Lothíriel blinked.

He shouldn’t have said that. Not in that tone of voice, some kind of purr that vibrated all over her skin. Not with roughly two hundred men around them, including her father and her brothers. There had been an unmistakable intimacy in the low greeting, a dark and heavy warmth that she was certain everybody around them had picked up. Suddenly she was intensely aware of the others having watched the scene.

She had to say something; had to answer him. She couldn’t just sit on her horse and stare down at him whilst all eyes were on her. She prayed to the Valar that there would not be another flush of heat setting fire to her cheeks. With an effort, she forced some words out of her mouth.

“I thank you for your welcome, my Lord.”

Well, she would have liked to have said something more eloquent, but she simply did not know how to respond to those suggestive words. She was, on the other hand, utterly surprised how normal her voice sounded, how cool and composed. There was not the slightest hint of how she truly felt; how breathless and anxious and exhilarated, all at the same time.

For a moment she feared he would take her tone for a rebuff, but he still had her hand in his and there was a faint trembling in her fingertips. He must have felt it as his light grip changed just a little and his thumb smoothed over the inside of her wrist and came to rest on her pulse. He had held her before this way; in the feast hall of the Citadel. And as he had known on that evening, he certainly knew now, that she was hiding her turbulent   emotions behind her calm façade.

“Would you like to dismount, my Lady?” There was warmth and laughter in his voice.

Before Lothíriel had the chance to give him an answer, Elphir appeared next to her mare’s head and addressed Éomer in his most condescending voice, looking pointedly at his and Lothíriel’s joined hands.

“My Lord, you must excuse my sister. She is in a feeble condition. The journey has overexerted her and she must be allowed to rest without any further delay.”

Éomer gave the Prince a look of mingled irritation and incredulity. Very much to Lothíriel’s regret, however, he did not make any move to disembowel Elphir on the spot. She stared disbelievingly down at her brother, feeling angry and embarrassed in equal measure.

Either Elphir was blissfully unaware that he was on the verge of creating a scene or that was precisely what he intended to do. His stance left no doubt that he expected the King of Rohan to move aside so that he could assist his sister to dismount. But when it came to scenes in public, he could take lessons from Amrothos at any time.

“And if you try your best not to embarrass yourself, there is always an annoying sibling waiting in the wings to do it for you,” a cheerful voice announced.

Amrothos had come up to them, smiling at Lothíriel and putting his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He bowed his head to Éomer.

“Greetings, Éomer King. You have to excuse my brother. The journey had overexerted him so that his wit, which is in short supply anyway, must have abandoned him. He has forgotten his manners and addressed the Lord of this land before he had been addressed by said Lord of the land. He sometimes still makes a slip when it comes to protocol. Please do not infer our – that is your betrothed’s other two brothers - behaviour from his. We would be most upset . . .  especially me.” It was amazing, but Amrothos seemed to be able to manage this torrent of words without having to take a single breath. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder hard enough that it must hurt, whilst Elphir looked daggers at him, and began to guide him away. “Elphir dearest, I think Father wishes to have a word with you. He is over there; . . . with our liege.”

Somehow he had managed to let his last words – even though his tone was overly kind – sound like a threat, obviously one Elphir had understood. His mouth, which he had already opened to make a sharp protest, clamped shut into a firm line and he allowed his younger brother to lead him away, although his entire posture revealed his only barely suppressed impulse to throw a punch.

Éomer had studied both the retreating princes with all the enthusiasm of someone finding something dubious on the sole of his boot. He shook his head slightly as if to drive away an obscure vision, but when he looked up to Lothíriel again there was mirth gleaming in his eyes.

“Have you ever considered feeding those two hemlock?”

For a couple of heart beats Lothíriel failed to understand what he was referring to, but then she remembered her own threat against him from all those months ago and her lips twitched, the corners of her mouth struggling not to turn upwards.

“Indeed, my Lord, I have; repeatedly,” she replied in a deliberately serious voice. “But right now I feel that the quick and painless death that hemlock provides would be too good for Elphir.”

“You are a dangerous woman, my Lady.”

“I only believe that the punishment should match always the offence.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“You had better do.”

One of Éomer’s straight brows rose and a slow smile curved his lips, his eyes holding hers in a mocking challenge. But he didn’t go into that last remark of hers. She just felt his thumb lazily massaging her palm, sending goose-pimples up her arm. Although he had to be aware of the attention they were drawing, he seemed to be completely unruffled by it.

“Was your brother suggesting that you are saddle sore?” he asked in the teasing tone he had used on her before.

“Rather more stiff than sore, my Lord.” After Elphir’s indiscreet words there was not much use in trying to cover up how uncomfortable she felt.

“Then you must allow me to assist you in dismounting.”

Still holding her hand in his right one he ran his left from the mare’s withers along her crest, putting a gentle downwards pressure on her neck. Obediently the chestnut lowered her head.

“This is certainly not the proper way to dismount, but lean on my shoulder and swing your leg over her neck. I will support you.”

He had let go of her hand and grasped her waist. He was quite right. This was most certainly not the proper way to do anything in public. She had no idea where Amrothos had taken Elphir, but the latter should be quite likely close to having a fit right now. She just hoped her father would view the whole situation with his normal composure.

She laid her left hand on Éomer’s pauldron and, taking both feet out of the stirrups, swung her right leg over her mare’s lowered neck. Well, perhaps swung would have been too kind a description; dragged came much closer to the truth. She barely managed to hold a groan in her throat and without Éomer’s help she would have probably fallen backwards off the horse.

“In that, your brother was right, my Lady. You do need to rest.” The smile in his voice had been joined by concern. His gaze came to rest on her leg. The split skirt had become caught on the pommel and left him with the view of a long, slim leg clad in tight fitting deerskin breeches.

Lothíriel freed the skirt unconcernedly and let it fall down to cover her again. “Let me assure you, that I will be perfectly fine as soon as I have got off this horse,” she insisted, struggling to keep the irritability, which had been looming under her skin for days now, to surface. If people would only stop commenting of her condition.

Making no reply Éomer seized her around her waist and lifted her off her mare, setting her down very carefully and very slowly. Lothíriel realized she was holding her breath and not because she had anticipated some pain from her sore muscles. On her feet again she found herself between the horse and the man, both considerably larger than her. It felt like being caught between . . . well, between a horse and a brick wall, Éomer, in his armour, covering her entire field of vision. 

He had taken his hands from her waist and wasn’t touching her any more, but he was standing so close to her that had she had a more ample bosom, there wouldn’t have been enough space for her to breathe. She could feel the heat from his body, warming her on this chilly day. Another wave of acute awareness arced through her. She really ought to be getting used to the sensation.

Her eye level was at the height of his chin and when she raised her gaze, it came to rest on his mouth, refusing to abandon that sight; beautifully drawn, firm lips framed by a neatly trimmed beard. Her stomach flipped, when she was suddenly ambushed by a blood heating desire for a kiss. She looked up and their gazes locked once more. She knew, with a certainty that was so strong she wondered if she had developed some mind-reading powers, that he was thinking about those kisses in the treatment chamber, and that he knew that she was remembering, too.

For a moment her surroundings seemed to slide away into another dimension. Lothíriel could still see the courtyard and the adjacent buildings, the men and their horses; could hear their voices; could hear them calling out and laughing. But it was all happening in another, unimportant realm. The only thing important at that moment was the look in Éomer’s eyes. She saw him open his mouth to say something, but quite another voice brought her back down to earth with a bump.

“Will you allow a friend to greet you, Éomer King?”

Her father, and with him King Elessar, had come up to them, both looking amused and at the same time intrigued. Éomer turned towards them with a wide smile to welcome the Prince of Dol Amroth. He made a move to embrace Imrahil, but then stopped himself with a self-mocking chuckle. He gestured towards the older man who, after ten days on horseback, managed to look well groomed. His own cuirass, on the other hand, was covered with splashes of mud.

“Perhaps I’d better not.”

Imrahil just laughed and caught the young king in an embrace. “If you feel you can share the honestly earned dirt of a warrior with my liege, you can certainly share it me.”

“I have to apologize,” Éomer said, letting one of his hands rest on Imrahil’s shoulder. “It was not my intention to welcome you to Rohan in such an undignified manner. I would have wished for the Lady Lothíriel to get a better first impression of her new home.”

At his words all three men looked at her, but Lothíriel had had enough time to compose herself. Her mask had fallen back into place.

“My Lord, the first impressions I had of Rohan were in the form of your kinsmen given into my care. And I can assure you, it was a favourable one.”

Once again Éomer was looking into her eyes which such an intensity that she began to wonder if he was trying deliberately to disconcert her. She averted her eyes as a precaution to prevent another blush sweeping her cheeks. They came to a rest on the right side of his cuirass, at the height of his waist, where a dark stain caught her attention. Unthinkingly she stepped closer and stroked the tips of her bare fingers over the spot. Without being aware of the surprised glances she was receiving from the three men, she lifted her hand for them to see it.

“This is blood, and it is rather fresh and not coagulated,” she stated, her eyes already roaming over Éomer’s body to search for the injury, but all the armour and mail covered him so completely, that she couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from.

“Éomer, are you wounded?” she heard Elessar ask.

“No, I am not. It is not my blood,” he hastened to assure them. “I earlier helped to carry Éothain inside the hall. It must be his.”

Lothíriel looked up to him, not aware that the anxiety written on her face was only slowly slipping away. Éomer gave her a short, reassuring smile.

“You will get the opportunity to treat me again another time, my Lady,” he teased, but somehow Lothíriel failed to see the humour in it. The last thing she wanted to imagine was an injured and bloodied Éomer under her hands. And she was not the only one.

“Well, I hope your betrothed will never be obliged to offer proof of her skills by patching you up.” Elessar declared emphatically. “Éomer, I heard the men saying you hunted down Orcs. Why the Royal Guard? And more importantly: why you?”

Lothíriel was surprised by the sharp tone in which her liege addressed his Rohirric counterpart. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw irritability flaring up in Éomer’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she felt she must have been mistaken. He gestured towards the hall.

“Let us go inside. We are in the men’s way here and the Lady Lothíriel needs some rest.”

Whilst Imrahil gave his daughter a neatly folded handkerchief to clean the blood from her hand – only her father was able to produce such after a days-long journey - Éomer waved over a stable lad who had obviously been waiting for a sign. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve years old. He took Lothíriel’s chestnut and led her away.

The two Kings and the Prince made way for her. Having been so focused on Éomer, Lothíriel hadn’t truly realized how crowded the courtyard was. Stable lads and riders were busy leading the horses away, trying to bring some order to the chaos. On top of everything, the servants from the Gondorian party were unloading the packhorses, which carried the belongings of their lords. Had she been by herself, she might have been overlooked, run into and knocked down.

When they entered the screens passage of the great hall of Aldburg they found all three of her brothers right behind the porch in conversation with Lord Elfhelm. Although the Marshal was wearing mail, it was obvious that he had not been one of the riders who had only recently returned from combat. Seeing his King and his guest he excused himself with a nod from the three princes and turned towards them. He greeted Elessar and Imrahil respectfully before he bowed before Lothíriel.

“My Lady, it is a great joy for me to welcome my soon-to-be Queen to Aldburg.”

Hearing his warm words were a load off her mind. Considering their last unfortunate meeting she had certainly not left the best of impressions on him. She had been very much relieved when she had received his prompt answer to her letter, and her correspondence with Lady Cynewyn hadn’t given her cause to assume that he had made any comments to his wife about the situation he had caught her and Éomer in. His friendly welcome and sincere smile confirmed that he had obviously no objections to his King’s choice.

“It is a great pleasure for me to see you again, my Lord Elfhelm. And I hope that now I shall be given the opportunity to make Lady Cynewyn’s personal acquaintance.”

“I am afraid you will have to wait until you arrive in Edoras. With Lady Éowyn gone to be to wed Lord Faramir this past month, Éomer King entrusted my wife to oversee the preparations for his wedding and the festivities. But if you are agreeable I would like to introduce my eldest daughter. She will be at your disposal whilst you are staying here at Aldburg.”

He nodded towards a young woman, or rather a girl, perhaps three or four years Lothíriel’s junior. She curtseyed and whilst rising gave the Princes of Dol Amroth an open smile. She had a wealth of thick, honey-coloured hair, tamed with difficulty into a slightly unruly braid, green-blue eyes and the widest, lushest mouth Lothíriel had ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn’t beautiful by common standards but without a doubt very pleasing to the eye, especially with her smile that seemed to take up half it. She was about Lothíriel’s height and promised to blossom in all the right places.

“My Lady, this is my daughter Merewyn. If you desire to refresh yourself and rest for a while, she will show you to the chamber which has been prepared for you.”

Lothíriel returned the girl’s smile with one of her own.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Merewyn. Your mother spoke of you in her letters.”

“I am honoured, my Lady. I hope I can make your sojourn here at Aldburg comfortable. All has been prepared if you wish to retire and take some time for a rest.”

Lord Elfhelm’s daughter had a lively voice and was quite able to express herself in Westron. Her offer to take Lothíriel to a chamber where she could lie down and hopefully take a hot bath was tempting. On the other hand was her intent to hear what had caused the Royal Guard to go out on a hunt for Orcs. If she had comprehended Elessar’s words of barely concealed reproach correctly then that was not their common purpose. And if those creatures were still a potential danger for her new homeland and her adopted people then she wished to learn about it.

Turning from Lord Elfhelm and his daughter she saw the other six men watching her. Well, not Elphir; he was scowling alternately at Éomer and Amrothos. Judging from the expressions the men wore, obviously everybody expected her to retire and somehow that tipped the scale in favour of her body’s demand for rest. She didn’t feel up to a debate about what was best for her right now. Besides, Merewyn gave the impression of someone who knew what was going on around here and she should be willing to supply some information.

“You will excuse me, my Lords. I will make my farewell for the time being.”

The men murmured their approval and their greetings. Éomer came nearer and took her right hand, which was still covered by her riding glove. He blocked her with the bulk of his armour from the view of the others

“Rest,” he said in a low voice, “until the evening. Then the disarray, which has unfortunately greeted you, will be resolved. Then we can all sit down together for a feast in peace and enjoy each other’s company.”

Whilst he was speaking he had begun to remove her glove. He gave the tip of each finger a tug, and then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unashamedly suggestive, undoubtedly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do with the rest of her clothing. Lothíriel wondered when she had gained the ability to pick up such innuendos. She gasped when the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. What was he doing? They were in the company of others; of her father and the King. She tried to draw back her hand, but he didn’t let go. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a warmth that was . . . not soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Until tonight then, my Lady.”

He let go of her hand and held out the glove for her to take back. There was a smile in his eyes, which Lothíriel did not appreciate. He was taunting her. He did try to disconcert her! With an endearing smile of her own she retrieved her glove.

“Cad!” she said politely, for only him to hear and earned herself a chuckle.

Lothíriel took a step aside so that she was able to face the others in the hall. They could not have seen what had just occurred between her and Éomer but they knew that something had been going on. Unlike Amrothos, Erchirion at least tried to conceal his sly grin – well, he could have tried more. Elphir was fuming and she was surprised that there wasn’t smoke coming out of his ears. But he refrained from saying anything because her father looked as if everything was just as it should be. She caught his gaze and Imrahil smiled at her, still amused but also knowingly. Such a smile, coming from your own father, felt somehow . . . odd.

“Rest,” he repeated Éomer’s advice from just a moment ago. “We will see you later today.”

Lothíriel nodded and bade her farewell, bowing to the Kings. “My Lords.” She wouldn’t have managed a curtsey.

Merewyn gestured politely for her to follow and led her across the hall towards the dais. Lothíriel assumed that beyond that end of the hall were the private chambers of the Marshal’s family and those for high-ranking guests.

The hall was a rectangular room, about three times as long as it was wide, and also higher than it was wide. It had a large bay window on one of the long sides, overlooking the courtyard and above the screens passage, through which they had entered there was also a minstrel’s gallery. Two steps led up to the dais where the top table was situated. Behind the table an arched door led to the living quarters.

Merewyn walked ahead of her along a narrow corridor and opened a door to a chamber of modest size but with a big and very comfortable looking four-poster. A fire had been lit in the hearth and in one corner stood a bathtub, waiting to be filled. All that looked very inviting and much better than anything else had over the past ten days. Yes, she was glad she had decided to retire and not insisted upon joining the men. She sank down on a bench that was sitting at the foot end of the bed.

“Would you like me to send for hot water so you can take a bath, my Lady?” Merewyn asked.

“Oh, yes.” Lothíriel sighed. “If there was something I have longed for from the very first day of our journey, it is a bath.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” the girl answered. “I have ridden to Edoras many times with my father, and to visit relatives all over the Eastmark. But I have never gone on such a long journey as you now have behind you.”

That sounded so envious that Lothíriel had to laugh.

“Believe me, Merewyn, it is not an experience I am overly eager to repeat in the near future.”

“Of course not. You are going to be our Queen. And you must be tired. And you want your bath. I will go and give word for the water to be brought over and make sure you get your belongings. I will be back soon.”

With this flow of words she left the chamber and the door slammed shut. The Rohirrim definitely shared certain mutual characteristics.

Lothíriel leant forward and pushing her skirt aside began to unlace her boots. She was glad nobody was with her at that moment because now she could allow herself to groan to her heart’s content. Tugging the laces from the holes she wondered about Merewyn’s remark that their queen, of course, wouldn’t repeat the journey between the Mark and Gondor. How was she supposed to take that? Did the Rohirrim expect their Queen to never leave the land? Unlikely. Those words had probably no deeper meaning, and were only spoken without thinking by a young girl. And she would certainly be well advised not to take everything she heard literally. The cultural differences meant a different perception. She had a lot to learn.

She had only managed to remove one boot when Merewyn returned with several other women, all tall and blond, carrying large wooden buckets full of hot water. All greeted her respectfully, and undoubtedly curiously, by bowing their heads, before one after the other poured the water into the tub. After the last had left the tub was filled nearly to the edge with steaming water, obviously still too hot to get into immediately.

Merewyn closed the door behind the women. “The water is very hot. You have plenty of time to undress. Would you like some help? I could brush your hair.”

Lothíriel saw the girl looking at her dark braid as if it were some exotic animal. She had better get used to the fact that she would stick out amongst the Rohirrim like a donkey among horses.

“Merewyn, do you know where my father’s servants left my bags, and more importantly, have you seen a small leather chest, in which I keep certain remedies?”

Before the other could answer there was a knock at the door.

“That should be your belongings,” Merewyn explained. “I have given instructions for them to be brought here as soon as your servants have unloaded the pack-animals.”

She opened the door once more and three of the women from before came in, bringing not only her travel bags and the chest with the oils and salves but also two dresses. Lothíriel thought she remembered them being made for her during those endless sessions with the seamstresses under the guidance of Queen Arwen. Both gowns were laid across the bed. One was a simple day dress with long, narrow sleeves made from lightweight dark-blue wool; the other was made from pearl-grey velvet, with silver embroidery on the cuffs, the girdle and the high collar.

Whilst the other women left, again wordlessly, Merewyn straightened the folds of the gowns.

“The wains with your possessions arrived in Edoras five days ago. My mother sent some clothes here because she thought you would like something to wear, at least for a night, which is not crumpled after all those days stuck in the bags.”

“That was very thoughtful of Lady Cynewyn.”

Lothíriel bent forward to get eventually rid of the second boot.

“Would you like me to help you?” Merewyn offered again. Lothíriel had to smile to herself at the eagerness in the girl’s voice. Her parents had probably entrusted her to take care of their King’s bride but there was certainly a great deal of curiosity behind her zealousness. And who wouldn’t be curious about a woman from a foreign land who was about to become one’s queen?

“It would be a great help if you could unpack the bag with the stamped in pattern. There should be a clean robe inside and a riding habit, which will be in need of pressing. I would like to wear it tomorrow on our way to Edoras. Leave the other bag; it contains only worn clothes.”

Happily Elfhelm’s daughter did as she was told whilst Lothíriel removed her other boot and began to unlace her riding dress. She slipped it off, her movements stiff, and looked down at her body with a tired grin. Her current outfit was definitely one she still had to get used to. Never before in her life had she worn breeches or a thigh-long shirt. Merewyn on the other hand seemed to be used to these kinds of clothes being worn by a woman. She had taken a robe made of silk lined wool out of the bag Lothíriel had indicated to her and was trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Shall I have this pressed for you, my Lady?”

“No, that is not necessary. I will put it on as it is.”

Lothíriel hesitated, feeling quite self-conscious. She was, even after all her encounters with the seamstresses, still not comfortable undressing in front of others, and certainly not in front of somebody who had just been introduced to her. But it appeared Merewyn expected her to do just that. She held the robe so that Lothíriel could slip into it as soon as she had removed the last two items of her clothing. She sighed inwardly. Lady Cynewyn had written in one of her letters that she had – after consulting Éomer - chosen and trained a handmaiden for her. So sooner or later she had to get use to showing herself naked in the company of others.

Lothíriel’s heart lurched as a sudden image came to her mind’s eye. Soon she was supposed to show herself naked not only in front of her handmaiden.

Not really wanting to get into that train of thought, she opened the side-fastenings of her breeches, pushed them down and stepped out of them. Loosening the lacing of her shirt at the collar, she turned her back towards Merewyn and slipped it over her head and just dropped it. Quickly she put her arms into the wide sleeves of the rope, pulled it around her and tied up the belt.

“Now I shall brush your hair,” Merewyn announced cheerfully, having already picked up a brush she had retrieved from the depth of the bag.

Lothíriel tugged her braid out of the collar of the robe and couldn’t keep back an amused smile. Her hair seemed to have a considerable appeal for the girl; or rather the colour of her hair.

“If you insist upon it, you shall,” she agreed and again took her seat on the bench. Merewyn settled behind her as if it were the most natural thing to do. She untied the blue ribbon which held the plait together and with which Lothíriel had braided her hair down from her neck. Having undone it she spread the dark mass over her future Queen’s back.

“Such a beautiful colour,” she said, admiration in her voice, “and so straight and silky.”

“It is simply black,” Lothíriel pointed out. “And black is not even a real colour.”

“It is the colour of our most cherished horses; those which Mordor took away. Only very few are left.”

Well, if you were compared to a horse, then you knew for certain that you had arrived in Rohan. And you were as well to take it as a compliment if you were, on top of everything, compared to a rare breed of horse.

The mentioning of Mordor reminded Lothíriel of the clash with Orcs the Royal Guard had apparently engaged in.

“Merewyn, some of the riders have told King Elessar that Éomer King and his guard have hunted down Orcs. What happened?”

The girl had begun to brush her hair with smooth, even strokes. She knew how to do it; it had a very relaxing effect on Lothíriel. It was certainly not the first time Merewyn had cared for somebody else’s hair. She had probably very often done it before for her younger sisters. Lothíriel knew there were two from their mother’s letters.

“Since the men have moved our herds back across the Entwash onto the grazing land of the East-Emnet, there has been trouble with Orcs. After the defeat of Mordor they went into hiding in the Emyn Muil and from there they come to raid the East of the Mark.”

“But there are no settlements in the East-Emnet,” Lothíriel recalled knowledge she had gained from her conversations with the Rohirric riders.

“No, there are not.” Merewyn shook her head, a corkscrew curl that had escaped from her braid dancing on her cheek. “Those creatures are coming for the horses, but this time not to take away to Mordor. They come for meat. The foaling season is not over yet and the dams and their foals are easy prey for them. My father has too few men at his disposal. He cannot send the riders out on patrol at random. And the herdsmen suffered great losses during the battle at Mundburg.”

“I know,” Lothíriel said quietly. “The injured were in my care at the Houses of Healing.”

“Yes, we have been told that you are a healer, my Lady, and that you looked after our wounded kinsmen.” The girl didn’t sound as if she found the fact that her future queen had worked as a healer and treated those men unusual in any way.

“Your father told you that?”

“He and the herdsmen who came back with the cortège of Théoden King. Ealric and Hleogar are here in Aldburg. Oh!” Merewyn called out, her mouth a bit too close to Lothíriel’s ear. “I nearly forgot! They wish to wait upon you, if you agree.”

Lothíriel withheld her first reaction – which was to put her hand over her ear. “I would love to see them, of course. How are they?”

“My mother says much better than one would have expected, taking into consideration how badly they were injured and that they are now maimed. But they are in good spirits.” Her girlish giggle showed that there was still a lot of a child in Merewyn. “Perhaps I should not tell you this, my Lady, but both – Ealric and Hleogar – thought that it is rather peculiar that Éomer . . . ah, King,” Lothíriel did not miss this late addition of her betrothed’s title, “chose you to be his bride.”

Said bride threw a glance over her shoulder at the younger woman, who was still brushing her hair contentedly. “They thought it peculiar that their Lord chose a bride from Gondor?”

“Oh, no! They thought it . . . well, perhaps not peculiar but they were rather baffled that it was you,” Merewyn explained, putting some emphasis onto the last word.

Lothíriel looked aghast and could not avoid her mouth falling open ever so slightly. She caught herself quickly and swallowed. “And why do they think so?” she asked.

“They told us Éomer did not behave very kindly towards you.”

Now she was lost. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, trying to call to her mind what the two men could have observed that had led them to the conclusion that Éomer had been treating her unkindly. She had met him only once in their company and as far as she remembered nothing exceptional had occurred between them. – Only afterwards. And she wouldn’t put that into the category ‘unkindness’ . . . although she had no idea in what category to put it anyway.

Belatedly, she realized that Merewyn had resumed talking.

“. . . my father said that when it comes to stubbornness you can hold a candle to him any time.”

When Marshal Elfhelm had said those words, he certainly hadn’t expected his daughter to repeat them to her. Lothíriel failed to hide her smile and the girl caught on too late as to what she had just blabbed.

“Oh, I apologize. I should not have said that. But I can assure you, my Lady, my father did not mean that in a negative sense. Quite the reverse. There are not many who are a match for Éomer.”

Probably just another Rohirric compliment - being as mule-headed as their King!

Once more it struck Lothíriel that the Marshal’s daughter casually used Éomer’s name without his title. “You do know Éomer King quite well?”

“I’ve known him since I was a small child.” She indicated her then size by holding up a flat hand about hip-height above the floor. “And he was younger than I am now.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I will turn eighteen in late summer. How old are you, my Lady.”

“Twenty. I will turn twenty-one on Midsummer Day.”

“Then you are blessed,” Merewyn stated, sounding very satisfied somehow.

“I am blessed? Why and in what way?”

“There is an old saying that those born on Midsummer Day will be blessed with many children of their own.”

“How . . . nice.” Lothíriel was tempted to ask if this old saying specified a number.

“Next year at this time you may have your first child.”

Lothíriel thought it about time to change the subject and returned to her initial question about the Royal Guard’s armed encounter. How did their conversation venture from hunting Orcs to breeding babies?

“You were telling me about the Orc raids on your herds.”

“Oh, yes. Father had ordered the herds of the dams and newborn foals to be brought closer to Aldburg. He thought the Orcs wouldn’t dare to come that close to a settlement where a full éored is under arms at all times and they had to run about seventy mile over open plain back to the East Wall of Rohan. No band of Orcs can outrun an éored.”

“You said they come for the horses. Couldn’t they just steal them and ride them back to the Emyn Muil, even if they intended to slaughter them afterwards?”

“No horse of Rohan will carry such a foul creature. They slaughter them on the spot and haul the meat back themselves. Four days ago two attacks were reported; both further North and my father sent fifty riders after each of them. But then, during the night before last an even larger band of Orcs raided a herd grazing just twenty miles from here where the Snowborn flows into the Entwash. Not since the fall of Mordor have Orcs come so close to one of our settlements. The herd was guarded only by young lads. They killed two of the boys. The others arrived at Aldburg to raise the alarm only moments before Éomer and the Royal Guard appeared. They took up the chase immediately and hunted the creatures down. None of those beasts will ever lay hand on our kinsmen or our horses again.”

Whilst reporting those incidents Merewyn’s voice had become more and more passionate. She had stopped brushing Lothíriel’s hair. When the latter turned around she saw that the girl was clutching the brush so tightly that she feared it might break in those small hands. And there was nothing girlish anymore in that pretty face. Lothíriel saw a rare hate for those foul creatures, which had inflicted such suffering on her future home; and who were still causing death. Two boys had been killed. No, the war was not truly over yet. Especially not for Rohan.

Carefully Lothíriel took the brush from the girl’s fingers. Merewyn let it go without resisting.

“The Orcs are destroyed and the men have returned safely,” Merewyn said with a grim satisfaction. “They thought all riders were gone. They hadn’t expected the Royal Guard to turn up.”

“Merewyn, I saw blood on Éomer’s cuirass.”  There was obviously no point in using titles. “He said it was Éothain’s whom he helped to get inside the hall. So at least his Marshal must be wounded.”

“Indeed! That idiot!”

Lothíriel blinked in surprise. “That idiot?” she echoed. “You call a man wounded in battle an idiot?”

“Well, if it was his own fault,” the younger woman replied, not at least impressed by Lothíriel’s reproachful frown.

“Sympathy is not your strongest trait, is it?” her future Queen asked with a good dose of sarcasm.

“Those were actually Éomer’s words,” Merewyn defended herself.

“Why am I not surprised,” Lothíriel muttered more to herself. “How badly is Marshal Éothain injured?”

“Not too badly, I should think. Otherwise Éomer and my father would have shown more concern.”

“I must say I am quite relieved.”

“He just has a broken off arrowhead in his . . . bottom.” Merewyn rolled her eyes and bit her lips, obviously in an attempt not to giggle.

“In his bottom,” Lothíriel repeated, keeping her voice steady. “That is . . . hurtful. Especially for a rider, but certainly not life threatening.”

“Master Berenwald is with him. The healer.” Without prior warning Merewyn reached for Lothíriel’s hair and pulled it over her shoulder so that it fell over her right breast down to her lap. “It is so beautiful. I could help you wash it. If we wrap it in a flannel whilst you rest it will be dry by this evening.”

Lothíriel ran her fingers through her hair. To wash it and have it clean again would be wonderful. Her young companion suddenly leaped to her feet, startling her slightly, and went over to the bathtub. She put her hand into the water.

“I think the temperature is fine now. You can take your bath, my Lady.”

Lothíriel sighed in blissful anticipation and looked around for her healer’s chest, when a knock came from the door. She raised her eyebrows at Merewyn who just shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps they found another piece of your belongings,” she conjectured and walked over to open the door.

Lothíriel turned her back towards the door and drew the collar of her robe closer together. But at Merewyn’s next words she came up to her feet and executed a quick half-turn on her heels.

“Éomer?” The girl sounded surprised, and then added, “Ah, my Lord,” which earned her a grin from her King, who stretched out his hand and ruffled her hair. Without hesitating she batted at his hand.

“You cannot come in here,” she stressed. “My Lady was just about to take her bath.”

“Was she, indeed?” He stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He had shed his armour and the coat of mail and was now wearing only a brown leather tunic over a linen shirt and deerskin breeches, all – like the knee-high boots – marked from a couple of days in the saddle. He let his eyes roam over Lothíriel, taking in her loose hair, the wrinkled robe and her bare feet. Then his gaze returned to hers, golden and intense. She had to fight the urge to swallow heavily. And when had the room grown so hot?

Merewyn’s eyes wandered mischievously from one to the other. Finally she addressed Éomer in Rohirric. His gaze turned towards the Marshal’s daughter, a mixture of amusement and amazement. To Lothíriel the few words of his answer sounded somehow like a friendly threat.

Learning their language would be the first thing she would do.

“Is there a particular reason, my Lord, why you have come here?” At least she could always rely on her voice. Again she had managed to let the tone of it be cool and indifferent. To her own ears it could have been the voice of another person.

Éomer’s eyes quickly moved back to her. “I apologize for keeping you from your bath.” He pointed with his chin towards the bathtub. “As you can see we do indeed have big tubs filled with hot water in Rohan.”

“That, my Lord, I have never disputed. I have only doubted how well acquainted you were with the concept of using them regularly.”

“If you are still in doubt, you are cordially invited to get me better acquainted with that concept.”

Lothíriel had a uneasy feeling that they were on their way to dangerous – and for her still unknown -  terrain, and that Éomer was leading her there on purpose, because once there he would have all the advantages he could wish for. When had this turned into a contest?

“If it is necessary to draw your attention to the fact that you are in need of a bath then let me tell you, the moment has come: you should take one,” she pointed out, flinching inwardly because she had involuntarily imitated Elphir’s tone of hauteur.

“Is that an invitation?”

Lothíriel looked at him in non-comprehension. She knew he was teasing her but she had no idea what kind of invitation he expected. Éomer’s eyes held hers in a mocking challenge. Suddenly he lowered his gaze and when he looked up at her again, his smile had softened.

“Lothíriel, are you very tired?”

Surprised by the change of subject, she let out the first words that came to her mind. “I thought we had established that I am in need of a rest.”

“You certainly are,” he confirmed in a regretful tone. “I would not have disturbed you if it were not for the Marshal of my Guard.”

“Éothain? Merewyn told me that his injury was not thought to be serious. That he had a broken arrowhead in his bottom.”

“Indeed. That was what he told us . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“. . . the idiot?” Lothíriel completed the sentence which earned first, her a surprised glance, and then Merewyn a deep frown.

“Well, yes,” he went on. “If I wear only a cuirass I make sure that my coat of mail is buckled up thoroughly at the back so that  - for example – an arrow cannot penetrate. And if it has happened, I do not try and pull it out by myself. So yes, indeed, he is an idiot.”

“And it did not get stuck in his bottom,” Lothíriel inquired, her professional curiosity taking over.

“It got stuck about a hand width above his  . . . cleft.”

“With above his cleft you mean in his lower spine and with stuck you mean that you cannot just pull it out because it got hooked with a lumbar vertebra?”

Éomer had listened to her with a faintly amused expression. “Berenwald, the healer, put it in other words, but that sounds like what he said. He fears if he pulls the arrowhead out with force he will damage Éothain’ spine.”

“He certainly will,” Lothíriel agreed. “We have to cut it out.”

“We have to cut it out?”

“I have to cut it out.” She had not waited for Éomer’s reply but retrieved her healer’s chest from next to the bathtub and put it on the bed. She opened it and took out her oils and salves; leaving only those items in that she needed for a small operation. She congratulated herself that she had thought to pack all those instruments she might need for treating injuries that could occur on a long journey. From the bottom of the chest she pulled out a flat leather case and handed it to Merewyn.

“These are surgical instruments. Take them to the kitchen and have them boiled. Make sure the kettle is clean. And be careful, those instruments are very sharp.”

Merewyn, who had listened fascinated to their exchange, looked questionably at Éomer. He stepped aside so that she might leave the chamber.

“You better get used to doing what your Queen tells you. Make haste.”

The girl giggled and once more made a remark in her own tongue, causing Éomer to give her a not too gentle shove out of the door. Lothíriel could hear her footsteps retreating down the corridor. She took the chest from the bed and handed it to Éomer.

“Would you mind taking yourself outside, so that I can get dressed?”

He took a step backwards and she slammed the door shut in his face. She doubted that anybody would feel disturbed by the bang or would even notice it.

She braided her hair, looking longingly at the slowly cooling water in that inviting bathtub. At least she would sleep in a very comfortable looking bed tonight. Slipping off her robe she took up the day dress Lady Cynewyn had sent for her from Edoras. Not bothering to search for a chemise, she stepped into it and put her arms into the narrow sleeves. Unfortunately the dress was to be laced up at the back and as much as she tried and twisted her stiff body around, she couldn’t manage to pull the laces tight. Her sore muscles simply wouldn’t comply. Out of breath she sank down on the bed. She looked around. All she could do was change into her riding habit or she could . . .

Lothíriel looked at the door. She could ask Éomer. That certainly did not comply with the proprieties, but . . . oh, bugger. She had already seen quite a lot of him and he had felt quite a lot of her, and they were going to be wed in three days time. So what did it matter if he was going to see a bit of skin whilst lacing up her dress.

She took a deep breath. Well, she had a man to treat and shouldn’t really waste any time with over-sensitivities. She slid off the bed and went to the door, putting her hand on the bolt, and taking another breath before opening it.

“My Lord.”

Éomer was leaning against the opposite wall. He raised an eyebrow when she did not step out into the corridor.

“I need your assistance before we can go.”

“Do you need me to take something else for you?” The small chest was standing next to him on the floor.

“No, there is nothing else to be taken.” Her eyes stayed uncomfortably on the chest. “Ineedyoutolaceupmygown.”

“I beg your pardon?” He asked, obviously unable to make sense out of her muffled words. “There were times when you pronounced yourself better.”

Lothíriel cleared her throat and pointed with her fore finger over her shoulder. “My gown,” she said, now with deliberate clarity. “I cannot lace it myself.”

He looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You wish me to lace up your gown?”

“Precisely.”

Éomer pushed himself from the wall. “Out here, in the corridor?”

Lothíriel just shook her head and retreated into her chamber. Éomer followed her pushing the door shut behind them. She had stopped just inside, her back towards him, facing the bed.

“May I?”

She felt his knuckles against the small of her back, pulling at the laces, wandering slowly further upwards. She wondered if it was really necessary for his fingers to brush against her skin all the time. The seamstresses had managed to lace the dresses without doing that. On the other hand it was not an everyday task for him to lace up gowns – at least she hoped not.

Finally he arrived at her neck. She felt him tying the bow. That one of his fingers slowly slid up her neck afterwards was definitely not necessary. Quickly Lothíriel stepped around him and made to escape through the door but he just turned on his heels and reaching over her from behind kept the door closed by leaning with an outstretched arm against it.

For the second time in her life Lothíriel found herself between a hard surface and Éomer and her heart made its utmost attempt to escape from its traditional location up through her throat.

“Lothíriel.”

He just stood in front of her, not touching.

“That day, at the Houses of Healing . . .  My conduct that day was too unrestrained. I should not have done that. I had no right.”

What was he saying? That it hadn’t been right to kiss her? Or that he hadn’t had the right to kiss her? She looked up at him. His mouth curved into one of his slow smiles.

“But I am not saying that I have no inclination to do it again, as soon as I have the right.”

His hands found their way to her shoulders, sliding slowly along them. He laid his hands very carefully around her neck and used his thumbs to tip up her chin. Bending his head, he planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. He hesitated for just a heartbeat before he put his mouth on hers. Gently, this time. Persuasively. Not with that abrupt and shocking flash of heat that, before, had slapped all those sleeping urges awake; but with a slow and shimmering warmth that patiently unknotted every snag of tension inside her; loosened her until her bones felt like melting wax.

When he drew back, his hands were on her face, calloused fingers skimming over her cheekbones, then down, trailing lightly over her throat. She was half surprised her legs didn’t collapse. Without her back against the door she would have probably sunk down to the floor in a puddle.

“I have been waiting for you, Lothíriel.” He was using that voice again, that warm, low purr of a cat . . . of a very big cat. Did lions purr?

“I have been waiting for you for all these months.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth, actually to allow her neglected lungs some air, but her tongue began working on its own account.

“If you have been waiting for me, you could have had said a word in all those months.”

TBC