We are honoured, my Lord, that you found the time to come and talk to us.”

“I should have found the time earlier, and on our journey back to the Riddermark, there shall be more time to be found.”

Lothíriel hadn’t understood the words spoken in Rohirric, but she had observed the scene closely and seemed quite satisfied. She smiled at Éomer as if the rough conclusion of their last encounter hadn’t happened.

“I told you so,” she said in a quiet tone. “Your visit means much to your kinsmen and does them good.”

Éomer’s mouth tilted wryly.

“Has anybody ever mentioned to you that the words I told you so do not give rise to an overly great appreciation of those who use them?”

She didn’t answer right away, appearing to consider his words.

“If that is so, my Lord, then it is because those at whom the words are aimed do not like that they were proven wrong.”

“And you are always right?”

“No, not necessarily.” She said, sounding deliberately thoughtful. “But I am trying to conceal it.”

Despite himself, Éomer laughed. He was aware that Elfhelm was watching them and became slightly suspicious of his Marshal’s reason for being there. Surely he hadn’t really expected him to do the Princess bodily harm?

“You have arranged for appropriate means of travel for these men?”

“The Steward will provide wagons and draught animals,” the Marshal replied and then couldn’t help himself asking: “The council?”

Éomer’s answer was just a short nod but one couldn’t fail to notice the relief it brought to Elfhelm’s features. From the corner of his eyes his King saw Lothíriel open her mouth. He swung his head around to face her, pointing a finger in the direction of her nose.

“Do not say a word,” he commanded sharply, surprising his Marshal more than the Princess with the tone of his voice and his rather rude gesture.

Lothíriel tilted her head very slightly to the side, tapping her fingertips together, her hands making a hollow triangle in front of her belly. The very picture of serenity and demureness.

“I had just wished to express my satisfaction that comfortable means of transport have been found.”

“And you are expecting me to believe that?”

“Are you questioning my word, my Lord?”

“Yes, my Lady!”

Now they had not only Elfhelm’s attention but also that of the other Rohirrim. They watched with a kind of concerned fascination.

Éomer had suspected the Princess enjoyed trading puns. What she obviously did not find agreeable was doing it with an audience. Realising that they were being watched, she backed down and her demeanour changed.

“I imagine you now wish to spend time in the company of your kinsmen. I shall leave you. Éomer King. My Lord Elfhelm.” She bowed her farewell and turned towards the building, but Éomer called after her:

“Princess!”

She looked back, without a doubt not happy that he had used her title.

“If you please, I wish to have a word with you later.”

She gave him an incredulous look and then simply nodded.

“You will find me in one of the treatment chambers over at the Great Courtyard.”

When she had disappeared into the next doorway he saw Elfhelm giving him a doubtful look.

“Do not be alarmed, my Lord Marshal,” he said in a low voice only meant for the other man’s ears. “I have decided not to break her neck after all.”

“Well now, I must say I am quite relieved,” Elfhelm replied wryly. Éomer left it at that and found himself a place between his kinsmen.

“Would you like some tea, my Lord?” one of the men offered. “It should be still quite hot.”

“No, thank you. I think I had enough tea already today. But if you do not mind, I will take some of the fruit. I have not eaten all day. Well, at least not since the early morning.”

A basket was passed to him and he took an apple and some plums.

“May I ask why you called the Mistress Lothíriel Princess, my Lord?” It was Ealric who dared to ask.

Éomer had just bitten into the apple therefore took his time to answer. Lothíriel wouldn’t probably like her patients to know about her ancestry. She had attached great importance to the fact that within the walls of the Houses of Healing she was just one of the healers. But these men in her keeping would leave early the day after tomorrow; therefore no harm would be done if they learnt who had been caring for them over the past four months.

“She is the daughter of the Lord of Dol Amroth, a princess of the Realm of Gondor.”

He watched the men digesting this information. The whole lot of them looked rather dumbfounded.

“Ehhh . . . she does not behave like a princess,” Ealric finally declared.

“But she looks like one,” someone else pointed out.

Elfhelm chuckled. “How, in your opinion, is a princess supposed to behave?”

“I have no inkling.” Ealric again. “We do not have princesses in the Riddermark.”

“Éomer King’s mother was a princess,” another voice put in.

“But she was Lord Éomund’s wife.”

Éomer wasn’t quite certain if he had to take that statement as an insult towards his father or as a compliment to his mother. He realized that some of the men were old enough to have known his parents, as they had resided in Aldburg for many years. He looked at Elfhelm who just shrugged his shoulders.

“Whatever she is, Mistress Lothíriel took very good care of us.” It was Hleogar who sounded as if he felt he had to defend his healer. “She was always there when we needed her. She was more than just our keeper.”

The other men murmured their approval.

“But she has been . . . sometimes . . . bossy,” somebody felt necessary to add, if only with reluctance.

“That is not true. She only forces us to do what is best for us.”

Éomer turned around to his kinsman who had given the last comment.

“What kind of force has she been using?”

“Well, forcing may not be the right word,” the man admitted, “but it is really hard to refuse to do something if she insists upon it.”

That certainly was an insight not to be disputed. Éomer recalled quite well ending up in a big tub with hot water even though he had not wanted to take a bath. At least not in a treatment chamber of the Houses of Healing. And that particular bath could have easily ended in a disaster. He was rather certain that Lothíriel did not have the slightest idea how close she had really come to having her neck snapped. A single movement of his hand and she would have been dead.

He searched the basket for another apple, and found to his delight, some carrots at the bottom. He picked them out to pocket them. Ealric saw him.

“Firefoot, my Lord?”

“Yes, indeed. I plan to see him later to make sure that he has not injured anybody seriously and that his stall is still keeping up with him.”

“A fine steed. As big and strong as a good horse should be. And devoted to his master.”

“I wish he were a bit less devoted to his master and a bit more gentle to others,” Elfhelm interjected, rubbing his upper arm in memory of a bite he had received from the grey stallion: just because he had been careless enough to approach Éomer from behind. That big beast guarded his master’s back as fiercely as a watchdog.

“He is not supposed to be gentle to anyone. He is a war horse, for Bema’s sake.” Éomer had trained his stallion himself since he had been a yearling. He loved his rugged companion who had taken to his master even though he seemed to despise the rest of mankind.

“How are the herds, my Lord?” Ealric asked.

“Not any worse than last autumn. But we cannot keep them in the Eastfold any longer. They have to be moved back across the Entwash onto the grazing land of the East-Emnet.”

“Will they be safe there?”

“The organized raids from Mordor have ceased, of course. But there are still many Orcs hiding in the Emyn Muil and we have to be on constant watch.”

“Do we have enough men to guard the herds?”

“Marshal Elfhelm will send an éored from the Eastfold as reinforcement for the herdsmen. That is all we can spare at the moment.”

“How is the Mark, my Lord?”

“You will find the Eastmark hardly any different from the time when you followed Théoden King to Mundburg. The destruction of the Westmark is devastating. There is no settlement in the far West not burnt to the ground. This autumn there will be no harvest. But the loss of life is not as great as we first feared. Most peasants have returned from their sanctuaries.”

“But if there is no harvest, my Lord, what will happen in the winter?”

“King Elessar has agreed to aid us. Gondor will send provisions. Nobody will starve. The reconstruction of housing now has priority. Women and children have to be given adequate shelter for the winter. For the years to come, hard work awaits all of us.”

“There is not going to be anything useful we are able to do,” stated one of the herdsmen, sounding self-mocking and resigned. There were some inarticulate noises from other men, probably made to underline that they shared the speaker’s view.

“So you are going to sit on your asses instead and let others do the work?”

Nobody had ever claimed that Éomer was the personification of sensitiveness, but this statement was rather harsh even for him. But he went with his instincts. He had no idea what he would want to hear if he were in the place of these men, but he had a fairly good idea what he wouldn’t want to hear. He wouldn’t want to be told that he was useless and a burden to others.

After a short moment of shocked silence Ealric extended his right leg towards him.

“And what else can I do other than sit on my ass with this?”

Éomer looked at the leg. Where once had been a foot was now a bandaged lump.

“Have you lost your brain together with your arm and your foot?” He looked into the eyes of the herdsman. There was no hurt or shock, but speechlessness.

“Have you lost your ability to assess a horse? Have you lost all your knowledge and all your experience?”

He let his gaze wander from one man to the other. They looked uncertain and he couldn’t tell if they didn’t know what to say or if they didn’t dare to speak their mind in front of their king. Elfhelm had a rather baffled impression himself about Éomer’s rough approach to the matter but he nodded encouragingly.

“Do you know who is tending the herds nowadays? Lads of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years. Your sons! The sons of the men buried here on Pelennor Field. Soon they will have learnt to do the work of a man . . . physically. But they will not be able to catch up on the years and years of your experience in just a few months. After you have returned to the plains, you will have to guide them, to teach them. Only with the strength of their bodies and with your knowledge and experience together will we be able to provide the best of care for our herds.”

He gestured towards Ealric’s maimed leg.

“You are not expected to mount a horse, to go out and guard the herds yourself. But you are expected to go on and use your knowledge as you have always done. You will choose the horses for training and you will separate those for breeding. If you cannot go out to the horses to assess them, then the horses will have to be brought to you. You have to figure out the best way to do it. I am just telling you what is going to be your task. How you proceed is up to you.”

With a sweeping gesture of his arm he included all the men sitting around him.

“That goes for all of you. We have lost too many of our kinsmen over the last year. I cannot and I will not allow any of you to back out of his obligation towards our people. You have already sacrificed much, but others sacrificed even more when they gave their lives. Their families have been left behind and must be taken care of. Everybody has to do his bit to ensure the future of our people. I will make sure that you get anything necessary, anything within reason you ask for when you have returned to the Mark. But do not forget to ask yourself what you have to give.”

Had he been alone Éomer would have probably puffed out his cheeks, exhaled and just sagged after his last words. He had never been very keen on giving these kind of speeches. He had never been in the habit of marshalling his words ahead. He would just say what felt right at the moment. Usually it had worked in preparing his riders for battle against the forces of Isengard. If it had worked to encourage these men to take on the life that lay before them, he did not know. He had to wait to see what was going to happen.

For a long moment there was silence on the patio. They had been given some heavy fare to digest and the one who fed it to them began asking himself if he would have been better serving it in smaller portions. But then the first started to speak, not to all of them in general, but to his kinsman next to him. Soon there was a hesitant murmur, the men talking amongst themselves. The voices were getting louder, more confident, acknowledging the truth in the words of the King, the sense behind them. It didn’t take too long before a discussion arose on what had to be done to adapt to the life lying before them. There was still despondency, still doubt if it was possible to live a life on the plains as maimed as they were, but at least they were talking about it and taking it into consideration. This would not be the last time he would speak to them, that Éomer knew. As he had told Lothíriel, there would be plenty of time on the journey back to Rohan.

He sought out Elfhelm who had been standing at the periphery of the group. He walked over to his Marshal.

“Well, you do have your way of forcing a bitter potion down a throat,” Elfhelm said quietly.

“Any better idea, my Lord Marshal?” Éomer retorted.

“What made you say those things?”

“I just followed my instinct and said what felt right at that moment.”

“It was the right thing to say, Éomer . . .King.”

The two men grinned, somehow both relieved to have this first step behind them. Letting his gaze wander around, Éomer did a quick count.

“Were there not about sixty men still in the keeping of the healers? These are not even half of them.”

“The ones who are able bodied were allowed to leave the Houses of Healing for the day to go down into the White City to find some amusement.”

Éomer snorted. “Let us hope they only drink their heads off.”

Two healers approached them. As Lothíriel had done they had made concession to the heat and were wearing neither tunic nor veil. Both were in their middle ages, their dark hair already streaked by grey. They were tall, lean and strong, much more suited for the strenuous work of a healer than the delicate Princess of Dol Amroth.

“My Lords,” one of them addressed them, “the men have to return to the wards for various treatments before it is time for their late meal to be provided.”

“Of course, Mistress. Please carry out your duties.”

The women went to their patients and gave some instructions, and one by one, those who were able to, got up and made their way slowly inside after bidding their farewells to their King and their Marshal. Only the two men strapped to their chairs remained behind.

“Soon somebody will come to take you back to your ward,” one of the healers assured the men.

Elfhelm stepped forward. “Can we be of help, Mistress?”

The women looked at each other hesitantly, but then one gestured towards the waiting men.

“Will you carry them, my Lords?”

“Of course.”

After the healers had opened the belts, King and Marshal each swept one of their kinsmen up without any difficulties. Their long suffering had cost the men a lot of weight.

The man Éomer was carrying looked somehow awkward but then grinned. “Well, I never thought I would see the day when my King carried me like a sack of grain.”

“Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder?” Éomer offered.

“I do not think the Mistress Healer will agree.”

They followed the women to one of the sick wards where already some of the others had arrived. After being shown the assigned bed, Éomer laid his load down. The man was totally shattered, without any control over his limbs. Grey-blue eyes out of a gaunt face looked up at him.

“And you think I am still useful, my Lord?”

Nothing had prepared him for situations like this; nothing could ever have done so. Éomer gave the man a grim smile.

“You know the life of a herdsman better than I do. Think about what your contribution can be, what your abilities are. And then we will talk again when we are on our way back home.”

With a nod he left the bedside.

Éomer and Elfhelm left the ward, returning to the patio where several domestics had begun gathering the chairs and leftovers from the light meal.

“I cannot help wondering,” Elfhelm said thoughtfully, “if it would have been less cruel if those two men had been granted a merciful death.”

“You had better not say that within earshot of the Princess or she might disembowel you on the spot.” Remembering last night’s conversation with Lothíriel, he laughed. “No, she will not draw blood. She will feed you hemlock.”

When he saw the lack of understanding in Elfhelm’s eyes, he explained: “That is what she threatened me with.”

His Marshal raised his eyebrows.

“I suppose she had a valid reason.”

Éomer chose not to answer that. He looked around.

“Now, where is the Great Courtyard?”

Elfhelm groaned. “Do you really think it a good idea to seek out the Princess?”

That earned him a frown from his King.

“I told you I am not going to kill her. But there are a couple of things I have to settle. Well, you have been here before quite often. Therefore you must know where the so-called Great Courtyard is located.”

The last conclusion was easily translated into a request. The Marshal didn’t look comfortable but pointed towards an archway opening to a covered walk.

“That will take you directly to the courtyard.”

The King of Rohan bade him farewell, leaving his Marshal behind. Just before he was about to walk through the archway, Elfhelm called after him.

“My Lord Éomer, remember: the healers prefer it quiet and peaceful within their domain.”

The so addressed looked back over his shoulder.

“And you feel you have to mention that to me: why?”

Without waiting for a reply he continued his way along the walk. The Great Courtyard turned out to be a large square lawn with a tall tree in its centre. Around the edges stone benches invited the passer-by to rest, and the walls of the surrounding buildings were overgrown by ivy and wisteria. Despite the heat and the blazing sun that must have lain on the yard most of the day, all the plants were fresh and green. They had obviously been watered regularly. Éomer could easily understand why the Princess felt more comfortable here than in the Royal Palace, where even the lush gardens had a much more formal setting.

But where was she? There were eight carved doors, two on each side, leading into the buildings. One was half open and behind it Éomer could hear a chopping noise. He walked up to the door and quietly pushed it wide open. It was indeed Lothíriel, standing at a workbench on the opposite wall, her back turned to him. He couldn’t make out what she was doing. Only that her right forearm moved up and down rapidly in time with the noise he had heard. On her left lay a heap of chopped, bright orange blossoms.

“Why are you mutilating those poor flowers?”

It said a lot about her that she did not jump and shriek, just stopped her chopping and after a couple of breaths turned and glared at him. It was such an unfitting and unexpected expression that Éomer couldn’t help laughing.

“Éomer King!”

"Correct identification!”

“You may find this amusing, my Lord.” She raised the index finger of her left hand. “But I nearly cut off my finger.” Indeed, in her right hand she held an impressive knife, the size of a dagger.

“I regret startling you, my Lady. It was not my intention.”

Lothíriel looked unimpressed by this apology.

“I would not have expected somebody as large as you, my Lord, to be able to move so stealthily.”

“I was not overly quiet, but you made a lot of noise shredding those blossoms. What have they done to you to deserve such treatment?”

Without invitation he crossed the room to stand beside her, eyeing the workbench.

“They are marigolds and I need them for a salve,” Lothíriel explained. She gestured behind her, where on a small hearth an oily substance was simmering in a double boiler.

Éomer took some of the chopped petals with his fingers, holding them to his nose.

“A salve made of mutilated blossoms. What is that suppose to be good for?”

“It is good for leaking or infected wounds such as the one you had and for which I used it.”

She had swung the knife around, directing it towards the area of his former wound, the point of it just a finger’s width from his rib cage.

Éomer looked down at the razor sharp instrument and then back up straight into Lothíriel’s eyes. He smiled slowly.

“Tempting, is it not?” he asked in a low voice.

“No! Not at all,” she answered. She seemed slightly upset by her own action and put the knife a bit too forcefully down on the workbench.

“Your meeting with your kinsmen went well, my Lord?” she asked politely.

“That depends presumably on the point of view of the respective beholder.”

There was a short silence.

“No further inquiries, my Lady?” Éomer finally asked.

“No, it is not necessary.” When he raised his eyebrows in mocking surprise, she added in a smug tone: “Your kinsmen will tell me everything tonight.”

Before Éomer had the chance to digest that, she went on, perhaps a bit rushed: “You wished a word, my Lord. May I ask what about?”

She must be expecting the worst, because she looked somehow wary, as if trying to brace herself against attack. She had good reason.

“I came for an answer to the question I asked you yesterday.”

His pleasant tone seemed to make her even more suspicious but he had to admit in her favour that she truly looked as if she had no idea what he was getting at.

“You had several questions, and as far as I remember I gave you answers.”

“Except to the last. All you said was that I would not want to know the answer.”

Apprehension was showing in her eyes. “My father spoke to you.”

“I spent most of the day in company of your father, but no, that subject did not come up.”

“Then why do you come back to that particular question?”

“Lothíriel,” he hissed, irritated; only peripherally noticing that he had used neither her royal nor her healer’s title. “Are you so reckless or just naive?”

Obviously she didn’t like either of the descriptions referring to her character. One of her small frowns settled between her eyebrows, but before she could reply Éomer went on, trying his best not to let his temper slip.

“Last night – and I really cannot comprehend why only then – you must have finally become aware that your father, if he learns that you have behaved with a lack of demureness or are found in a compromising situation, would not just simply send you back to Dol Amroth, but force you into a bond with the man, whoever it may be, who was involved in that breach of propriety.”

He didn’t give her the time to disentangle this sentence.

“Now just tell me,” he ordered finally exasperated, “what made you do something so brainless as to come to my bedchamber this morning?”

“As I told you, I felt I needed to speak to you before you met with my father. And I didn’t want to do it somewhere in the corridors, risking being seen in your company and therefore provoking more inquiries into our dealings with each other.”

It was somehow frustrating that she always managed to keep this reasonable tone of hers, even when she was trying to explain her highly unreasonable behaviour.

“So you rather took the risk of being seen in my bedchamber – or even just entering my bedchamber.” Incredulity coloured Éomer's voice.

“It was what Amrothos calls a calculated risk.”

He heard something very strange and realized it was the sound of his teeth grinding together.

“My Lady, the very last person in the known world from whom you should take wisdoms of life is your brother Amrothos.”

“He is . . .  a good brother,” Lothíriel said, obviously thinking she ought at least to try to come to her brother’s defence.

“That is definitely debatable,” he snapped, “but does not matter at the moment anyway, because this morning you made a miscalculation. You were seen by Lord Elfhelm.”

“He is your Marshal. Certainly you can explain to him why I was in your chamber.”

“You want me to tell Elfhelm that we are trying to hide something from your father?”

“It is not within my discretion to tell you how to deal with your Marshal.”

“But once again your behaviour forces me to twist the truth. Or shall we say peel the layers of the truth down to its basics?”

“And I thought this shambles emerged mainly because of your disproportionately bad behaviour of last night!” she returned sharply.

He gazed down at her. Press her too hard – accuse her unfairly – and she would fight back. He loved to bring her out of her shell of poise and sobriety. There was something more hiding behind her facade and that gleam in her beautiful eyes held promise.

“Are you aware, my Lady,” he asked with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to get her attention, “that it could easily have been your father instead of Lord Elfhelm, to whom we might have had to give an explanation?”

His words made him remember what Elfhelm had said earlier that morning, and with a deep frown he repeated them, more to himself: “. . . the explanation was cordially noted.” His voice trailed off and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Lothíriel had watched him, slightly irritated by his mental leap.

“Why should my father come to the guest wing?” she asked dismissively. “He has his chambers on the opposite side of the palace. He prefers the evening sun,” she added in clarification.

“He was coming to make sure I had not overslept after that glittering feast, and had Elfhelm not met him on his way and offered to come himself, then it would have been your father knocking on my door!”

"Oh," she said after a pause in a voice as small as he had ever heard it from her.

“Yes, oh, indeed.”

He watched her. Her eyes had settled somewhere on his chest, unseeing. There was the tiny frown again, precisely above the bridge of her nose and she was gnawing the inside of her lower lip, a rather childlike habit. He could almost see her thoughts travelling to and fro behind her forehead. Eventually they came to a conclusion. Her tongue soothed over her nibbled lip and she looked up seeking his eyes.

“My Lord, I think it would be better if we avoided each other from now on. That should not be too difficult, as you are leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Éomer answered promptly, but at the same moment feeling an unwelcome emptiness, as if he had been denied something elemental.

“It would have even been wise for you not to have come this afternoon to confront me. After all, we are once more on our own in a room.”

“Indeed, but at least I left the door wide open,” Éomer pointed out, feeling a bit at a loss. There was, he realized dimly, something deflating about her willingness to evade him from now on without any obvious regret.

“I could hardly have left the door to your bedchamber open,” Lothíriel reasoned, leaving him with the distinct impression that she still hadn’t gotten the essential point of their dilemma.

“My Lady, I think you have to . . . “

He was interrupted by a sizzle from the direction of the hearth.

Lothíriel whirled around.

“My salve!”

She hastened over to the hearth, grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring the contents of the pot. Then she took a plate and spooned some of the substance on it. After it had cooled down a bit she rubbed it with a finger, testing its texture.

“Still too solid,” she murmured.

Éomer got the feeling that she had almost immediately forgotten his presence. She was now totally focused on her work. But he didn’t mind at all. He just stepped back to watch her . . . he enjoyed watching her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have this opportunity again. There was precision and economy in her movements, and her very own grace, which had appealed to him from the moment she had led him across the lawn towards the treatment chamber.

She poured oil from a dark flask into the pot, stirred again and repeated the testing. She was still dissatisfied and mumbled something under her breath he couldn’t understand. She bent down to search for something on the shelves underneath the workbench. The heat of the day and the heat from the hearth combined must have left her covered with a fine film of sweat under her gown. Obviously with not even a chemise underneath, it stuck to her back, her hips and her buttocks, leaving Éomer with an exceedingly pleasing view and a serious stirring in his groin.

Lothíriel had succeeded with her search and she emerged with another flask struggling to pull out the cork. As much as she tugged and twisted, it wouldn’t give way. Probably her fingers were slightly sweaty as well. Watching her battle he tried his hardest to maintain a straight face, but when she looked at him finally, she caught his amusement.

“I highly suggest you do not laugh,” she hissed, and then, instead of asking for his help as she had surely intended to, she doubled her efforts.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Éomer offered, proud of himself: his voice didn’t even hint at his mirth. He took a step towards her and at that very moment, when he tried to take hold of the flask, the cork came off, followed by a fountain of oil spraying Lothíriel’s face.

She gave a strangled noise, leaning right forward to keep the oil from dripping on her gown, her arms spread out to the sides, one hand holding the flask, the other the cork. In whatever positions he had seen her in his imagination, this was certainly not one of them. It looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Do not dare laugh,” she fumed.

“I am not laughing!” He was just glad that, given her posture, she was not able to look into his face. Not only the ridiculousness of the situation but also Lothíriel of Dol Amroth grinding her teeth in an effort to save what was left of her composure was a sight to behold.

“Hand me a cloth . . . please.” She gestured with the cork, hand towards one of the corners, where there was a stove with a cauldron, similar to the one in the chamber where she had treated him. On the mantelpiece Éomer found a neatly folded stack of cloths. He grabbed a couple and handed one to Lothíriel after having retrieved the flask and cork from her grasp.

He watched wordlessly as she pressed the cloth to her face, trying to dab off the oil. He had an inkling that this was one of those moments that no matter what he said, it would be the wrong thing. Therefore he just waited until she reappeared from behind the cloth. Finally she gathered herself, drew a deep breath and lowered it. Again she surprised him. Instead of anger or her customary mask of serenity, as he had expected, there was a hint of embarrassment in her eyes and a good portion of self-mockery.

“At least it was marigold oil. That is good for the skin.”

Only now Éomer allowed the grin, which had threatened to invade his features to break free. There must have been something infectious about his smile, because she answered it with such a wide un-ladylike grin of her own, one he had never guessed she possessed, and he had to quash firmly the sudden desire to kiss her. Being honest, he had to admit it was not a sudden but a constant desire. Perhaps this was the right moment to take his leave.

Lothíriel had watched his grin fade whilst his eyes were locked on her face. She – thankfully – misunderstood his changing expression.

“Is something wrong with my face?”

He couldn’t help laughing at that phrasing.

“No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your face, except,” he added in Rohirric, “that it is much too beautiful for my peace of mind.”

Hearing the foreign words her gaze turned suspicious.

“What is it?” she demanded emphatically.

“Well,” he diverted, “there is still some oil around your nose and in your eyebrows.”

When she started to search the cloth in her hand for some unsoiled parts to try and clean the rest of the oil off, Éomer unfolded the other one in his hand and said without thinking, “Let me.”

He took her chin between two of his fingers and his thumb and tilted her face upwards. Lothíriel blinked in surprise when he began to dab off the remains of the oil from around her nose and then gently wiped it out of her eyebrows. He kept his eyes on what he was doing, avoiding her gaze. She had been right. The oil was good for the skin. It looked smooth and soft like velvet.

Having finished his task, he simply couldn’t let her go. He lowered the cloth but kept her chin between his fingers. For a moment he did nothing but look at her. He just looked at her, memorizing the way her eyebrows arched into delicate wings and took in the large eyes growing even wider. Perhaps he wouldn’t see her again, at least not for some time. This might be the last time he could study this face, the one he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind.

His eyes wouldn’t leave her features. His gaze captured hers and held it. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her face. His fingers trailed along her cheek, and all by itself, suddenly became a hand that cupped the back of her head. And then he couldn’t help it.

He kissed her

TBC