It was hard to say who was more surprised by that statement. Lothíriel’s eyes widened and she forgot to close her mouth as she realized that she had spoken out loud. That was not what she had intended to say. At least, not at this moment.

She looked up at Éomer who had become somewhat frozen in his posture. The tender caress of his fingers on her throat had stopped; his hands fell heavily on her shoulders.  He glanced at her in patent disbelief, blinking. It struck Lothíriel that he shared that habit with her cousin, Faramir.

“I should have had said a word?” he repeated after an extensive moment of silence. His lips twisted into an ironic expression. “That would have been difficult, considering the fact that we have spent these months roughly four hundred miles apart.”

“I did not mean literally,” Lothíriel explained. “You could have expressed your sentiments in writing.”

He pulled his hands off her shoulders and took a couple of steps backwards, putting some distance between them. There was something unsettling in his gaze. The lion had abandoned his purr and was about to bare his fangs.

“Would you have preferred it written in verse form or in prose?” His voice had sharpened.

Despite the irritation that flared in Lothíriel in response to his heavily displayed sarcasm, she couldn’t help noticing that he was quite able to distinguish the different forms of literature. Although from his tone she could detect that he did not necessarily appreciate them.

“I would have been content with plain phrasing in Westron, thank you.” He was not going to intimidate her with his sudden change of demeanour. If she had to, she would pay him back with his own coin.

“Bema,” he muttered hoarsely. He gave her a humourless smile that almost immediately vanished. “You do know how to kill a man’s mood.”

“That was not my intention,” she said in all seriousness, but a touch hesitantly.

“Then what was your intention?”

“It just slipped out somehow. I had not wished to say anything yet.” Lothíriel closed her eyes, sighing in frustration. Why was it always so difficult to concentrate in Éomer’s presence? She sounded like some dimwit, uttering incoherent thoughts. She was tired. Her body hurt. She just wanted a hot bath, wanted to feel clean again and then she wanted to go to bed and sleep until she woke up all on her own.

“Yet?”

“Yet?” Lothíriel echoed, opening her eyes and blinking with a lack of understanding.

“Yet!” Éomer confirmed, fixing her with an unwavering stare. “What did you not wish to say yet, and if not yet then when?”

Lothíriel was about to press her palm against her forehead but stopped her hand in mid-air, staring back at him, eyes wide. Contradictory thoughts raced through her head, and she found herself becoming more tense with every heartbeat. And as long as she was near Éomer, her pulse rate tended to be rather high. She hoped that that would ease off in the course of the next days. It could not be considered healthy.

What had just happened? Only a few moments ago he had kissed her tenderly, probably wooing her. She was not quite certain about that; she had never been wooed before. And now he was scrutinizing her with one of his sharp, assessing gazes as if he were preparing for a strike.

Dealing with Éomer had something of balancing blindfolded on the wall of the Bastion. One wrong step and you ended up . . . in the back yards of the potters on the third level.

Lothíriel decided to try the reasonable approach. “What I wished to express was the hope I have that we will find some time alone, so we can talk about certain things,” she said in a calm voice that gave no indication of her own mounting irritation.

“We are alone,” Éomer pointed out. “And what are those things you feel we have to talk about?”

Lothíriel raised her chin. “Has it ever occurred to you that we hardly know each other?”

“Yes.” He stretched that word as long as it was possible with one so short. “That particular detail had come to my mind once or twice.”

“And has it also come to your mind that we might do something about that particular detail?”

He raised his eyebrows. He had never heard her employ sarcasm aimed at him before, and had obviously not expected it now.

“We will be bonded in three days time. After that we have a lifetime at our disposal to become acquainted which one other.”

Lothíriel pursed her lips with annoyance. “Meaning, you feel there is no urgent need to make an appropriate effort. You are probably another of those males who think they should know only the bare necessities about a woman, like being able to identify that she belongs to the opposite gender.”

“What?” She saw surprise flash up on his face at this – admittedly - absurd accusation; and then there was anger. “My Lady, it does seem that you are more sleep deprived than I thought. Otherwise you would not utter such nonsense – or at least I sincerely hope you would not. I have every intention of learning more about you. In fact, I was just trying to do that when you found it necessary to provide me with a cold douse.”

“You were kissing me.” She felt her face grow warm.

“Yes, indeed, I was. And I had the feeling you liked it. You have always liked it.”

Éomer’s intent gaze gave her no doubt as to what he was referring. Sensing that the conversation was heading in an uncomfortable direction, she didn’t respond, but she held his gaze, her lips parting unconsciously. He took a step towards her.

“How do you know what I had wanted to say to you when you interrupted me?” His voice was low; the anger and the earlier sarcasm gone.

A frown appeared between Lothíriel’s brows, just above the bridge of her nose. Good question! What had been his last words? Taking a breath, she calmed herself with an effort and asked, “What were you going to say?”

“Why did you not want to listen?” He watched her speculatively.

“I did not realize that you wished to talk,” she stated quietly.

“What did you think I was going to do?” He had come another step closer and had put his palm once more against the door next to her head. She looked at it out of the corner of her eye. She should have moved away from the door when she had the chance. Now he had her up against the wall in more than one way. She was confused by his repeated change of demeanour. Éomer went from teasing to seduction, to anger and back to seduction, all in a blink of an eye. She had problems in following his mood swings, let alone predicting them. And being this close to him didn’t help at all.

“Cease doing this!” she said much more forcefully than she had hoped she would be able to.

In surprise his head jerked back slightly and he straightened up, but his hand stayed on the door.

“What am I doing?”

“Confusing me. On purpose!”

“I am confusing you?” Amazingly enough, his surprise sounded genuine.

“In a word? Yes!” Lothíriel forced herself not to twitch under his scrutiny.

“How?”

How? How was she supposed to answer him without revealing more about her feelings for him than she had intended to; at least not before she had a certain idea what his feelings were for her? But what he had said was quite correct. They would be bonded in three days’ time and after that they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. What if he didn’t want to give away his feelings as long as he was not certain about hers? Would they waste the beginning of their union circling around each other, observing furtively, waiting for some indication; some allusion? It was all a matter of one of them being the first to break the circle. It was matter of trust. Could she trust Éomer? She had no reason to believe she could not. She had no reason to believe he would ever hurt her intentionally.

For long moments they looked at each other, Éomer refusing to say anything before he had his answer and Lothíriel not knowing how to give him this answer and tell him what she wanted him to know. After the silence seemed to have stretched so far that it threatened to tear something apart, she made her decision. She lowered her gaze.

“When you are so close to me the only thing I can think of is . . .  that I want to be even closer to you.”

Breathless in the face of her own daring, Lothíriel looked up into his eyes and wondered what she had done.

“That is confusing,” she added in a whisper.

Éomer smiled at her. It was a slow, beguiling smile that barely reached his mouth but turned his eyes to amber. It was a smile that conjured something she could not yet imagine, but it promised that he would share it with her.

He circled the nape of her neck with his other hand. His thumb traced the line of her throat as if it were a vein of gold. Slowly, he leaned down, his lips not quite touching hers. She closed her eyes.

“Lothíriel,” he murmured, “what I wanted to tell you, what I want you to know, is that I . . .”

A loud knock at the door directly next to her ear startled Lothíriel so that her head jerked forward, her forehead colliding painfully with Éomer’s chin. He staggered backwards, rubbing it with the heel of his fist, an effusion of words coming out of his mouth, which she could only guess to be some kind of Rohirric diatribe.

Lothíriel pressed her flat palm against the part of her forehead which had been in contact with Éomer’s chin. She just hoped it would not swell up and become a lump.

Éomer’s called out to whoever was there on the other side of the door. All Lothíriel could understand was the name Merewyn.

“No, it is not Merewyn,” a much deeper voice answered in a pleasant tone, using Westron. “It is her father.”

Lothíriel groaned. Marshal Elfhelm. Again he had found them in an improper situation. Fleetingly, she was overcome by the ridiculous notion of hiding under the bed – or at least under the bed cover. Éomer, however, did not seem to be affected by such an impulse. Pulling her out of the way and against him, he flung open the door.

“What?”

The Marshal of the Eastmark met the irritable glare of his king with a mild glance of his own.

“My Lord.” He smiled at Lothíriel. “My Lady. My sincerest apology for the intrusion.” He turned again to Éomer, generously overlooking the fact that his liege had his arm quite tightly wrapped around his betrothed, so that her back was pressed against his front. “You were gone for some time, my Lord, and I was wondering . . .”

“. . . if we were in need of a chaperon?” Éomer interrupted him, ignoring Lothíriel who was trying to discreetly free herself from his arm.

“No,” his Marshal replied affably. “I was wondering if you had realized before you left to fetch the Lady Lothíriel, that Éothain was not overly enthusiastic about your decision to consult her regarding his inconvenience?”

“Inconvenience is hardly the right description,” Lothíriel interfered, forgetting for the moment about her imprudent position. “That arrowhead could already have caused a splintering off of a vertebra and an improper removal of it might leave him at least with a lame leg.”

“That is what Master Berenwald told him, but he objects strongly to being treated by you, my Lady,” Elfhelm said apologetically.

“Why?” But as soon as she had asked, Lothíriel remembered that more than just one Rohirrim had proved to be rather reluctant when it came to being treated by her – at least as long as they were still able to protest. One of those, right now, had his arm around her waist, his large hand spread warmly over her midriff and he snorted at her question.

“Because common sense is not one of the Marshal of my Guard’s stronger traits,” Éomer stated matter-of-factly.

“I am afraid Éomer King is right,” Elfhelm agreed with that assessment in a rather wry tone. “Éothain has already attempted to leave once and only a direct order from King Elessar kept him in the treatment chamber.”

“He tried to leave? That idiot!” Éomer repeated his former judgement with emphasis. “He was hardly able to walk and we had to drag him from his horse into the hall. Berenwald told him that he could not do anything without risking an even more serious injury. If he refuses to be treated by Lady Lothíriel, then how is this arrowhead supposed to get out of his back?”

“As he put it: just pull it out. And when Berenwald did not comply, he decided to bid his farewell and find himself something to drink. Thank Bema; King Elessar and Prince Imrahil barred his way. He might have taken a swing had it been any other.”

“He should move as little as possible,” Lothíriel interjected. “As long as we do not know in what position the arrowhead got stuck, we have to be cautious. Damage done in that area cannot be repaired.”

Again she tugged on Éomer’s hand, with the only result being that he settled his palm even more firmly against her midriff. Although his Marshal pretended not to notice anything unusual, she had seen his gaze resting, for the bat of an eyelid, on that possessive grip and had seen the corners of his mouth twitching. At first Éomer might have pulled her against him in a reflex, but meanwhile the suspicion took shape that he kept her in this improper hold because he wished to make a point, and that this point had something to do with Elfhelm having caught them all those months ago at the Houses of Healing. Had it been anybody else outside the door he would probably had kept the required distance.

“What kind of damage can this arrow cause?" Éomer had his mouth next to her ear and she could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

Lothíriel stiffened and made her body as unaccommodating as possible. “It depends how deeply it penetrated. Whether it just got hooked peripherally or if it is lodged between two vertebrae. In that case there is the danger that, with him moving around too much, it can belatedly damage the spinal cord.”

“And damage to the spinal cord means?”

“He could lose the power of movement in his legs. Two of the herdsmen you brought back with you from Minas Tirith had similar injuries.”

The men looked at each other.

“You have to try to bring him to his senses, Éomer.” Elfhelm paused before he went on. “I have known Éothain as long as I have known you. I am aware that he not the most reasonable man, but at the moment he is not thinking clearly. He must be in severe pain to behave that stupidly.”

“Even for him,” Éomer muttered. With obvious reluctance he let Lothíriel go from his embrace. “I better go ahead before the cork-brain hurts somebody else beside himself. Elfhelm, accompany Lady Lothíriel.” He was already out of the bedchamber when he called back. “And take the chest that is sitting in the corridor.”  She heard the arched door to the hall open and then slam shut.

The Marshal looked around and located the healer’s chest. He picked it up and turned towards Lothíriel.

“Is there anything else to be taken, my Lady?”

Lothíriel looked uncomfortably away from his shrewd eyes. “No, we can go immediately.”

His gaze went down to her feet and when she followed his line of vision she found that she was still barefooted. She sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. Some entity had decided to constantly embarrass her before Lord Elfhelm. She dug through her garment bag and produced a pair of simple ankle laced slippers. Putting them on quickly she stepped out of her chamber, pulling the door shut. She headed down the corridor towards the hall, Elfhelm just a step behind her. She could feel him watching her.

“Do not be uneasy, my Lady,” he said in a friendly tone when they reached the arched door. “There is nothing wrong with a man wooing his betrothed, especially after they have not seen each other for so long.”

“Even if he woos her in her bedchamber?” She looked up at him.

“Perhaps not the most recommended location,” he made no attempt to hide his amusement, “but as you are going to be bonded in only three days’ time, there is really no point in being overly particular about it.”

“But I should be particular about the impression I give to my soon-to-be husband’s people.”

The Marshal shook his head reassuringly. “I can only repeat: do not be uneasy. Our kinsmen here in the Eastmark will welcome you as their Queen without hesitation. Their loyalty to their former Marshal is unshakeable. Whatever Éomer decides, they will be behind him. In their eyes he cannot do much wrong. The people of the Westmark have learnt to love him as the man who has done everything in his power to rebuild their settlements and provide for them over the winter. And they will welcome a daughter of Gondor: the country which has acknowledged their contribution to the war and ensured their survival. You are very welcome indeed, my Lady.”

He opened the door, letting her precede him into the hall. Walking behind her across the dais, he added: “Especially when our kinsmen see that their Queen has won their King’s heart.”

Lothíriel missed the first step and stumbled without her usual grace down from the dais. Quickly Elfhelm was beside her and helped her regain her footing. He smirked.

“Do not look so surprised, my Lady. If it were not so, you would not be here. Just give him the time he needs to be able to see the wood for the trees.”

Lothíriel was spared the awkwardness of an answer. From the other side of the screens passage loud voices were to be heard. Somebody was obviously engaged in a shouting contest.

“Ah, Éomer and Éothain are discussing the necessity of the treatment,” Elfhelm remarked in a deadpan voice.

Lothíriel assumed that on the other side of the screens passage was where the kitchen, the buttery and the storage chambers were located. When they entered the passage they found a group of men – Rohirric riders as well as Gondorian knights, her brothers among them – lurking in front of an open door, that led into a large room furnished with long tables and benches; obviously a kind of guardroom. The Rohirrim viewed Lothíriel with unconcealed curiosity.

From behind another door down the passage came the agitated voice of a man who had already shouted himself hoarse. Amrothos was leaning against the opposite wall, nursing a large mug of some unspecified drink.

“Lothíriel.” He grinned at his sister. “You have to ask your betrothed if he would mind me staying for a while after the wedding ceremony. I do like his land. So entertaining.”

“I do not think you should do that.” Erchirion had come up to her, a mug of his own in his hand. “After all, King Elessar attaches great importance to the good relationship between Rohan and Gondor.”

Before Lothíriel had a chance to assure Erchirion that she had not the slightest intention of approaching Éomer on Amrothos’s behalf, there was a muffled thud from behind the door and at the same time the shouting stopped.

Outside, everybody quietened and listened, but nothing else was to be heard. Finally Erchirion shrugged his shoulders.

“It seems that they have come to an agreement.”

“A rather sudden agreement,” Amrothos remarked with raised eyebrows.

The next moment the door opened and Prince Imrahil stepped out. Seeing him, the common riders and knights retreated back into the guardroom and closed the door. Imrahil smiled at his daughter, unusual mirth in his eyes.

“Lothíriel, it is good that you are here, and just in time.”

“So Marshal Éothain has come to see reason?”

“No, I am afraid he did not see reason,” her father replied dryly. “Actually, he did see a fist. Or rather he did not see the fist before it was too late.” The Prince of Dol Amroth definitely had a problem keeping a straight face. “Éomer knocked him out.”

Lothíriel stared at him in disbelief. “He punched an injured man?”

“He knocked out an injured Éothain,” Elfhelm corrected mildly.

“There is a difference?” Lothíriel asked.

“From what I have seen,” Imrahil confirmed, “definitely.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “I’d better go in there and have a look.” But she was only able to take a couple of steps in the direction of the chamber before Elphir intercepted her.

“Father, you cannot be serious. You cannot allow Lothíriel to treat a man’s nether area.”

“Nether area?” Erchirion strangled out. Amrothos, who had just taken a sip from whatever he was drinking, choked but managed to spit the liquid quite neatly back into his mug instead of down his father’s neck.

“Elphir,” Lothíriel explained with all the patience in her voice one should display towards small children and obstinate dogs. “The arrowhead got stuck in Marshal Éothain’s lower back, about a hand’s width above his cleft.” She stretched out her hand as a measurement. “And Éomer’s hand is wider than mine.”

Elphir bristled, “Lothíriel! How can you use such a word in polite company?”

His sister looked at him with a frown. “What did I say?”

“Cleft,” Amrothos supplied helpfully, having recovered from choking.

Lothíriel sighed. “Elphir,” she said once more, feeling her patience slipping. “That is what it is called.”

“Indeed,” Amrothos found it necessary to support his sister. “It is called the cleft between the buttocks.”

“Thank you, Amrothos.” Imrahil thought it obviously better to smother any potential onslaught immediately. “It is good to know that you are familiar with the basic anatomic vocabulary.” He then addressed his eldest son. “Elphir, in there is a man with a serious injury. Your sister may be able to help him. Therefore her betrothed and I have decided that she will do so. There is no further point in discussing it.” Elphir opened his mouth to protest but Imrahil waved him silent.

“My dear,” he said to Lothíriel, “perhaps you better go in there while Marshal Éothain is in a collaborative mind-set.”

“You mean as long as he is unconscious?” Lothíriel took the healer’s chest from Lord Elfhelm. “I sent Merewyn to the kitchen to sterilize my surgical instruments in boiling water.”

“I will go and see how far she has got with it.”

“Thank you, Lord Elfhelm. Let her bring me the instruments in the water. Do not let her take them out.”

The chest tucked under her arm, she opened the door from where the shouting had been coming. Stepping into the room she saw a long table in the centre on which a motionless man lay face down. His upper body was bare. Lothíriel remembered Marshal Éothain from when he had come to the Houses of Healing to see his wounded kinsmen. He was shorter than Éomer and Elfhelm but not less broad in the shoulders. He was without a doubt a man who was – when not cooperative - difficult to bring under control.

She looked at Éomer who was kneeling at the head end of the table checking his Marshal’s breathing. “You punched him,” she said accusingly.

Éomer gave a dismissive shrug and got to his feet.  “You did not want him to move around; he is not going to move around any more.”

Elessar, who stood next to a very thin, tall man whose long hair was braided back and showed more grey than blond, came over and took the chest from her.

“The proceedings may seem a bit harsh, Lady Lothíriel, but believe me at that point Éomer did the only sensible thing.” Gondor’s King grinned at her. To her amazement he appeared to share Amrothos’s understanding of entertainment. “Even under the best of circumstances Éothain is a rather stubborn man.”

“That is a very restrained observation,” Éomer commented, coming around the table. “Lothíriel, please meet Berenwald. He has been a healer here at Aldburg for many years.”

“And have had more than one opportunity to patch you up, my Lord,” the man answered in heavily accented but fluent Westron. He bowed to the Princess of Dol Amroth. “My Lady, welcome to the Riddermark.”

Lothíriel returned his greeting, bowing to a fellow healer. “I thank you, Master Berenwald.” She saw the man stop short, and direct a pair of very pale but intensely blue eyes towards her. She had got used to those direct assessing gazes. Whilst children in Gondor learnt that it was impolite to stare at somebody, the riders had told her that in Rohan only those who had something to hide would not look directly into your face.

“I spoke to our riders who had been in your care, my Lady,” the Rohirric healer addressed her politely. “I have seen their scars. You have great skills in the healing of wounds in Mundburg.”

“It is a skill which had been passed down from one healer to the other over many generations. Much knowledge has been lost over the centuries, but more has been gained. I shall be glad to share it with you.”

“I would be honoured.”

Lothíriel had the feeling that Berenwald really did mean what he said. His words were more than just polite phrasing. He was somebody willing to learn, knowing that he only stood to gain from her knowledge, a kind of attitude easily comprehensible to her.

“Shall we have a look at Marshal Éothain?” she asked.

Berenwald just nodded his agreement and turned towards the Marshal. When Lothíriel made a move to join him, she caught Éomer’s gaze. His smile barely touched his mouth, but it showed quite clearly a wealth of emotions; amusement, approval, admiration, surprise and something Lothíriel was not sure she understood correctly and which certainly did not belong here in the treatment chamber; she believed she saw desire.

Now, that was inconvenient. She was about to cut an arrowhead out of one man’s back whilst another set her senses vibrating.

Regaining her composure with some difficulty and trying to ignore Éomer’s presence, she stepped next to the table opposite to Berenwald and bent over the unconscious man to examine the wound. The arrow had penetrated his back next to the spine in an acute angle but not overly deep. The coat of mail must have absorbed most of the impact. The broken end was still visible.

“I have attempted to grip the head with tweezers and pull it out sideways,” Berenwald explained. “But it is very coarsely made and the rough edges got caught between two vertebrae.”

“Would you hand me the tweezers, please?” Lothíriel asked. Next to the Rohirric healer stood a hip-high stand on which he had laid out his instruments on a clean cloth. She could see that they were not as sophistically manufactured as the ones she had brought from Minas Tirith.

She took the tweezers from Berenwald and carefully spread the wound open to get a better look at the arrowhead. A moan came from Éothain. The pain had penetrated his faint. Lothíriel waited a moment to see if he would become conscious but he stayed motionless. Éomer’s punch had proved to be rather effective.

This was a kind of injury she had seen and treated before.

“I will make a short incision parallel to the spine. You will have to spread it open with two retractors so I can use forceps and tweezers to push the arrowhead first down to free it from the vertebrae and then pull it out sideways.”

“I do not have a knife sharp enough for such a delicate cut,” Berenwald demurred.

“I have a set of surgical instruments with me. I sent Lord Elfhelm’s daughter to have them sterilized in boiling water.”

As if that had been the cue, the door opened and the Marshal of the Eastmark himself came in carrying a large kettle from which steam rose.

“I took this from Merewyn,” he explained. “She was far too enthusiastic for my liking about watching you perform this operation.” He handed the kettle to Berenwald who began to fish out the sterilized instruments with one of his own forceps and lay them out next to his. He eyed every single one with interest.

In the meantime Lothíriel checked Éothain’s pulse. It was strong and regular. The man had the constitution of a horse and from the look of his heavily muscled back, she supposed, very likely its strength.

“I am afraid if I make the incision he will wake up,” she declared. “Considering his attitude so far I would say he might jump right off the table. We will have to strap him firmly to it to avoid him injuring himself even more,” she added pragmatically.

“And more importantly, to avoid him injuring you in his rage,” said Éomer dryly. “Do you have ropes in here, Berenwald?”

“Of course. It happens that from time to time I have to tie up a man so he cannot move when I treat him. Normally I avoid hitting them over the head.”

Éomer gave a derisive snort. “And you think you could have persuaded Éothain to cooperate whilst we strapped him to the table?”

“Éomer did not hit him over the head but punched him on the chin,” Lothíriel heard her liege point out. “Otherwise you might have had to check for a broken skull.”

“Has anybody checked if his teeth are loose?” she asked.

“His teeth are fine,” Éomer assured her.

Lothíriel decided not to inquire how her betrothed could be so certain. She turned towards Berenwald whilst Éomer and Elfhelm tied their friend to the table.

“We will be in need of a branding iron to stop the bleeding and close the wound after we have pulled out the arrowhead.”

The healer gestured towards the hearth behind him. There she could see an iron already red-hot in the flames. She nodded approvingly and looked around for her chest. Elessar had seen her wandering gaze and retrieved the small leather chest from a sideboard behind him. He passed it to her.

“Thank you, my Lord.” She took it and placed it on the table next to the now bound feet of the Marshal of the Royal Guard. She felt to be under the scrutiny of her liege. The clear grey eyes, the same colour as her own, which could glance so warmly at you, seemed now trying to pierce into her mind. Uneasy, she looked up and met his sharp gaze.

“My Lord?”

“You do like this work, do you not?”

“Of course, I do,” she replied surprised. “Otherwise I would not have asked my father for his permission to let me seek an education from the healers.”

“And there is not much you have not seen in the aftermath of the battle on the Pelennor.”

“When it comes to the suffering of men, no, my Lord, I do not think there is much I have been spared witnessing.”

“You are a woman of great strength, Lady Lothíriel. You are much stronger than one would guess at a first glance.”

“You mean especially after one has seen me on horseback?”

Gondor’s king chuckled and the lines which wind and sun had engraved around his eyes wrinkled when he smiled at her.

“Yes, indeed,” he mused. “I believe there is a good chance that most of the time you will be the last one standing.”

Lothíriel had already opened her mouth to ask what he meant when a low, warm voice directly next to her ear cut her off.

“No, you do not need to understand that. At least, not now.”

Éomer had come up to her and she could feel his body heat warming her back. She turned around, determined not to get flustered again by his closeness.

“And who is going to decide when the time has come for me to understand? You?”

“Yes,” he replied with a totally natural arrogance.

Lothíriel smiled her cool, serene smile. “Right now I have a patient to treat and no time for a dispute. But be assured, my Lord, we do not agree on this matter.”

“I do not expect you to agree with me,” he retorted, his green-gold eyes gently amused, and then added, tilting his head, “immediately.”

She contemplated him for a moment. “As I said: I do not have the time and we are not going to agree.”

She turned her back on him. She knew he was watching her with his unsettling smile. The hair on the back of her neck stirred in a primeval reaction. She forced her mind back to the important matter on hand and opened the chest to take out a flask.

“Master Berenwald, this is a liquid to support the healing and prevent the wound from infection. It is made of a strong spirit of wine, olive oil and rose oil. It has to be applied to the wound regularly for ten days.”

“I will do that if I can manage to keep him here for ten days.”

Lothíriel took a phial from her chest. “This is a potion made from the seeds of poppies. Give him fifteen drops in a cup of water twice a day for the first three days and he will sleep a lot and will not feel the pain too much.”

Berenwald accepted the oil and the potion. He pulled the stopper from the flask and sniffed at the oil. “Rose and olive oils are something we do not have in Rohan.”

“But in their combination they do work wonders with wounds and we can have them sent from Gondor.” She feared they would start arguing about the price of such rare remedies and therefore went on in a hurry. “Do you use yarrow?”

“Yes, we do,” Berenwald confirmed. “We let men with fresh wounds drink as much yarrow tea as possible as a preventive measure against infection.”

After the Rohirric healer had put the remedies Lothíriel had given him aside they prepared for the operation, washing their hands first in the hot water from the kettle and then rubbing them over with a strong spirit.

As Lothíriel had suspected Éothain did become conscious as soon as she made the incision. His cry, a mixture of agony and rage, was loud enough to frighten the more sensitive horses in the stables and somewhere in the dwelling several dogs gave a bark. The rider struggled against the ropes, the muscles of his back bulging. The table skittered over the stone floor. Elfhelm squatted next to his head and began to talk to him in a calming voice. It didn’t take much imagination to identify the outbursts coming from Éothain, only interrupted by cries of pain, as curses and insults probably directed towards all present.

Berenwald took a piece of leather, rolled it up and handed it to Éomer. “Here, my Lord, stuff this between his teeth. That will kill two birds with one stone. He will no longer be able to swear and he can bite on it when it gets really painful.”

Éomer did as he was told. He held the leather roll in front of Éothain’s face and gave apparently some kind of order in Rohirric, which induced the Marshal of his guard to take the leather between his teeth with surprisingly little resistance and enticed his Gondorian friend to laugh out loud.

“Éomer, nobody will ever accuse you of being a sweet-talker.”

“I really will have to learn this language as quickly as possible,” Lothíriel murmured, taking the retractors from Berenwald.

“I am just glad you do not speak it yet,” Éomer said, grinning. “And I do hope your vocabulary will always stay limited in certain areas.”

Lothíriel did not reply but concentrated on placing the retractors in position. When she put the double hooks into the incision and spread the tissue, her patient moaned loudly around the leather roll and immediately sweat broke out all over his body.

“Master Berenwald, please hold the retractors in this position.”

The arrowhead was now fully visible. Whilst the Rohirric healer took over the task of keeping the incision apart, Lothíriel quickly grabbed the forceps and tweezers. With the latter she push the arrowhead carefully down, feeling in her fingertips when it became unhooked from the vertebra and she used the stronger forceps to pull it out sideways in a slow motion. As she had been taught, she ignored the muffled cries of pain coming from the man under her hands.

When she had it cleared from the wound she held up the arrowhead to Berenwald for inspection. “It does not look as if it is damaged. I do not think anything remains in the wound.”

“Neither do I,” Berenwald confirmed. “And it does not look as if there is any bone damage either. I think the idiot was fortunate indeed.” He carefully removed the retractors and pressed a thick bundle of clean linen onto the bleeding wound.

Lothíriel looked at him baffled, taken aback by his last remark.

The healer just shrugged his shoulders. “I have known him since he was at his mother’s breast.” He changed the compress. “Now we come to the more unpleasant part. We have to burn out the wound.”

Éothain made a muffled noise. Berenwald patted his thigh. “Now, I know that it will hurt a bit. But you also know it is necessary.” He looked at Lothíriel. “Would you like me to do it, my Lady?”

“Yes, please,” she agreed. It was not a task she particularly liked. “I am certain you have burned out many more wounds than I have.” She went over to a basin of warm water that sat next to the hearth and began to wash the blood off her hands. She heard Éomer saying a few sentences in Rohirric. When she had dried her hands she watched Berenwald, who had another piece of thick leather wrapped around the cool end of the iron, the old healer made a gestured towards their patient.

“I can take it from here, my Lady. I will have your instruments cleaned and returned to you in the morning.”

“No, please, keep them here at Aldburg.” For the first time she saw genuine surprise on Berenwald’s face. “I have another set.”  Actually, she had five other sets and she was glad to have found an opportunity to hand over the first one to a Rohír without having much explaining to do. “As you have seen, the operation was not very difficult and you could have done it easily yourself had you had the right instruments.”

“I am not so certain, my Lady, but I thank you for your generosity. Those instruments will be indeed of great help to me.” The thin man bowed to her and Lothíriel returned his salutation.

She looked over to where the injured man lay on the table. Sweat was glistening on his bare upper body and his muscles had cramped in pain and in anticipation of even more agony. Normally she would not leave a patient before she had made certain that he had been properly taken care of, but she had her doubts that Marshal Éothain would appreciate any sympathy from her right now.

She walked over to Éomer who was standing next to Elessar. Both men seemed to have the intention of leaving the treatment chamber together with her. And she wanted to go immediately. She did not like the smell of burnt flesh and the cries of agony men gave when the red-hot iron came in contact with their body; and when those cries abruptly ceased when they fainted. If she had to burn out a wound because it was necessary she would do it without hesitation, but she hated it nevertheless.

Éomer extended his hand towards her and she put hers in his. His fingers tightened around hers. He smiled his slow and beguiling smile. She had to talk to him. He really shouldn’t do that when they were in the company of others. Although the thought of him looking at her in that way when they were alone was even more unsettling.

“Now it is high time for you to get your badly needed and well deserved rest, my Lady.”

Behind her she heard the noise of the heavy iron being lifted from the hearth.

“Yes, please, let us go.”

Both kings must have heard the urgent tone in her voice. Elessar opened the door and Éomer ushered her out, his warm hand in the small of her back. The screens passage was deserted now but from the other side of the wall they could hear a multitude of voices. The people of Aldburg and their guests had begun to assemble in the hall for the evening’s feast.

Elessar had barely managed to close the door behind them when they heard the awful and then abruptly ended cry Éothain made from inside the chamber. Berenwald had pressed the hot iron into his flesh to close the blood vessels and seal the wound.

Lothíriel groaned and turned towards Éomer who pulled her without hesitation into his arms. Cradling the back of her head in his large hand, he pressed her face against the crook of his neck. She relaxed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She found it even harder to witness the pain and anguish a treatment could mean for a man when she was not involved; when she had not to concentrate on the necessary procedures.

She felt Éomer’s lips against her temple.

“Lothíriel, I know you hurt for those in your care; you hurt with them, but you cannot let yourself be touched by the pain of everyone. Éothain will be fine. He is a tough man if there ever was one.”

She leant back in his arms to look up into his face.

“I know that, but knowing about the necessity of a treatment and tying a man to a table and cutting into his flesh are two very different things.”

He held her with one arm around her and caressed her face with the fingertips of his other hand. “And I know for certain that you do not mind inflicting some pain on a man as a kind of retaliation.” His voice had changed to a teasing tone. He was trying to lighten her mood.

“Oh?” Lothíriel raised her eyebrows.

“You have already admitted that you could had been more gentle or at least could had warned me before you slapped that spirit soaked gauze on my open wound.”

“You deserved it.”

He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “What had I done?”

When she opened her mouth to reply his thumb trailed along her lower lip and instead of words only a surprised breath escaped her.

Elessar thought that this was the right moment to recall his presence to their minds. He cleared his throat. Éomer looked at him over his shoulder without releasing Lothíriel from his arms.

“What are you still doing here?”

“You are keeping a lady, who is still my subject, from – as you put it yourself – her well deserved rest.”

“True,” Éomer admitted, smiling down at her. “As much as I regret it I think it is for the best if you retire for today and get a good night’s sleep. There are still another twenty five miles on horseback to come tomorrow.”

Lothíriel groaned again and let her head fall forward, her forehead coming to rest on his chest. He smelled of leather and horse and sweat.

“You need a bath,” she murmured into his tunic.

“A recurring theme in our relationship,” Éomer chuckled. “Come, I will accompany you to your chamber.” He turned to his friend. “You will make our excuses to the assembly in the hall for the time being.”

“I will,” Elessar assured him with a laugh. “But do not neglect to turn up soon, or you may have to deal with three brothers searching for their sister.” He bowed his compliments to Lothíriel. “My Lady, I think my brother here has found a wife who will easily be able to hold her own with him.”

Whilst Éomer snorted at this assessment, Lothíriel looked at her liege with a frown. “Odd that you mention it, my Lord King. I have been told that already, earlier today.”

“Then there must be some truth in it,” the High King replied and turned to leave them.

“Aragorn,” Éomer called after him. His friend looked back at him over his shoulder. “If you see one of Lothíriel’s brothers – send him the other way.”

“And where would you like me to send Prince Imrahil?” the former ranger asked before continuing on his way to the hall to join the others who were assembling there.

“Come.” Éomer released his betrothed from his embrace and, taking her hand, pulled her in the opposite direction, to a door at the end of the screens passage. It led to a narrow, paved passageway that seemed to run along the long side of the hall. There was no ceiling above them but the outer wall had no openings. They passed a flight of stairs.

“Where do those lead?” Lothíriel asked, not even her tiredness was able to suppress her curiosity.

“To the wall walk on top of the hall.”

“And that door?”

“To the latrine.”

“Oh.”

At the end of the passageway was another door.

“Behind this is the corridor in front of your chamber,” Éomer explained, but made no move to open it for her, so Lothíriel set about pulling back the bolt, struggling a bit with the ancient metal. It gave way with a creaking sound.

“It needs some oil,” she remarked and went to pass through the door, but Éomer pulled her back into the passageway and into his arms. Gradually she was becoming used to and – admittedly – savouring the feeling of being pressed against his body. She looked up at him questioningly. It was half-dark in the passageway and with the light coming from above, his face was obscured by shadows whilst hers must have been quite clearly visible.

He cradled her chin in his palm. The silence stretching between them caused Lothíriel’s heartbeat to quicken once again.

“Do you realize how beautiful you are?” he finally murmured.

“Oh!” She blinked. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, I do think so.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“And I think I am going to kiss you again.” His hand moved slowly to the nape of her neck. “But first there is something I want you to know. What I was trying to express when I said that I have been waiting for you was, that I . . . “

“Are you going to take her to bed now?” a lazy voice asked, and Amrothos shoved himself around the corner from the inside, his most innocent look plastered over his features.

Lothíriel considered shrieking but dismissed this notion as it would, in all likelihood, only bring others to their current location, probably Elphir among them. It was bad enough that Amrothos was here, and it seemed that her brother was totally unaware that he was balancing along the edge of his grave. At least that was how she believed she would have to interpret the furious growl coming from Éomer’s throat. Not that she would have minded if he had throttled her brother. She would have given preference to Elphir being the first victim of Éomer’s wrath but she did not want to appear fussy.

“You were missed,” Amrothos informed them pleasantly, tilting his head as he looked at Éomer’s arm, which was still around his sister’s waist. “When King Elessar came to the hall . . . on his own.”

“If you were in the hall when your king made his entrance, what are you doing here now?” Éomer’s voice was so overly friendly that it had to be regarded, by anybody who knew him well enough, as a sign of acute danger. Amrothos appeared happily unimpressed.

“I thought you might have taken this shortcut.”

“How did you know about this passageway?”

“Merewyn told me.”

“Merewyn?” Éomer lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Such a lively and intelligent girl.”

“You do have a particular liking for danger, do you not?”

“Danger? Why should I be in danger? I have not done anything wrong . . . in days!”

From long years of experience Lothíriel knew that Amrothos was just warming up. No matter if Éomer decided to engage in a battle of words or shorten this encounter by inflicting some bodily harm on her brother, it would at any rate keep her from her bed for the foreseeable future. And as much as she had wanted to learn what Éomer had been trying to tell her – several times – right now she felt neither able to take in some deep-minded revelations – if that was what Éomer had attempted at all - nor some of Amrothos mind-boggling games.

“I am going to bed,” she announced, freeing herself from Éomer’s arm and stepping quickly around Amrothos into the corridor. Not caring for the surprised glances of the two men she tried to remember which door led into her chamber. She opened one, had a look and found to her relief that her bags were sitting on the bench at the end of the bed. She turned towards her betrothed and her brother.

“I am going to bed now,” she repeated. “And I do not want to be disturbed before the morning, not even if Sauron should decide to return tonight.” She frowned. “I would not be able to do anything anyway.”

Retreating into the bedchamber she slammed the door shut forcefully.

It was good to be in Rohan.

TBC